Chapter 794

The worn fishing line felt unusually coarse between Mateo's fingers, fraying easily under slight pressure. He sat on the veranda of his small bure, the familiar scent of damp earth and woodsmoke failing to provide its usual comfort.

Twilight bled across the western sky, painting the clouds in hues of bruised purple and angry orange. These colours seemed harsher than usual over the normally tranquil waters surrounding Viti Levu.

A strange quiet had settled over the village in recent weeks. It was a stillness that wasn't peaceful but expectant, like the held breath before a storm.

His grandmother, Mere, rocked slowly in her chair nearby, her eyes closed, her lips moving silently. She hadn't spoken much lately, retreating into prayers or simply staring out towards the reef, her brow furrowed.

Mateo finished knotting the line, testing its strength with a gentle tug. It held, but felt brittle, unreliable. Like everything else seemed to be recently.

The cassava plants were yellowing prematurely, their leaves curling inward as if in pain. Fish, once plentiful just beyond the lagoon, were scarce, forcing the village boats further out into unpredictable waters.

"Something's wrong, Nana," Mateo said softly, coiling the line.

Mere opened her eyes. They weren't clouded with age, but sharp, reflecting the unsettling twilight. "The old ones stir," she murmured, her voice raspy. "They watch. They listen. They remember."

Mateo suppressed a shiver. Stories of the Vu, the ancestral spirits, were woven into the fabric of their lives. Tales of their power, their creation of the islands, their laws. But also tales of their wrath, reserved for those who forgot the proper ways, who disrespected the balance.

He'd always considered them foundational myths, cultural anchors. Now, Mere spoke of them as if they were standing just beyond the treeline.

"What do they remember, Nana?"

"Everything," she replied, her gaze distant again. "Our carelessness. Our greed. How we've turned from the currents that gave us life."

She continued, her voice low. "We took too much, gave back too little. We chased fleeting things, ignored the deep roots." Her rocking chair creaked a mournful rhythm. "They are disappointed."

Disappointment sounded too mild for the unease creeping through the village like a coastal fog.

Last week, Usaia's youngest son had woken screaming, pointing at the ceiling, babbling about faces in the thatch, faces made of coral and bone. No one else saw them.

Then, the strange tides began – water pulling back further than anyone had ever seen, exposing parts of the reef that were legends. It rushed back in with unnatural speed, stopping just short of the first line of houses.

Mateo stood, stretching his cramped muscles. "People are scared. Jone thinks it's a curse from the mainland developers, the ones who wanted to buy the northern beach."

Mere snorted, a rare, sharp sound. "Men like that have small power. Curses born of money are weak things. This… this is older. Deeper."

She fixed her eyes on him. "Don't look for blame among mortals, Mateo. Look to yourselves. Look to us all."

That night, sleep offered no escape. Mateo dreamt of drowning, not in water, but in earth. Soil filled his mouth, packed his nostrils, the weight pressing down, suffocating him.

While he choked in the dream, unseen figures carved symbols into his skin with obsidian shards. He woke gasping, the phantom feeling of grit on his tongue, the scent of damp soil thick in his bure.

The air outside was still, unnaturally so. No night birds called, no insects chirped. Only the relentless, distant sigh of the ocean remained.

He stepped outside. The moon was hidden, the stars obscured by a strange, low-hanging mist that clung to the ground, glowing faintly. It didn't feel like sea fog. It felt cold, ancient.

He saw other figures moving tentatively outside their homes, drawn by the suffocating silence.

"Did you hear that?" Isikeli whispered, emerging from the darkness, his face pale.

"Hear what? It's quiet," Mateo answered.

"No, before. Like… like the island groaned." Isikeli wrapped his arms around himself. "My dogs won't stop whining, hiding under the house."

A low, resonant hum began then, seemingly coming from everywhere at once. It wasn't mechanical, not like a generator or a boat engine.

It felt geological, vibrational, like the very bones of the island were resonating. The mist pulsed faintly in time with the sound. Fear, cold and sharp, pricked Mateo's skin. This wasn't natural.

"Nana," Mateo breathed, turning back towards his bure.

But Mere was already standing in the doorway, wrapped in a traditional masi cloth he hadn't seen her wear in years. Her expression was grim, resigned.

"They are here," she stated simply, as if announcing expected guests. "The waiting is over."

The hum intensified, vibrating through the soles of Mateo's feet, rattling the loose shells decorating the path.

From the direction of the ocean, a sound like immense stones grinding together began, growing louder, closer. Panic started to ripple through the small group gathered outside. Someone cried out. Another started chanting a prayer, their voice trembling.

"What do we do?" Isikeli pleaded, looking at Mere.

