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Adam Johnson won the Pulitzer Prize for his novel The Orphan Master's Son and the National Book Award for his short story collection Fortune Smiles. He returns with an epic story set in Polynesia a thousand years ago.
IN “Guide” (MCD), a brave young woman and the two sons of a king journey through storms, myths, and an empire on the brink of chaos.
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DISCUSSION:
THE PAST IS THE FUTURE
I opened my share of graves before I found something valuable: a pendant in the shape of a fishhook, carved from green stone. Greenstone came only from Aotearoa, the land our people left before we came to this island. When held up to the sun, the pendant glowed with a soft and green light, like the dawn through the myrrh trees. I belonged to the third generation born on this island, but the pendant came from our ancestors, from the past. My father said that a necklace made of fishhooks had a special meaning: it ensured safe passage on water for sailors. To wear the pendant, I wove a cord from the inner bark of a hibiscus branch, which made a fiber so strong that even parrots could not bite through it.
No matter how unpleasant and offensive it was to our ancestors, I was ready to open even more graves.
However, I also had other responsibilities. I got up every morning before dawn to hunt birds. Pigeons during the planting season, thuja birds when the flax was in bloom. At this time of year it was parrots. They arrived on our island in tightly knit flocks, and it was these social bonds that we used to trap them. When our ancestors landed on this island, it was so full of birds that they called it Manumotu, or Bird Island. If only that were still the case. On these days we crouched quietly all morning, ready to set traps in the hope of catching a bird or two. The worst thing was the silence. I'm the talkative type. My mother says I was born talking, which is why she named me Korero. It was only after hours of silent bird watching that I was able to open the graves with my best friend Hein. The two of us could talk all day.
Hine's responsibilities, unlike mine, were endless. She was still a girl when her mother died and she was given to an elderly childless woman named Tiri. But a few years later, when Tiri became blind, it was Hein who became the caretaker. Tiri was one of the most amazing people in the world – I admit, I only knew eighty-four people – but Hein, like me, was sixteen years old, and no one likes it when have do something. And Hein had to do All for Thiri.
In the morning, after bird watching, I arrived at the bay of our island to continue the excavations. Many people who ended up on this island before us were buried around the bay. It was considered a good resting place because of the view and wind, and because birds would land here after swimming in open water. Where did the birds come from? I've always been interested. Where did they go?
I tied my parrots to a branch. One was called Aroha – it was she who lured wild parrots into our traps. I pulled Aroha's leash, she screamed in despair, and wild parrots came to her aid.
“It’s over,” I told Aroha. “Last night.”
It was a fisherman's proverb, shortened to fit the bird's memory. Alert by daythe saying goes. Alert at night. My father was a fisherman.
I knew from old stories that parrots could be made to talk, although I had not succeeded.
Another parrot was just caught. We named her Kanokano – the complications she caused will be described soon.
With only a digging stick and a basket, I chose a suitable spot on the upper beach and began moving the sand. If only our ancestors had thought of marking their graves. But I guess they didn't imagine that they would be exhumed by their great-granddaughters. I came across a lot of mangrove roots, which I chopped with the jagged edge of a mussel shell. By the time Hein and Tiri arrived I was already sweating.
“What does the ocean look like today?” – Tiri asked. Her brilliant gaze was directed into nowhere.
Hein rolled her eyes and helped the old woman onto the mat before handing her the weave.
“It’s blue and wet,” Hein said impatiently. “The waves rise and fall.” I described to Tiri how the morning light filtered into the bay, illuminating the humps of the mullet, how the distant reef foamed like coconut flesh, how the hissing waves reached the beach before scooping up all the retreating little shells.
Hein hesitantly poked her stick into the sand.
I asked: “Did you hear that the Toki brothers found an earring in the grave?” I was up to my arm in a hole, struggling with roots.
“The Toki Brothers are insufferable,” Hein said. She made a gesture to help me, but, looking into the hole, she saw that I had already reached the place where the stinking water was leaking.
“The earring was made of green stone,” I said. “From the old world. I bet one of the brothers will bring it to you. Will it be big, beautiful, stupid? Or big, beautiful, stupid?
“Don’t laugh at me,” Hein said. “You will have to marry the one I reject. And have a child from him.”
The Toki brothers were dull, gullible and humorless. But their father was charismatic and funny, and the truth was that Hein was in love with him. It is possible that when the marriage ban is lifted, she will marry Toki's brother to become Papa Toki's daughter.
