Fatutu: Selone, did you finish your book?
Selone: I did, but I didn't understand most of it.
Selone: It says when facing different people, you use different greetings, and even different smiles.
Selone: I get the greeting part, but I guess I've never noticed how smiles can be different.
Selone: The book says, "Lift your eyebrows, then curl your lips up," like this.
She lifts the corners of her mouth with her fingers, trying to mimic the motion.
Then drops her hands, and laughs.
Fatutu: I get it! Remember how brother used to laugh like that when he had just caught a fish? Or when he was climbing trees for fruit and fell out—that was another laugh, all wobbly and silly.
Selone: It did seem to help the pain. Maybe we need to learn this silly kind of laugh to feel better?
Fatutu: All we really need to do is learn to laugh again.
Selone: Like this?
She lets out a bold, familiar laugh.
Nukutai I: Sound's just like the old days!
Nukutai II: No one needs to teach us how to laugh.
Fatutu: Exactly. The Nukutai people have always known how.
The calm lake ripples with the sound of laughter.
When the first proverb appears on the shell, we reach the shores of elsewhere—the island, the upturned palm of Mother Sea.
The once drifting boat now beds itself in the golden sand.
When the second proverb appears on the shell, we kindle the fire—the crackling warmth, the spark of hope.
The joyful people are long blessed as one.
When the third proverb appears on the shell, we accept the sea's gift—the rolling waves, the plentiful fish.
The cool sea breeze cradles us.
Selone: Fatutu, I'm heading back to the library.
Selone: I'm going to start a new book.
Selone: I'll tell you about it next time!
Nukutai I: That clock repair book was interesting after all; we're going to try our hands at it.
Nukutai II: Took us all day to read one page!
Nukutai I: What a project!
The people of Nukutaeao head off again, busy with their new lives.
Fatutu remains behind, facing out at the water of the lake.
Her hand reaches for her chest, to a shell necklace that holds new pieces.
A music note pin, dancing between waves.
A miniature vintage record.
A collage stamp showing the four seasons.
A delicate silver pocket watch on a single chain.
Together, they form part of a brand-new necklace.
The island girl closes her eyes, wondering where the wind might carry her.
And softly hums a tune.
"Swept into the tide, scattered by the wind, gone into the mist."
"Let the siren's song not lead me astray; let nightmare's voice not steal me from my home."
"The shell's warning keeps me on course. Its grooves show me the path."
"I will return. I have returned."
