Hindu Polynesia

Prologue: Varuna's Bile

The Katalkonda, liege of the Kozhikode Company, in service to Ilamcetcenni Chola IV, conqueror of Srivijaya, Lanka, and the Ganga

The Inner Pacific, near Pihemanu Kauihelani(Midway Atoll) 1652 C.E

The seawind bit deep into Ponniyar as he planted himself at the gunwale of the pani, feeling the spray ice into him, into his hair, his skin, his bones. This was not earth. He would not believe that gods were so cruel. Twice he had seen long black coils slice through the water and within his soul he knew that these waters were haunted by nagas out of hell, that any second the waters would explode into a throng of black snakes that would surge aboard and sheath their fangs in the calves of his crew. Thunder drummed above. Ponniyar hated thunder, had cursed at it from the prows of a thousand ships, but all he could do now was cower from its voice and this he did like a bedraggled rat, salt whiting his beard, his teeth clapping in grim applause at the fury of the ocean.

The waters howled. Like a cobra the sea reared up and its strike was worse than a thousand punches. The world became maddening cold; he fell hard on his arse and skidded across the broken wood of the deck, too strongly and suddenly for him to even pray for deliverance. One of his brothers was screaming in the distance. Ponniyar was sobbing. Gods hate him, he was sobbing. What else was there to do? The oars were broken, the sails smashed, the sky a black banshee that howled and spat lightning down to kill them; the world was cold, colder than knives, narayana narayana narayana, I don’t want to die…

He felt a hand at his shoulder, grabbed it in a vice grip. His eyes met his sister’s. Her face was salt, blood, splinters, life. “Revati,” he choked. “Revati, I don’t want to drown.”

“Brother,” she gasped, spitting out freezing water. “Brother, there is land ahead. The birds, they’re going mad below, they can sense it. “

For a moment he goggled at her. “The birds? Are you insane? Of course they’re going mad; we’re in a bloody storm! Revati, I don’t want to die!”

“What in Narak am I supposed to do about that, Ponni?” her voice was shrill. “Narayana, oh narayana…Ponni, move!”

She grabbed him by the neck and flung both of them to the side. A wave slapped the bow and a Koryon cannon crashed down the deck, missing them by inches. It was bigger than a boar. It hit the mast, skidded off sideways, slapped some floundering soul across the chest. They heard him roar once before he flew into the frothing ocean. The sea reared up, smacked the ship like a bowling pin. They hit the bosun’s cabin hard, and they gasped as one person, the breath smashed out of their gullets.

Somehow the crow’s nest remained standing. From that impossible roost they saw Werringi, the lookout, stand up, defying the cataclysm. He loosed a hellish cry. “Ulvaram palaivattuuuu!” Reef incoming!

“No!” Revati fought her way to her feet. A wave clobbered her to her knees, but she spat into the deck and pushed herself back up. “Damn you, storm, you will not take my ship!”

Somehow, incredibly, there was calm. For one long moment no thundercrack sizzled the pregnant sky, no monster wave clouted their ship, no shower of rain drenched them yet further.

Then a horrible jarring crush as the pani met the maw of the reef, a deep snarling crunch as its granite teeth tore into the hull of the ship, a million nails on a million chalkboards, a million screams as the sailors surrendered to the sea, on and on that awful soulslicing bellow of “Palivattu! Palaivattuuuu!”. Revati cursed, the sky howled, Ponniyar gave up.

He felt the sea kiss him, and fell headfirst into oblivion.

Notes/Glossary

Pani: The workhorse ship of the cankam, or corporations, of the colonial era, used for transport and exploration. These were captained by nobles of the seafaring castes, some of whom were women.

Also, should I switch this to the writer's forum or to ASB? Some of the factors involved in this story lead to a nearly unrecognizable version of history, so a switch to the later forum might be neccessary.

A TL with Malayalees in Polynesia? Awesome

I'm definitely following this - can't wait to see which island they land on. Polynesia gets way too little attention here.

Subscribed. But one question....where did the idea of having a company come in to India?

trollhole said:

Subscribed. But one question....where did the idea of having a company come in to India?

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There weren't companies per se, but there were several guilds and trading conglomerations, the most famous of which was the Ayyavole Five Hundred(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Five_Hundred_Lords_of_Ayyavolu). The first such guilds occurred in Kalinga(near Bengal) and operated in Indonesia, but over time these guilds became more common in the South, which was a more globalized region than the relatively insular North.

This story taking place in a very alternate universe, though, means that these guilds have developed into something akin to the Dutch VOC or the British East India Company.

The Troubled One said:

Also, should I switch this to the writer's forum or to ASB? Some of the factors involved in this story lead to a nearly unrecognizable version of history, so a switch to the later forum might be neccessary.

Click to expand...

There's timelines people have made with PODs in the prehistoric era before. Unless it's super-implausible, it probably doesn't need to go to ASB.

