Tangata Manu (The Birdmen)

Somewhere between Easter Island and Santiago skims an ocean skiff loaded with slumped islanders bound within the teetering cargo hold. In the distance can be seen the eyes of seven monolithic faces defending islanders from the fury of volcanoes. One boy sits in line with the rest of the villagers, sobbing for the loss of his home, his mother and his freedom. Another ship bobs into his field of vision on occasion, and he can’t help but pray his father still survives somewhere inside that mottled vessel. Agony punctuates every moment of peril and punishment at his captor’s hand; in fact, the dogs laugh and taunt with impunity the new animals they’ve captured and chained for profit like so many husks of wheat: the fruit of the stalk gets threshed without mercy until each soul becomes a tiny kernel of energy waiting to be pounded into powder for consumption. The boy avoids their glance as he centers his rage into a knot of power ready to pounce with vengeance, fists balled beneath his chest, channeling their arrogance, their cruelty, their ignorance. Before docking, the boy helps hurl the corpses into the mirrored rage of the sea, narrowing his eyes but not daring to reveal defiance to his captors. Linked together in struggle, they are tossed into cages to be auctioned off.