It was true the youngest daughter of the Suli family was innocent. Innocent, free-spirited, and a bit ditzy at times. But that's what made her so lovable and trusted. She watched as her people began to gather around her mother, and with Nik's words she nodded along with a smile. "Come," she said, and led him to the crowd before joining her mother.
Kaulu was at the drums with two other people. There was also a flute and rattle player, and as soon as everybody hushed, the story began. It was one shared commonly during weddings.
As the drums began playing a soft beat, the two relatives calmed their voices as they were taught. Chenoa had a clear, sweet soprano that was greatly honored among all Chaktawe. Japikoa was similar in talent and harmonized with her mother, acting as an accentuate. Both would change their tones and attitudes when it was appropriate, and use the correct body language. The Apayla began the story of Aka'ula.
"Many years past, the Wayhali of the Suli had a beautiful daughter named Aka'ula. She was the youngest of his children and strong-willed, a jewel among the tribe's women. She became a gifted healer by the time she was only fifteen, and spent many hours each day tending the wounds of the hunters and warriors who battled the Eypharians for control of the oases.
"One day an old warrior came to the Wayhali's daughter for care. He bore scars from battles fought decades earlier, his hair grizzled and white and his face deeply seamed. His body had betrayed him, as it often does to those who live long enough," Japikoa chuckled softly, "and he suffered from the swelling of the joints that often strikes those who spend their lives fighting. There is little that can be done for the pain, but Aka'ula had a gentle touch, and the warrior often said that when he laid his hands in hers it was as if his pains were stolen away." The start of a lovely pitch from the flute began.
"An entire season went by, and each day they spent together, sharing stories, sharing their hearts. Finally came the day when Aka'ula no longer looked on him and saw the snow-white hair or the wrinkles that criss-crossed his face. She saw only a man who held her heart in his gnarled hands. On that day she took his face in her healer's hands and pressed her lips to his, and when she drew back again and opened her eyes it was no longer the elderly warrior who sat before her.
Japikoa started to speak now, her mother acting as the accentuate. "It was Eywaat's face she held now, and his strange hazel eyes that met hers. The old warrior was the mask he wore to learn her heart, and once she gave it to him he let the mask slip away and revealed himself to her. 'My love', he said to her, 'Though you knew my heart, now you know also my face and my true name. Come away with me and be my wife, and I will love you for all of your days.'"
"But she was wroth with him. Aka'ula was infuriated that he would trick her, though it is well known that Eywaat will often disguise himself when he woos a mortal woman. She felt that he had lied to her, deceived her and broken the trust she'd given him along with her heart. And so she refused him - but she told him that she loved him, and would never give her heart to another but him.
"And so Eywaat, entranced by this strange turn of events, began to woo her in his own form. Every time he came to Aka'ula, they spoke for long hours. He would lay beneath the night sky with her in his arms. And each time before he left, he would ask her to be his bride. And she would always reply: 'Not yet.'"
"Not yet," the Apayla chimed, a little dreamily.
Japikoa smiled softly. "Weeks passed, and then seasons, and still he came to her, and still she replied 'Not yet.' The seasons turned to years, many, many years, and Aka'ula kept her promises to Eywaat. She loved only him, would stand no other man's touch upon her skin, but still she refused him." The main speaker switched back to Chenoa now.
"As the years passed, the girl grew into a fine young woman and an accomplished healer. More years passed, and more, and the sun and wind carved their own lines around her eyes. Strands of white began to touch her black hair, and then became streaks, and then there was no more black to be found. Her slim figure softened and sagged as it must when age encroaches," she chuckled dryly. "One day, Aka'ula lay beneath the night sky with Eywaat, and the tables had turned, for now it was the god whose body was young and hale and fit, and the mortal woman whose bloom of youth had passed. But there was no less love in their eyes as they gazed upon each other. And on that day, when Eywaat said, 'Come away with me and be my wife.'
Aka'ula said yes. And so the god, enraptured by her unbending spirit, took her as his bride. And they were together the rest of her days."
Then music ended as the story did. The two women were showered with praises and claps, and Kaulu searched the crowd to find her husband and see his reaction if he had one.