Chapter Text
Museums were places of stories - that was fact. History resided within displays, recordings, statues and artifacts, allowing glimpses into the past for the willing to look and listen.
However, it could be said that the National Museum of Polynesian Studies and Artifacts took that to a whole new level, judging by the events of a single day that shook all witnesses to their very core. What was once only story, all too suddenly came to life.
It started simply enough.
Another slow afternoon, the only noteworthy guests a gaggle of third graders and their teacher on a field trip. It was an unusuallly small class, about half the normal size, no doubt attributed to some consecutive minor earthquakes that had been plauging the island the last week.
The associated government bodies televised assurances that there was no threat of tsunamis anytime soon - still, that didn't stop some of the more overzealous parents detaining their children's participation, even just for an afternoon activity.
No one in the museum was complaining; the school had paid as a package and had yet to ask a refund for the no-shows. Currently, they worked with a skeleton crew, it being a weekday and a sad but accepted fact that they weren't the most popular of tourist attractions.
Still, the staff kept friendly and dedicated. They swept exhibits clean, lit the lights, and to while away the long hours, took the opportunity to enjoy the enthusiastic voice of one of their youngest employees, carrying over from the display case at the end of the main exhibition hall.
"And these," gushed the woman of bright eyes and dark hair, half of the long, curly mass tied in a bun at her back, "are relics unearthed from an ancient island village in the heart of the Pacific."
The spiel was abruptly cut by a catchy tune and a buzzing bag. She whipped out an old-fashioned cellphone, checked the caller, and with a huff turned off the phone and slipped it back into her purse.
"Sorry about that," she told the kids apologetically. "Where was I? Oh, right. Note, in particular, this necklace."
She pointed out the weathered yet nevertheless beautiful ornament on a stand behind the glass: a pearl-laden strap that supported a intricate shell of a striking blue tint.
The children oohed and ahhed with sincerity. The woman's obvious love for her work proved contagious, and her audience had yet to be inclined to the bravado of feigning disinterest that tended to manifest in adolesnence. (Their chaperone, in contrast, had wandered to the information booth to browse museum maps and pamphlets, having decided to leave the teaching in another's capable hands.)
"This necklace," the woman confided, "is a very important cultural heirloom, said to have been a vessel for the lifeforce of a living goddess!" Her eyes shone, her arms raised in effect.
They lowered slowly, her expression less dramatic, but the twinkling never disappearing from her eyes. "It was passed down through generations and generations of mighty chiefs."
A pause for effect, then a wry grin. "My ancestors," she declared proudly.
This woman, despite her youth, was the museum's leading historian on Polynesian folklore and artifacts. Proof of such had been boldly printed on the ID hanging over her long-sleeved yellow cardigan. It suited her completely, as she also behaved as if she belonged in the museum just as easily as the objects of her study.
Excited whispers erupted from the children and hands shot to the air as they continued across the hall. Laughing, she picked out a wide-eyed brown boy with a charming wide nose, clutching his pencil and open notebook tightly to his chest, too enraptured for note-taking.
"What's your name?"
"O-Omar, ma'am!"
Her smile widened at this enthusiasm. "Nice to meet you, Omar! What's your question?"
"What happened?" he inquired breathlessly. "To the village?"
The woman blinked and suddenly stopped, forcing the children to crowd around in bewilderment. This did not seem to be a question that was asked often. For a fleeting moment, it looked as if her welcoming smile would disappear.
But no, it didn't. Not completely. It had become small, and a tad bittersweet, and the sight alone quieted the vicinity around her.
"It's gone now," she replied softly, her voice loud amidst the stunned silence.
For several quiet moments, her eyes left the children, sweeping over broken pottery, basket remains, the whittled stones and tools, with a wistfulness as if she herself could picture their exact use and function all those millenia ago.
When she faced her audience again, they got a second look at her emotions. The smile had not changed, but it would be several years yet before the children could recognize the difference between the sadness of loss against acceptance and nostalgia.
"Listen well, all of you. There's something I think you can learn from this, and carry in your hearts, even though it happened a long, long time ago."
As she spoke, she gazed steadfastly at each of their faces, a strange wisdom imbued in all her words.
"That island - Motonui - had a village of lively, wonderful people. They weaved baskets, fished in the reefs, ate coconuts-" (the corner of her mouth twitched at this, as if remembering some inside joke) "- and told stories of their ancestors. They loved fiercely, loved each other... but they couldn't stay forever. So, they left."
One of the smaller kids, a little girl in pigtails, piped up in distress. "Why?"