"There is nothing to do," she said, her voice carrying over the rising noise. "We listen. We accept. We were warned."

The grinding sound reached the edge of the village. It wasn't stone. It was coral.

Towering figures, vaguely humanoid but impossibly tall, composed of living coral, barnacles, and sea-worn rock, stepped from the churning mist. Their forms shifted, pieces grating and reforming.

Where eyes should have been, there were only deep, dark pits reflecting no light. Water streamed from them, pooling at their immense feet, smelling not of clean seawater, but of stagnant depths and decay.

They were the Vu. Not benevolent spirits, not distant myths. They were colossal, terrifying beings of judgment.

One of the figures raised a monstrous hand, formed of jagged brain coral and encrusted shells. It pointed towards the centre of the village, towards the meeting house.

The ground beneath it cracked, fissures spreading like dark veins. The resonant hum deepened into a gut-wrenching throb.

People scattered, screaming. Some ran towards the jungle path leading inland, others towards the remaining boats pulled high onto the beach.

Mateo grabbed Mere's arm. "We have to go!"

She resisted, her frail arm surprisingly strong. "Where, Mateo? Where can we run from the creators? From the judgment we earned?" Her eyes weren't fearful, but filled with a profound sorrow.

Another coral giant stepped forward, its movements ponderous yet unstoppable. It ignored the fleeing villagers. Its dark pits fixed on something else – the small, modern generator shed near the chief's house.

This structure was a symbol of their reliance on outside power, of turning away from the old ways. With one slow, deliberate sweep of its arm, it smashed the shed into splinters and twisted metal. The village plunged into deeper darkness as the few remaining electric lights died.

The hum stopped abruptly. Silence crashed down, amplifying the screams and the rhythmic grinding of the coral figures as they moved deeper into the village.

They weren't attacking people directly, not yet. They were dismantling the symbols of the life humanity had built, the things that represented their perceived failings.

Houses built with imported timber were crushed. Fishing boats with outboard motors were snapped like twigs. The small satellite dish used for patchy internet connection was ground into powder.

Mateo watched in horror as one figure approached Usaia's bure. The man stood defiantly before it, holding a spear.

"Get away from my home! Get away from my family!" he yelled, his voice thin against the immense scale of the being.

The coral giant paused. Its dark pits seemed to focus on Usaia. It didn't strike. Instead, it knelt, an action that seemed impossibly slow and ancient.

It extended a hand, palm up. On the rough, coralline surface, an image shimmered into view, formed of phosphorescent algae.

It showed Usaia just weeks before, arguing fiercely at a village meeting, advocating for selling the northern beach to the resort developers. "It's progress!" the shimmering image of Usaia shouted. "Money we need! The old ways don't fill bellies anymore!"

Usaia stared, his face contorting in recognition and terror. The figure retracted its hand. The image vanished.

Then, slowly, methodically, the giant brought its other hand down. It struck not with anger, but with a sense of inevitable consequence, crushing the bure flat. Usaia didn't scream; he made a choked sound before the structure collapsed inward.

Mateo felt bile rise in his throat. This wasn't random destruction. It was specific. Calculated. Each act was a sentence passed down.

He pulled Mere harder. "Nana, please!"

This time, she yielded, letting him guide her away from the main path, towards the denser growth at the edge of the village. They stumbled through the underbrush, the sounds of destruction echoing behind them – the splintering of wood, the groan of collapsing structures, the occasional, abruptly silenced scream.

They reached a small clearing dominated by an ancient banyan tree, its aerial roots forming intricate curtains around the massive trunk. It was a place Mere often came to meditate, a place considered sacred.

They huddled beneath the thickest roots, hidden from the main chaos.

"They see everything," Mere whispered, trembling now. "Every broken promise, every forgotten rite, every tree cut without need, every fish taken beyond hunger."

From their hiding place, they could see the giants moving through the ruined village. One stopped near the shoreline, pointing out to sea. The water began to churn violently.

A modern fishing trawler, one that often skirted the edges of their traditional fishing grounds, suddenly listed. It capsized as if swatted by an unseen hand, disappearing beneath the waves in moments.

Another giant turned its attention inland, towards the hills where foreign companies had begun exploratory logging, despite protests. The earth itself seemed to respond to its silent command.

Trees shuddered, and a low rumble grew into the roar of a landslide. It cascaded down the scarred hillside, erasing the logging camp in a torrent of mud and vegetation.

The punishment wasn't just for their village; it was global, aimed at humanity's disregard for the natural world, their arrogance, their disconnect.

The Vu were not merely Fijian spirits; they were manifestations of a deeply wounded planet, ancient forces reasserting balance through destruction.

Hours passed. The sounds lessened. The grinding steps of the coral giants moved away, their task in this village seemingly complete.