The Troubled One said:

There weren't companies per se, but there were several guilds and trading conglomerations, the most famous of which was the Ayyavole Five Hundred(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Five_Hundred_Lords_of_Ayyavolu). The first such guilds occurred in Kalinga(near Bengal) and operated in Indonesia, but over time these guilds became more common in the South, which was a more globalized region than the relatively insular North.

This story taking place in a very alternate universe, though, means that these guilds have developed into something akin to the Dutch VOC or the British East India Company.

Click to expand...

Ah. Very cool. You've also given me an idea.

The Troubled One said:

There weren't companies per se, but there were several guilds and trading conglomerations, the most famous of which was the Ayyavole Five Hundred(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Five_Hundred_Lords_of_Ayyavolu). The first such guilds occurred in Kalinga(near Bengal) and operated in Indonesia, but over time these guilds became more common in the South, which was a more globalized region than the relatively insular North.

This story taking place in a very alternate universe, though, means that these guilds have developed into something akin to the Dutch VOC or the British East India Company.

Click to expand...

Very interesting- so one of the PODs here is that the institutional transition from guilds to corporations which IOTL occurred in Europe also took place in S India. Excellent.

Jonathan Edelstein said:

Polynesia gets way too little attention here.

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And Micronesia gets even littler attention than they - if thats possible.

You definitely have my attention...

David S Poepoe said:

And Micronesia gets even littler attention than they - if thats possible.

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I'd love to see a timeline in which the Saudeleur dynasty survives, but I'm not qualified to do it.

Jonathan Edelstein said:

I'd love to see a timeline in which the Saudeleur dynasty survives, but I'm not qualified to do it.

Click to expand...

I don't think anyone would be; Nan Madol remains almost entirely unknown and suffers from a serious lack of concerted research. Which is a pity, since it's a fascinating site. If I can find good resources, I might include it in this story, since the downfall of the Saudeleurs occured only a few decades before the prologue.

Prologue the Second: Demon Buddha

Abhigamana Mandira(Temple of Refuge), in service to Sashanka Pala II, digvijayin of Ahom and Vangala, lord of the river Brahmaputra

Pihemanu Kauihelani(Midway Atoll), 1652 November

He dreamed ancient dreams. Palm trees on a white beach, a sunbathed sea, matchstick buildings rising out of the east, the stench of cattle filling the air. He dreamed of a full moon rising over the Bay of Vangala, of dolphins flying through the winedark sea, of catamarans sliding into the waves. He dreamed of a hundred ships sailing out of Mahabalipuram, the temples alight with farewell flames. Their pani, the Nenaindal, stood at the front, fresh from the shipyard at Kozhikode. From every crow’s nest the brahmin lookouts chanted holy verses, the Vedas floating out over waters blacker than pitch.

They sailed, this armada of sturdy panis, fluted lolas, and castle-sized thirisadais. They sailed past Melaka and Singapura, past the blue jungles of Sumatra, past the ricefields of Cebu and Maynila. They picked up fighting men from Kamboja, carried war to the Siraya nation. They fought wako off the coast of Koriya, burned the fields of Okinavavil, bombarded the town of Nago and smashed its shrine to the Amitabha Buddha. They faced Siraya gunboats in the frozen water near the Ainu Mosir, fled from them. Then a kamikaze, a holy wind out of Jappan, that flung them like pebbles across the deep ocean, then storm after storm after storm, an eternity of rain, lightning, and cold thundering hell.

He dreamed a year of his life and woke up drenched. Oh God. Oh God.

His skull was screaming. He could not sit up. The room was torchless, the cot beneath him backbreaking. Oh, narayana, where was he? Was he dead? Was this the afterlife? He couldn’t be dead, he couldn’t be, his body hurt too much for him to be dead. That thought comforted him, but then he moved and his head exploded and he whimpered like a girl.

A huge apelike shape shifted above him. “You are awake? By the Godhama Buddha, we had thought you dead. The woman, is she your sister? She has been very polite. If she is the captain of your ship, we will not flog her.”

Ponniyar moaned. “What are you?”

The figure tutted. “You are a rude little Chola. Why should I tell you my name? Unless, as I fervently pray, you have accepted the wisdom of Blessed Siddhartha, then you are both a heretic and a sinner, and every word you speak is foul. In your sleep, however, you spoke the names of Vishnu and Muruga, so I suppose that I must be disappointed.”

“I’m not a Buddhist.” Ponniyar was too tired to be indignant. Dimly he wished he was stronger. “You’re a Vangali. From…Vangala.”

“Yes, we Vangalis tend to come from Vangala.” Ponniyar heard the speaker stand up. “Well then, little Chola, I will tell you this. You are safe, for now. And as our decency commands, we won’t touch you. The king, however, will probably kill you when he sees you, so we won’t bring you to him until you’ve woken. It behooves a man to die with his eyes open.”

He was supposed to be scared, he knew. A faraway terror rose up in his bladder, but it didn’t last. Exhaustion slammed him back into oblivion, and he slept for a long while.

