Kabopuri glanced at Pasolo, who was white as a fish belly. “They forgot the lullaby. But they are my people. They are scared, not wicked.”

Bong.

Kabopuri, sitting at the back, raised a hand. “The bell keeps him asleep. If he’s asleep, there is no thrashing. That’s the point.”

The village of Ampijoro rebuilt its docks—farther from the trench, and quieter than before. Pasolo never again dismissed the old ways, and every morning, without fail, Kabopuri walked to the easternmost stilt, rang three notes, and sat with his feet in the black water. The children grew up calling him Uncle Bell. The elders called him the Quiet Keeper.