A chilling dawn began to break, the light filtering through the canopy, revealing utter devastation. Where their village had stood, there was now rubble, splintered wood, and the pervasive smell of crushed earth and saltwater decay. Few structures remained even partially intact.

Mateo and Mere emerged cautiously from beneath the banyan tree. A few other survivors were creeping from hiding places, their faces blank with shock.

Isikeli was among them, his arm bleeding from a deep gash. There were perhaps twenty people left out of nearly two hundred.

"They… they just left?" Isikeli stammered, looking around at the ruins.

Mere shook her head slowly. "They do not leave. They are always here. They have simply made their judgment known."

As the sun climbed higher, the true horror began to sink in. It wasn't just the physical destruction. The air felt different, heavier. The remaining plants seemed wrong, their colours muted, their growth stunted.

The ocean, usually a source of life, looked cold and menacing, its surface unnaturally flat.

Mateo helped Mere back towards the remnants of their bure. Only a section of one wall remained standing. He found a relatively intact mat and helped her sit.

He looked for water, finding a clay pot miraculously unbroken, filled with rainwater. As he offered it to her, he saw his reflection in the water's surface.

His face was the same, yet utterly changed. His eyes… they saw too much.

He could perceive the stress lines in the wood of the standing wall, see the microscopic decay spreading through a fallen mango nearby. Looking towards the ocean, he didn't just see water; he saw the pollutants swirling within it, the ghosts of dead coral reefs, the dwindling life.

When he looked at Isikeli, he saw not just the man, but the fear radiating from him, the selfish thoughts flickering behind his eyes, the memory of a lie told years ago.

He blinked, shaking his head, but the perception remained. It wasn't just sight; it was a deeper understanding, an intrusive awareness of the flaws, the decay, the 'disappointment' the Vu perceived in everything.

He looked at his own hands, seeing the tiny imperfections, the history of every cut and scrape, feeling the mortality in his own bones with sickening clarity.

"Nana," he choked out, "Something's wrong with me."

Mere looked at him, truly looked at him, and a terrible understanding dawned in her ancient eyes. She reached out, her hand trembling, and touched his cheek. Her touch felt distant, muted, like trying to feel warmth through thick glass.

"They left you a gift, Mateo," she whispered, sorrow etched deep in her voice. "The gift of seeing as they see. The burden of their judgment."

He tried to feel her touch, tried to connect with the warmth of her skin, the love in her eyes. But there was nothing. The part of him that felt connection, empathy, joy, sorrow… it was gone. Hollowed out.

He could understand her sadness intellectually, perceive the chemical reactions in her brain causing the emotion, but he couldn't feel it. He couldn't feel the grief for their lost village, the fear for their future, or the love for his grandmother sitting right before him.

He looked around at the other survivors. He saw their pain, their shock, their desperation. He perceived it all with excruciating detail – the rapid heartbeats, the adrenaline, the calculations for survival already starting in their minds.

He saw Usaia's wife weeping silently over the spot where her home, and husband, had been crushed. He registered the sound waves, the moisture content of her tears, the strain in her facial muscles. But he felt no pity. No shared grief. Only cold, detached observation.

The Vu hadn't just destroyed their village. They had chosen him, perhaps randomly, perhaps not, and stripped away his humanity. They left behind only the capacity to witness the world through their disappointed, judgmental eyes.

He was alive, breathing, walking, but the core of him, the part that made life meaningful, had been surgically removed.

Days turned into weeks. The survivors tried to rebuild, scavenging materials, rationing salvaged food. They spoke of hope, of resilience. Mateo watched them.

He saw the futility, the cracks already forming in their resolve, the old habits of selfishness and short-sightedness subtly re-emerging even amidst the ruins.

He saw the lingering taint the Vu had left on the land, the way life struggled to return, the way the ocean remained stingy and hostile.

He could see it all, understand it all, but he couldn't care. He moved among them like a ghost, performing tasks mechanically, his face an impassive mask.

When Mere finally succumbed to grief and exhaustion a month later, passing away in her sleep, Mateo sat beside her body. He observed the cessation of life functions, the gradual cooling of her skin, the slackening of her muscles.

He registered the event. He understood its significance to the others who wept around them. But inside, there was only emptiness, a vast, echoing void where his love for her used to reside.

He was the chronicler of the end, cursed to see every flaw, every failure, every step towards the final dissolution humanity had earned. All perceived through the relentless, unforgiving lens of the ancestors.

He would walk the broken world, a living monument to their disappointment, feeling nothing, connecting with nothing, forever observing the slow, agonizing decay.

His unique punishment wasn't death, but this unbearable, unending awareness, stripped of the mercy of emotion. A truly brutal, and unendingly sad, existence.