He awoke splashed with sunshine, blinking, groaning, his head rocking with the nonmotion of the cot. Slatted windows, hacked out of the rough rock walls, gave him golden grins. There were four of them. Three shone down on Ponniyar, making him wince. Once illuminated a squatting, smirking Buddha, its forehead branded with sandalpaste, its basalt robes slathered with hurled saffron powder. He shuddered at the sight of it, at the memory of the deep foreign voice, at the wet reek of his dungeon. Bricks of uncut stone rose chimneylike to the sky. He shivered and lay down, thirsty beyond reckoning. His stomach roared like a mad beast.

Where in Shiva’s name was he? But for the bed and the Buddha, his room was bare. By Muruga, his back hurt! And his arse! Ponniyar stood up, snarling against the pain, rolling off of the straw palaisse that blocked his body from the bare ground. The floor was a packed stinking loam, the walls leprous with moss. His foot touched something cool; on the raw earth there was a banana leaf strewn with food. He wolfed it, devoured the hard Vangali noodles, slurped down the cold spicy rasam and the gourd of water. The meal tasted like ambrosia, and for a long moment he was content.

Then his eyes fell on the Buddha again, and terror swept him through him, from his testicles to his throat. God Muruga, protect me, protect me from this evil. It was splattered with saffron, branded with white vibudhi, its eyes cruel slits. Ponniyar stared at it, his heart a snaredrum. Where was he? Was this Narak, hell? He had seen this Buddha before, long ago, in a crypt below Chittagong in the swamps of Vangala. It was a black Buddha, a Godhama Buddha, a demon Buddha. This was the Buddha of cannibals and pariahs, Untouchables, a Buddha that ate human heads. He pawed about for a stone, something to break it with. The Amitabha Buddha may have been a pavigal, a sinner, but this was something else entirely, a monstrosity contrary to the laws and norms of decent caste men.

Breathe, you fool, hissed the sensible part of his brain. Breathe, and calm down. What do you remember of the ship, of the storm; how did you get here?

Ponniyar remembered absolutely nothing, and this terrified him further. People were not supposed to live in the open ocean. Buddhas were not supposed to exist east of Jappan, because nothing existed east of Jappan, nothing but the Great Bay, which could only be reached by sailing past the Ainu Mosir and rounding the coasts of Alaxsxaq, the icebound wilderness that only the Koriyans had ever penetrated. And Ponniyar should know, because he was the pilot of his pani, the Nenaindal, not the best, perhaps, but still a pilot, a student of Wickramapahu, who had sailed under three emperors, fought for Kozhikode Company, and founded his own school.

A knock on the flat wooden door. He swiveled toward it with wild eyes, fists clenched. He swore to Muruga that he would hurl himself at whoever entered.

The huge Vangali from his dreams strode into the room, swathed in orange, his face flat and serene. He looked at the prostrated Ponniyar and smiled.

Glossary

Vangala and Ahom: The Tamil words for Bengal and Assam.

Jappan: The Tamil word for Japan, a fragmented polity encompassing the island of Honshu.

Koriya: The Tamil word for Korea, a far-flung colonial empire.

Siraya: A piratical empire centered at Taiwan, dominated by the Siraya tribe, who predominate over the other aboriginal clans of the island. The Siraya claim Taiwan, Hainan, the Ryukyus, and parts of the south Chinese coast, and engage in wako piracy along the length and breadth of the eastern world.

Okinavavil: The Tamil word for Okinawa, a hotspot for worship of the Amitabha Buddha. Currently in tribute to the Siraya pirate lords.

Ainu Mosir: The coasts and sealanes near Hokkaido and Sakhalin, so named for the Ainu nations that throng those areas. The Ainu are famous mercenaries, and launch frequent raids into both Koriya and Imperial Jappan.

The Troubled One said:

I don't think anyone would be; Nan Madol remains almost entirely unknown and suffers from a serious lack of concerted research. Which is a pity, since it's a fascinating site. If I can find good resources, I might include it in this story, since the downfall of the Saudeleurs occured only a few decades before the prologue.

Click to expand...

It would be amazing if you did that. The consensus is that Nan Madol stayed inhabited for a couple of generations after the Saudeleurs' downfall, isn't it? There might still be people living there at this point, and it could get a new lease on life as a base for South Asian traders or pirates.

Anyway, Midway Atoll is an interesting choice - I was expecting Tonga or Samoa. Midway was historically uninhabited, so I assume that Ponniyar has stumbled on someone's way station. The location heading refers to the Pala dynasty of Bengal, which I guess was never Islamized in TTL; on the other hand, the island also has a Hawaiian name and appears to have its own king. Midway's pretty damn small to have a king, so I'm guessing some kind of merchant/pirate empire of mixed Bengali and Hawaiian provenance.

If this is so - and of course I could be completely wrong - it means that the Bengalis have been active in the Pacific for at least a generation. But their settlement is also a secret, because although Ponniyar is obviously well-traveled, he still thinks there's nothing east of Japan. Maybe the Bengalis also found a Pacific island by accident and are holding Midway in the name of an emperor they've never seen. I'll look forward to seeing how things unfold.

BTW, I really like the richness of the language in your updates - it's different from my writing style, and it conveys a strong sense of place and time.

