The Moai Murders

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ANA O KEKE—It was the third day that the food hadn't come, judging by the cycle of light and darkness seen through the narrow opening in the rock, and Veri Amo could feel the pangs in her stomach growing fierce. The others were hungry, too, of course, but secure in the knowledge that sustenance would come, brought and pushed through to them as it always had been. After all, were they, the Neru, not essential to the coming of the birds? But why had the food not come? That was what Veri Amo wanted to know.

She could feel her bones already, through the still abundant flesh, and this was not good. For three days they had been forced to eat the skins from the bananas and potatoes brought before, but now even these were gone. Surely they were not forgotten! No, that would not happen. Her father, after all, was the one who brought the food. But where was he? Veri Amo missed her mother, but she had told Veri Amo to be brave, and brave she would be. Was she not, after all, clan Miru, direct descendants of the great Hotu Matu'a, the first ariki mau at this, the center of the world? Was the king not always chosen from clan Miru?

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