"Many reasons," her elder replied. "Motonui was all by itself in the middle of the ocean, and some wanted to be closer to bigger islands and towns for trading, or for more company. Others wanted to explore far off places, make new friends, and eventually settled down with their families."
"One by one, the people of Motonui left. And the chiefs, understanding the call in their people's hearts, helped them get to where they needed to be. It took hundreds and hundreds of years, each time part of the chief's family staying behind to help them adjust to new lands... Until finally, only the last chief remained on the island."
She broke eye-contact briefly, and for some reason looked embarrassed.
"Well, technically, she was the great grandmother of the official chief at the time. But she had been a chief herself in her heyday. And a pretty good one if I do say so myself!"
The confusion that sprung from her outburst backpedalled the woman to her point, and she quickly shrugged back into the air of solemnity of imparting life lessons to impressionable young minds.
"And so, seeing that there was no one left on the island, there was only one thing that lone chief could do."
The historian bowed her head and closed her eyes. "She retired. And just like that, the village of Motonui was gone."
An unnerving atmosphere had settled around them at the words. The children stared, unsure of what to do or say to make it better.
But it turned out they did not need to, for the woman opened her eyes with a small smile. "Yet at the same time, Motonui still lives."
"The people left, but they did not forget. They told stories of their homeland, shared their knowledge and customs and traditions all across the Pacific! Many cultures adapted these into their own, some didn't. But it was alright - the people of Motonui did not travel to force others to their way of thinking. They traveled to thrive. And they did!"
Her hand rested on her chest with heartfelt certainty. "To this day, their descendants walk the earth. And as long as they keep on telling the stories of their ancestors, remain proud of their roots, and maintain and treasure places like this museum that honor the relics of the past..."
She spread her arms in a grand gesture, and fortunately her eavesdropping co-workers proved just as partial to dramatics. Suddenly the lights of the display cases intensified, and the items beyond the glass became bathed in spotlight. Details shone more vivid than ever, each as if revealing their inner makings, their purpose, and all the stories eager to be told.
The woman smiled at the children's awestruck faces. "... then Motonui's memory will be just fine."
Sensing the conclusion of her speech, the children were fired up. Majority started whispering again amongst one another. Some were desperately scribbling in their notebooks to document her words for upcoming reflection papers, and others still whipped out their gadgets to google more information about long lost Polynesian civilizations.
The historian left them to their own devices for a while. Then, in their distraction, she made her way to the edge of the group. There stood a child, the only one silent and unmoving, with a face scrunched up with the telltale signs of upcoming tears.
"Are you alright?" she asked quietly, crouching down next to the boy.
The child flinched, tearing his eyes away from the display (which had dimmed down to normal lighting at this point). He hadn't noticed her approach.
"U-Um," he said shakily. It was answer enough.
The woman returned his gaze kindly. "What's your name?"
He flushed and wrung his hands. "Andwele. Um. But since it's kinda hard to say, people just call me Andy."
"Andwele," she repeated easily.
He gave a start of surprise, the corner of his lips tugging upwards. No longer did he appear on the verge of crying, and his hands relaxed.
"Something on your mind bothering you?"
"No, um..." Andwele's eyes darted between her own and the exhibit. "What you said... it sounds familiar. My mom and dad did it too."
The historian's eyes widened slightly in understanding. "You know, Andwele, those very brave people who left Motonui and sought out distant islands a thousand years ago?"
She leaned in, as if about to share a secret.
"They used to call themselves 'Voyagers'," said the woman, a smile on her lips. "But now, I think we have a bit of a different name for them, don't we?"
Andwele nodded immediately, eyes shining. "Immigrants," he whispered.
His brow furrowed in childlike distress. "Is Africa going to become a memory also, because we left?"
"I think Africa is too big of a continent for anyone to forget about anytime soon," she assured, chuckling. "But I think the fact that you're thinking about this? It shows you care. And that love can make you do powerful things to make sure your homeland sticks around for a very, very long time. Believe me."
Andwele murmured, "I'd like to visit again one day. When I'm older."
When he finally smiled, she gently patted his head in shared feeling.
It was a solemn moment, a heartfelt one. And it was henceforth interuptted when, across the hall, a set of large double doors burst open to reveal a remarkably large man of dark skin with a thick mane of curly hair, glaring right across the room like his was the only business of importance in the entire island.
"Moana!" he boomed, eyes piercing straight into those of the historian slowly rising upright. "Grab your stuff! We've got to go."