The Troubled One said:

I don't think anyone would be; Nan Madol remains almost entirely unknown and suffers from a serious lack of concerted research. Which is a pity, since it's a fascinating site. If I can find good resources, I might include it in this story, since the downfall of the Saudeleurs occured only a few decades before the prologue.

Prologue the Second: Demon Buddha

Abhigamana Mandira(Temple of Refuge), in service to Sashanka Pala II, digvijayin of Ahom and Vangala, lord of the river Brahmaputra

Pihemanu Kauihelani(Midway Atoll), 1652 November

He dreamed ancient dreams. Palm trees on a white beach, a sunbathed sea, matchstick buildings rising out of the east, the stench of cattle filling the air. He dreamed of a full moon rising over the Bay of Vangala, of dolphins flying through the winedark sea, of catamarans sliding into the waves. He dreamed of a hundred ships sailing out of Mahabalipuram, the temples alight with farewell flames. Their pani, the Nenaindal, stood at the front, fresh from the shipyard at Kozhikode. From every crow’s nest the brahmin lookouts chanted holy verses, the Vedas floating out over waters blacker than pitch.

They sailed, this armada of sturdy panis, fluted lolas, and castle-sized thirisadais. They sailed past Melaka and Singapura, past the blue jungles of Sumatra, past the ricefields of Cebu and Maynila. They picked up fighting men from Kamboja, carried war to the Siraya nation. They fought wako off the coast of Koriya, burned the fields of Okinavavil, bombarded the town of Nago and smashed its shrine to the Amitabha Buddha. They faced Siraya gunboats in the frozen water near the Ainu Mosir, fled from them. Then a kamikaze, a holy wind out of Jappan, that flung them like pebbles across the deep ocean, then storm after storm after storm, an eternity of rain, lightning, and cold thundering hell.

He dreamed a year of his life and woke up drenched. Oh God. Oh God.

His skull was screaming. He could not sit up. The room was torchless, the cot beneath him backbreaking. Oh, narayana, where was he? Was he dead? Was this the afterlife? He couldn’t be dead, he couldn’t be, his body hurt too much for him to be dead. That thought comforted him, but then he moved and his head exploded and he whimpered like a girl.

A huge apelike shape shifted above him. “You are awake? By the Godhama Buddha, we had thought you dead. The woman, is she your sister? She has been very polite. If she is the captain of your ship, we will not flog her.”

Ponniyar moaned. “What are you?”

The figure tutted. “You are a rude little Chola. Why should I tell you my name? Unless, as I fervently pray, you have accepted the wisdom of Blessed Siddhartha, then you are both a heretic and a sinner, and every word you speak is foul. In your sleep, however, you spoke the names of Vishnu and Muruga, so I suppose that I must be disappointed.”

“I’m not a Buddhist.” Ponniyar was too tired to be indignant. Dimly he wished he was stronger. “You’re a Vangali. From…Vangala.”

“Yes, we Vangalis tend to come from Vangala.” Ponniyar heard the speaker stand up. “Well then, little Chola, I will tell you this. You are safe, for now. And as our decency commands, we won’t touch you. The king, however, will probably kill you when he sees you, so we won’t bring you to him until you’ve woken. It behooves a man to die with his eyes open.”

He was supposed to be scared, he knew. A faraway terror rose up in his bladder, but it didn’t last. Exhaustion slammed him back into oblivion, and he slept for a long while.

He awoke splashed with sunshine, blinking, groaning, his head rocking with the nonmotion of the cot. Slatted windows, hacked out of the rough rock walls, gave him golden grins. There were four of them. Three shone down on Ponniyar, making him wince. Once illuminated a squatting, smirking Buddha, its forehead branded with sandalpaste, its basalt robes slathered with hurled saffron powder. He shuddered at the sight of it, at the memory of the deep foreign voice, at the wet reek of his dungeon. Bricks of uncut stone rose chimneylike to the sky. He shivered and lay down, thirsty beyond reckoning. His stomach roared like a mad beast.

Where in Shiva’s name was he? But for the bed and the Buddha, his room was bare. By Muruga, his back hurt! And his arse! Ponniyar stood up, snarling against the pain, rolling off of the straw palaisse that blocked his body from the bare ground. The floor was a packed stinking loam, the walls leprous with moss. His foot touched something cool; on the raw earth there was a banana leaf strewn with food. He wolfed it, devoured the hard Vangali noodles, slurped down the cold spicy rasam and the gourd of water. The meal tasted like ambrosia, and for a long moment he was content.

Then his eyes fell on the Buddha again, and terror swept him through him, from his testicles to his throat. God Muruga, protect me, protect me from this evil. It was splattered with saffron, branded with white vibudhi, its eyes cruel slits. Ponniyar stared at it, his heart a snaredrum. Where was he? Was this Narak, hell? He had seen this Buddha before, long ago, in a crypt below Chittagong in the swamps of Vangala. It was a black Buddha, a Godhama Buddha, a demon Buddha. This was the Buddha of cannibals and pariahs, Untouchables, a Buddha that ate human heads. He pawed about for a stone, something to break it with. The Amitabha Buddha may have been a pavigal, a sinner, but this was something else entirely, a monstrosity contrary to the laws and norms of decent caste men.