Tiri sighed. She always did this before starting a story. Although Hein had no patience for old stories, I could listen to them all day. Today was the story of Paikea, one of the explorers who discovered Aotearoa. He was from a place called Hawaii. Thiri didn't start with the obvious ones, such as Paikea's departure from Hawaii or his arrival in Aotearoa. She did not begin with Paikea sinking the canoe and drowning seventy of his enemies. Not to mention he was saved by a whale. Instead, she began this epic story with a small moment: Paikea, succumbing to both vanity and shame, combs his hair with a forbidden comb.
All the while, Tiri weaved, her fingers demonstrating their own vision.
My hole got to the point where the sand was falling as fast as I was scooping it out. Hein wrinkled her nose. It is probably clear that Hine's heart was not really in grave digging. She could hardly bring herself to touch any of the bones, and when she did, she was afraid that they might belong to her mother, although we knew that her mother was buried on the hill above the Kumara fields. We were both there when they buried her in the ground. However, one person's bones can look like another person's bones, which can look like someone else's, which can also be your mother. I hoped that Hein would change his mind when he finally found something valuable in the grave.
That's when my digging stick made the unmistakable sound of bone hitting wood.
Tiri stopped her story. I reached into the dark water and felt something in the mud. Hein winced, afraid of what I would pull out. “Sorry, ancestor,” I said. Then, with a sucking sound, I pulled out the dog's skull. I reached for its jaw, but all that remained in the dirt were bird bones and broken shells.
“Another trash hole,” Hein said and began throwing sand back into the hole.
I examined the skull. Since we started digging up bodies, I've come across a lot of dog remains. Did they really die at the same time as our ancestors? Were they killed and buried nearby? Or was it something else altogether? No living person on the island had ever seen a dog, and before we started digging it was believed that there had never been any dogs here at all.
“What is this?” – Tiri asked.
“Another dog skull,” Hein said. “Look at these teeth. Who would want to get close to such a thing, let alone share the afterlife with it?”
“The dogs have white fur, soft like thuja feathers,” Thiri said. “The old stories say they'd lick your face.”
“They supposedly had long tongues,” I said, admiring the skull. Hein shook her head. “You don't believe every story you hear, do you?” Hein knew that I truly believed every story I heard.
“We only know one thing about dogs,” Hein said. “They must have been delicious.”
I was interested in the size of the dog's eye sockets. Kaka parrots also had large eyes. In fact, the parrot's eyes were very intelligent and expressive. “The ancestors must be wise,” I said. “But they didn’t leave us a single dog.”
Hein looked at his fangs. “I'm glad they left.”
“Parrots have sharp beaks,” I said. “And they're friendly.” Hein took the skull and threw it.
“One day you will lose a finger to these birds,” she said.
I've already forgotten something. That's what a bad storyteller I am. I should have mentioned that I was strictly forbidden from teaching the parrots human words, that Hein had a father who was alive and walking around our island – we just didn't know his identity. Papa Toki lost his arm, and my mother and Tiri cut it off.
But it's too late, the story has begun. Aroha looked towards the bay, spread her wings and began to screech. We turned around. The largest waka canoe imaginable drifted past the reef. It had two hulls, and it swayed silently on the waves. Most of the canoes in the old stories were waka taua, war canoes. This one seemed empty—no man, no oar, no sail was visible. We saw its tilted bow and high mast. The most ominous thing is that the symbol of the death-bringing frigate bird was carved on its side. Then we heard: a large parrot with a crimson body was sitting on a beam. He spread his wings and squealed in response.
“What is this?” – Tiri asked. “What's happening?”
“We have visitors,” Hein said. She took my hand in hers and screamed.
It seemed to me that at the sound of Hein’s voice, dozens of warriors would sit in the waka and show themselves. I grabbed my fishhook necklace because, like the waka before me, it seemed both ancient and strikingly new.
Did I mention that in all the years we've been on the island we've never had a guest? As Hein's scream echoed off the rocks, the buzz of island life ceased.
The sounds of flax bustling on the leeward shore and the sounds of our fathers digging up graves on the southern cliffs died away.
Our fathers – all men of Bird Island – will be here soon.
I have to say that the waka didn't come as a complete surprise. We knew something would happen. There were signs.
From “The Traveler” by Adam Johnson. Copyright © 2025 Adam Johnson. Reprinted with permission from MCD, an imprint of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
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- “Guide” by Adam Johnson (MCD), in hardcover, eBook and audio formats.
