Long before the stars took their place in the sky, there was a woman named Lalovai, born during a lunar eclipse, when even the animals held their breath.
She was quiet, but the night spoke to her. Bats circled her like guardians. The trees whispered. The waves remembered.
When sickness struck the village, it was Lalovai who climbed the sacred tree. Wrapped in her ‘ie toga, she called to the spirit realm, not with chants or fire, but with silence and truth.
The bats returned at moonrise, bearing a single seed. From it grew a dark tree, its fruit glowing. Those who ate it were healed.
But fear followed healing. She does not belong to us, they said. She belongs to the darkness.
And so she walked into the forest, where the bats became her cloak and her voice became wind.
It is said that when a woman walks alone under the moon, the bats still follow. And if she listens, she may hear:
"E le o mea uma e pupuni, o mea lilo." Not everything hidden is lost—some things are sacred.