Breathe, you fool, hissed the sensible part of his brain. Breathe, and calm down. What do you remember of the ship, of the storm; how did you get here?

Ponniyar remembered absolutely nothing, and this terrified him further. People were not supposed to live in the open ocean. Buddhas were not supposed to exist east of Jappan, because nothing existed east of Jappan, nothing but the Great Bay, which could only be reached by sailing past the Ainu Mosir and rounding the coasts of Alaxsxaq, the icebound wilderness that only the Koriyans had ever penetrated. And Ponniyar should know, because he was the pilot of his pani, the Nenaindal, not the best, perhaps, but still a pilot, a student of Wickramapahu, who had sailed under three emperors, fought for Kozhikode Company, and founded his own school.

A knock on the flat wooden door. He swiveled toward it with wild eyes, fists clenched. He swore to Muruga that he would hurl himself at whoever entered.

The huge Vangali from his dreams strode into the room, swathed in orange, his face flat and serene. He looked at the prostrated Ponniyar and smiled.

Glossary

Vangala and Ahom: The Tamil words for Bengal and Assam.

Jappan: The Tamil word for Japan, a fragmented polity encompassing the island of Honshu.

Koriya: The Tamil word for Korea, a far-flung colonial empire.

Siraya: A piratical empire centered at Taiwan, dominated by the Siraya tribe, who predominate over the other aboriginal clans of the island. The Siraya claim Taiwan, Hainan, the Ryukyus, and parts of the south Chinese coast, and engage in wako piracy along the length and breadth of the eastern world.

Okinavavil: The Tamil word for Okinawa, a hotspot for worship of the Amitabha Buddha. Currently in tribute to the Siraya pirate lords.

Ainu Mosir: The coasts and sealanes near Hokkaido and Sakhalin, so named for the Ainu nations that throng those areas. The Ainu are famous mercenaries, and launch frequent raids into both Koriya and Imperial Jappan.

Click to expand...

The ATL name of Luzon would be Selurong or Maidh(Ma-I).

i'll be keeping an eye on this one. Certainly an original idea

The Titan in Orange

Prologue the Third: The Titan in Orange

Abhigamana Mandira(Temple of Refuge), in service to Sashanka Pala II, digvijayin of Ahom and Vangala, lord of the river Brahmaputra

Pihemanu Kauihelani(Midway Atoll), 1652 November

“You are awake,” the Vangali said, smiling sweetly, his Tamil perfect. He filled the room. “And you have eaten, too! Well, little Chola, I am impressed. Your friends continue to moan and writhe and befoul their cots, but you and the woman are in decent shape. Is she your bride? Nay, I would hope not, for she has your nose and lips, but with you southerners, who knows?”

Ponniyar’s nails tore his palms. His eyes were huge and bloodshot. “What are you?” he asked, for the second time.

Again, the Vangali tutted. “Is that any of your business, birodhi? My name is a secret. No one on this island knows it, not the king, not my brothers, and not my students. Only Blessed Siddhartha knows me in full. Namah gaudham butsu! My secret is for him alone to hear, for him alone to understand. So why, then, should I tell you my name, little Chola?”

“I don’t care what your name is.” Ponniyar’s throat was dry. The Vangali was a mammoth in saffron. “What are you? Where am I? What is this place?”

The Vangali’s smile sweetened. “My good intruder, you have come upon a sanctum of the One Buddha, the True Buddha. You have seen a Godhama before, I trust?”

“I have.” The memory made his intestines curdle. “It is evil. This place is evil. You are evil.”

The Vangali strode toward him. Ponniyar scuttled back, mouthing like a fish; the Vangali grabbed him, seized him by his beard, lifted him up with both hands. He was still smiling. He shook Ponniyar like a terrier shakes a rat, pressed him against the moist dark wall, brought their faces a breath apart. His lips stank of crab. “Evil is a subjective word, my poor lost heathen,” he breathed. “Was the sack of Chittagong not evil? The nuns you destroyed, the boys your Brahmins kidnapped, the stupas you smashed—were those acts not evil? Are your Lords of Ayyavole not evil? Which company are you with?”

Ponniyar went insane. He shrieked like a gibbon, clawed at the Vangali’s eyes, kicked at his slablike belly. “Damn you!” he howled. “Put me down! You won’t hurt me! By Narayana Ayyanar and Muruga, put me down!”

“Shhh.” The Vangali put a finger to his mouth. “Blessed Siddhartha frowns on bloodshed, but, as you know, the Godhama is blind.” Five python fingers ground into his gullet, making him rasp and writhe. “Did the winds truly blow you here? I have not seen a Chola in six years, but I know your people of old. You are a foul, nefarious, grasping race, you worm yourselves into the safest of havens, you enter holy temples, kill holy men, befoul holy women. Your people are craven and cunning. Who sent you here? Which company are you with? The Lords of Ayyavole? The Jews of Java? The court of Kanchi itself? Namah gaudham butsu, answer me!”

“I…” Ponniyar’s voice was bruised, broken. “G—gods…let me go…”

The Vangali dropped him. He coughed and hacked for a minute, stroking his throat. His world was a riot of saffron cloth and moist stone.

“I will ask you again.” The Vangali was on one knee. “Who sent you here?”

“No one…no one sent us,” Ponniyar gasped. “We were sailing to Okinavavil. The gamaghazi hit us. There isn’t supposed to be land here. What is this place?”

“You are a liar. Why were you sailing to Okinavavil?

Ponniyar looked him square in the eyes. “To kill the Amitabha Buddha there. Its head is in our cargo hold.”

The Vangali was silent, stonelike. “You are lying again. Your ship is a pani, a cutter. My sons saw six cannon from Gangwha, a few firecrackers, some mounted powdershots. You could not have raided Okinavavil. The wako would have smashed your ship and crucified every one of you.”

Ponniyar glared up at him, his chest boiling with hate. “Leave me alone, you witch.”

The hand jerked him up again; again the slatelike face filled his eyes, again his throat screamed with blunt agony. “Tell me who sent you. By the Godhama Buddha, Chola, do you know where you are? The men of these islands will torture you. They use sharks, Chola, they throw men to beasts of the sea, they use fire, they kill with their teeth. Have you ever been tortured by barbarians, Chola? Have you ever felt fangs on your skin? Have you ever seen men eat other men alive?”

Ponniyar bared his teeth. The Vangali’s hand was a hammer, his throat the anvil, his heart racing, but by Mahishasura’s wounds he would not give in, he would not speak, not this time, he would not give this cold pagan one godsdamned inch—

It took four seconds before he capitulated. “K—Kozhikode,” Ponniyar hissed, loathing himself.

The vice grip slackened. “What was that?”

“We were sent out by the Sixteen Ladies of Kozhikode Company.”

“And for what purpose?”

“I’ve already said it. To kill the Amitabha Buddha. To fight the Siraya and the wako. I swear again that the storm blew us out here. I am pilot of the pani, we had no idea that there was land here. All our maps show only open sea.”

The Vangali studied his face. “Are you lying to me, little Chola?”

“Do I want your bloody fingers around my neck again? I swear on my caste, on my father, on my daughters, the storm blew us out here. Have you ever tasted a gamaghazi? Where in Shiva’s name am I? Is this the Great Bay?”

“It is not.”

Ponniyar hated him more with every second. “Then where, pray tell am I? Who are you? What are you? Where are you going?”

The Vangali was closing the door behind himself. Ponniyar stared after his retreating back. He wanted to scream. From across the bed the Godhama Buddha smiled at him.

Glossary

gamaghazi: A kamikaze, or holy wind

birodhi: the Bengali word for sinner

I don't have anything to say besides "please keep this coming." I can't wait to see what kind of society exists on Midway, and I hope we hear more eventually about the Jews of Java (are they Buddhist sort of Jews?).

Nice update. One question, though. Is Bengal Buddhist, or is a minority religion? Just a curiosity

I also want to hear about these Javanese Jews.

Chapter One: The Flowermen

Chapter One: The Flowermen

Abhigamana Mandira(Temple of Refuge), in service to Sashanka Pala II, digvijayin of Ahom and Vangala, lord of the river Brahmaputra

Mokumanamana(Necker Island), also known as Ṭhakānō Dbīpa(Seagull Island), November 22nd, 1652

They strode down the beach three strong and armed, scowling in unison. The sun was cruel, the beach wicked on their bare feet. They were tough, those feet, hardened from lifetimes spent in the rocks and hills of Hiloa, the island across the strait, but these sands were hellish hot, hotter than any beach on Hiloa. They hated this island. But for the temple there was nothing on it. Sometimes albatrosses would cover the earth in gigantic flapping millions and mate and breed until the sea itself stank, but in the summer the island was bare, dry, and evil. Their mouths twisted as they stepped through the blazing beach. It was longer than they remembered but they refused to shame themselves by opening their mouths. Gulls followed them overhead mewling.

After an hour of hell the sands cooled just enough to be bearable. Plodding on they came upon Abhigamana. Lanakila held a tulwar in his hand and pointed it at the slapdash fence of sticks, at the houses built of pebbles and reeds, at the Godhama vihara that dwarfed any construction the four men had ever seen in their lives. “There,” Lanakila said. “Look at that.”

“I see it, Lanakita,” said Makakoa, his brother. “It’s big. And ugly.”

“That it is,” Lanakita said, his eyes narrowing from the sunshine. But he felt the untruth of his words even as he said them, for he could remember the first time he had seen this building, the awe he had felt, the fear, the fascination. He had stared at the gaping halfcircle doorways, at the stately grey façade, at the flanged cone roof. His eyes had drunk themselves blind in its inner sanctum, had glutted themselves on the painted walls. Never would he forget the scenes of the Godhama’s suicide. Or of his cannibalism. Or of his resurrection.

“Do you think the kahuna will really do it, Lanakita?” asked Tahu. He was very eager. “Do you really think he’ll us?”

“He isn’t a kahuna.” Lanakita’s voice was scornful. He could not compare the shriveled village priest to the man of Abhigamana. “He isn’t just a healer, or a spirit catcher, or a sacrifice. He’s all of them. His mana is huge, bigger than any kahuna’s, maybe even bigger than my father’s. Maybe even bigger than the king’s. A man with mana like his won’t be a liar, and he promised that he would mark us this time.”

“He’d better be more of a man than the one on our island,” Makakoa said dryly. “Little Ratface. He squirms at everything. He squirms every time he sees the kahuna strike a captive’s brains out. He squirms at bloody luaus. Pretty girls and roasting pigs make him uneasy, can you believe it? And he squirmed when he saw me. You remember that day you and father caught the spearfish, Lanakita? He left me to watch the village, and I had to receive Ratface when he rode in on that beast of his. One look at me, and I could see him straining to keep his bladder shut.”

Lanakita snorted at that. “That one’s a charlatan. He has no mana. And to his credit, brother,” he continued with a grin. “You’re enough to scare harder men than him.” This was no insult. Makakoa was bigger than their grandfather had been, and that deceased chief had been a giant. His arms were as thick as Lanakita’s legs. “The one in that temple, though…Makakoa, today may be the day you meet a man bigger than yourself.”

Makakoa snorted. “Is he of the same breed as Little Ratface and his helpers? These brown men are a runtish lot. Ratface is smaller than the rest of them, but not by much. My daughter could take their strongest man.”

“You haven’t seen the master yet, Makakoa,” Tahu rejoined. “I saw him fight once. He tore a man’s head off with one slap.”

“That’s a red lie. Aren’t these brown men obsessed with peace? They won’t touch meat, they cringe away from blood. They wouldn’t kill if their lives depended on it.”

“He isn’t lying,” Lanakita said, remembering vividly. “My third trip here, Tahu’s second. Lewa and Hanohano were with us too. Fifteen thieves from Ni’ihau rowed in at night. They followed us here, thought they could rob the temple.”

“So you’re telling me that this brown man slapped them all to death? Did either of your dinners taste like sacred mushrooms that night?”

“He killed them,” Tahu said. The memory still touched his voice with awe. “Lanakita and Hanohano and Lewa and I would have helped him. We tried to but he forbade us. He stepped outside the gate barehanded and fought them. Then there were four dead bodies and the rest of them went running for their canoe.”

“Well, I’ll see this man soon enough, won’t I? We’re close. And if you’re playing with me and he turns out to be smaller than Ratface, I’m thumping both of you.”

The stickfence was stronger than Lanakita remembered, thick enough for a man to stand on it. Where they had found the wood to reinforce it, he had no idea. There was a gate now, thick and bamboo-forged, and a tower that probably commanded views of the entire island, tiny and featureless as it was.

The vihara was the same. Squat, black, powerful. From the facade of gritty basalt the Godhama Buddha’s face grinned at them, its cheeks splattered with saffron, its piglike tusks jutting from its lolling maw.

Even Makakoa shivered at the sight of it. “Is that supposed to be some kind of tiki mask?”

“No,” Tahu said, his voice soft. “It’s their god. The Godhama.”

“What? They worship that thing?”

Lanakita shot him a look. “That thing, little brother, is as powerful as any of our gods.” He pointed his scimitar at the vihara, saying “Look, Makakoa! Look at the size of that thing! Have any of our people ever created something that massive?”

Makakoa snorted. “Come now, Lanakita, our temples may be smaller, but they aren’t nearly as ugly. And our tiki masks look better than that thing, that—Gudema? Gatma?—that disgusting thing. I don’t think men and boars have ever mated, but if they did, their child would look just like that.”

Lanakita tsked in impatience. “Our gods never taught us how to build a temple like that one, not Ku the warmaker, not Lono the love god, not even Kane, who created the universe. Their god did. What does that tell you? The brown men were building temples like these before Pa’ao the pioneer brought us civilization, before he separated us chiefs from the commoners and taught us the luakini.” The luakini was the great holy sacrifice, where the priests would fling captive enemies onto slabs of stone, howl an invocation to the gods, and smash their skulls with one stroke of the club. “Perhaps even before Hawai’iloa discovered these islands in the first place. Their god is old, Makakoa. Older than any of ours. Mightier too.”

“Oh, really?” Makakoa sounded supremely unimpressed. “Who do you think would win a spearfight, Ku the warmaker, or that monster?”

“The Godhama doesn’t need to fight,” Tahu interjected. “The master told me that it devoured all the other gods that the brown men used to worship. They used to worship other gods, you know, in ancient times, but they grew old and weak. Not the Godhama. It waited until they were feeble, until they grew toothless and infirm, and then it ate them all and grew unkillably strong.”

Makakoa laughed at that. “That’s the stupidest story I’ve ever heard.”

Lanakita frowned at him. “I’ve never heard that. Who did you hear that from? Did it come from the master?”

“No, one of his apprentices told me. The one with the pockmarks.”

“Lanakita, older brother, you didn’t answer my question. Do you really think that your boar demon could take our wargod in a fight?”

“I told you, Makakoa, he doesn’t need to fight, that’s a stupid question—“

“It is a stupid question, but even I don’t believe that story, Tahu. The master’s fond of symbolism, you know—“

“This is a stupid conversation. And how in the name of Lono’s green member do either of you think that temple is worth anything? Yes, it’s big, but it’s nothing more than a black cone with an ugly face carved into it. What sorcery they used to build it, I couldn’t care less about.”

“I thought it was ugly too, the first time I saw it,” Tahu said. “Until the master let us all see what was inside it.”

“Think about it, little brother.” Lanakita’s voice became charged. “This is one temple. It took the brown men what, six years to build it?—and yes, I know our temples and longhouses take a twelfth the time to put together, but this temple is built of stone—and this temple survived a wave that ruined half of Ni’ihau. This temple is impregnable. And it’s their smallest one. Their newest, though they’re trying to build one on Ni’ihau. Makakoa, the brown men came from a land far across the sea, and the master told me that land is filled with temples like these. There are thousands of them. All of which are bigger than this one. There’s supposedly one that’s the same size as our island.”

They were directly in front of the bamboo gate. From the top of the tower a thin brown boy goggled down at them. “Call the master’s people ratfaced if you will, but any race who could build a thousand temples even greater than this one must have mana beyond measure. And since they gain their mana from their god, how great must he be?” Lanakita pointed his sword at the tower’s top. He bellowed “Alooooo-ha!”

In answer the boy whacked a brass gong three times. It booms echoed across the sterile skies. With a crunch the gate freed its pointed teeth from the sand. In six staccato jerks it slid up until it stood flat above their heads like a sunshade. All three stared. Makakoa was impressed, to his own surprise. He mistrusted what Lanakita was saying, even though he was his older brother and chief-to-be, because all ten of the brown men he had encountered had been stickthin cowards and what island could possibly have space for a thousand of these hideous structures? He misliked this “master” from the very sound of him, misliked how his every mention was soaked in reverence. And he could never believe that the unpronounceable god was stronger than Kane or Lono or Ku. Older, perhaps, but stronger? If it really was so powerful, why would it choose to remain so unspeakably ugly? Was Lanakita out of his mind?

The gate, however, he could respect. What craft had they used to open it that way? Did they pull it up using ropes? But that gate must be ungodly heavy, so the fiber that composed those ropes must be stronger than stone. And that wall! Maybe he could climb it, tall and mighty as he was, but any defender at the top could spear him within seconds; if that wall was manned by slingers, he might not even have the chance to touch it.

By almighty Ku, he thought, why don’t we build a wall like this? The bastards from Ni’ihau always come at night. Sometimes the watchers fall asleep. The last time they almost took my Miliani, almost had her in their boat before Hanohano and Tahu and I fell on them and cut their chests open. Their hearts tasted good once we roasted them, but they almost took my daughter. There are men in the world who would steal little girls. A wall this strong would keep them out, wouldn’t it?

Abhigamana was bigger than it looked from the outside. Some forty children swarmed its courtyard, their bony frames garbed in white sackcloth, sweeping with raspy strokes of the broom, scrubbing albatross dung from the vihara’s steps. They all froze once the gate opened. Lanakita they were used to seeing, his tattoo-slashed face notwithstanding, and Tahu looked just like any other visitor to their island, even though he alone wore a splash of orange flowers in his hair. At the sight of Makakoa, however, their jaws dropped. Three little girls started weeping the second his shadow fell across the yard.

Gongs boomed over and over. Then they stopped.

Out of the vihara’s main archway the master stepped, his enormity swathed in a robe the color of twilight. Curving his lips was a smile of genuine serenity. “Alo-ha, millimilli keikikâne,” he said, unbelievably, in their tongue.

“Alo-ha, master,” Tahu said, speaking hurriedly, like a boy before a chief.

“Alo-ha.” Makakoa fought to keep the astonishment out of his voice. This creature was thrice the size of any brown foreigner he had ever seen. “Master.”

“Alo-ha, gurudeva,” Lanakita said, and bowed low, his hands pressed together. “Namah gaudham butsu,”

Note: Randomly felt like updating this again; I lost interest in writing in general for a bit, then got overwhelmed with schoolwork and sports once fall quarter started. I'll try and continuously update this for the next three weeks if I can.

A couple retcons; I'm moving the story's setting out of Midway Atoll, since it's more than a thousand miles away from the main Hawaiian archipalego. I'm re-situating Abhigamana Mandira on the island of Necker, which is only two hundred miles away from the Hawaiian island of Hiloa. It's also fairly desolate, nondescript, and tiny.

More on the Jews of Java and other interesting folks in the next update, this is more to introduce the story's other main characters.