In the time before memory hardened into history, when the islands of the Solomon chain were still learning their names, there came to Makira a being unlike any the people had ever seen. He was called Hatuibwari, and he was neither fish nor bird nor man alone. He wore a man’s face not entirely human but human enough to be understood set upon a serpent’s coil that moved like water over stone. Four eyes watched from that face, seeing not just what was before him but what lay behind and to either side, missing nothing. And from his back sprouted bat wings that whispered like the underside of night when he moved through the air, soft and dark and full of secrets.
Hatuibwari moved between the mountains and the sea as easily as thought moves between waking and dreaming. He was not of one world but of all worlds, sky and earth and water claimed him equally. The first people of Makira watched him with wonder and fear mixed like salt and fresh water where rivers meet the ocean. They did not know if he had come to harm them or to help them, so they waited and watched with hearts beating fast as drum-song.
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But Hatuibwari had not come to destroy. He had come to teach.
He descended from the mountain peaks where clouds gathered like elders in council, and he moved among the villages with his serpent’s body flowing across the ground and his four eyes taking in everything the struggling gardens, the sick children, the weapons that broke too easily, the disputes that turned neighbors into enemies. He saw all of it, and he began to speak.
First, he taught them to plant. Not just to scatter seeds and hope, but to understand the soil where it was rich and where it was poor, when to plant yam and when to plant taro, how to read the signs in the leaves and the bark and the behavior of insects. He showed them how to clear land without exhausting it, how to return what they took so the earth would continue to give. Under his teaching, gardens that had produced barely enough to survive began to overflow with food. Children who had been thin grew strong. The people began to understand that the land was not something to fight against but something to work with, a partner in the dance of survival.
Then he taught them to heal. He showed them which leaves would stop bleeding and which roots would drive out fever. He taught them to recognize the plants that could cure and the plants that could kill, and how sometimes they were the same plant depending on how much you used and how you prepared it. He showed them how to set broken bones and treat wounds so they would not fester and poison the blood. The sick began to recover. The dying began to live. The people carved his mark into their healing tools and whispered his name when they gathered medicine.
And he taught them to carve not just functional items but things of beauty and meaning. He showed them how to read the grain of wood, how to shape it with respect for what it had been when it was a living tree. Under his guidance, their canoes became swifter and more stable. Their weapons became stronger. Their ceremonial objects began to carry stories in their surfaces, patterns that spoke without words of the history and the hopes of the people.
When a drought came when the streams ran dry and the sky turned hard as stone with no rain falling Hatuibwari taught them where to dig for water. He showed them the signs: certain plants that grew where water hid beneath the surface, the way land sloped and shaped itself around underground flows, the behavior of birds and animals that knew where moisture could be found. The people dug where he showed them, and water rose up cool and clean, saving them from thirst and saving their gardens from death.
When war threatened when a neighboring clan came with grievances real or imagined, with weapons raised and anger hot in their chests Hatuibwari taught the men a different kind of wisdom. He taught them the song of caution, the words that went: “Take only what you must and always leave a portion for the unseen.” It was a teaching about restraint, about recognizing that victory achieved through destruction was no victory at all, that taking everything left nothing for tomorrow, that the unseen world the world of spirits and ancestors and consequences not yet arrived was watching and would remember.
The people thrived because they kept his words. They carved his mark on their shields the four-eyed face, the wings, the coiling serpent form not just as decoration but as reminder. When they planted, they remembered to leave some wild places. When they harvested, they remembered to leave some for next season. When they fought, they remembered to leave some room for peace. The mark of Hatuibwari became their signature, their identity, the symbol that said: “We are people who remember what we were taught.”
But as often happens when bellies are full and danger feels far away, pride began to grow in a few. Not all at once, not in everyone, but in enough. They began to think that Hatuibwari’s gifts were their own achievements. They looked at their thriving gardens and thought: “I did this with my own hands.” They looked at their healed children and thought: “I learned this through my own cleverness.” They looked at their beautiful carvings and thought: “This skill came from me alone.”
Some of them took the carved talismans bearing Hatuibwari’s mark the protective symbols he had taught them to make and began to twist them into charms for power and wealth. They used sacred knowledge for personal gain. They hoarded what should have been shared. They took more than they needed and left nothing for the unseen. They forgot the song of caution. They forgot that the gifts had come from outside themselves, that they were stewards of wisdom, not owners of it.
That night, the sky changed.
Hatuibwari rose up from where he had been resting in the deep places of the island. His four eyes blazed with something that was not quite anger but was close to it a righteous fury at watching gifts misused, at seeing generosity answered with greed. He rose into the air on his bat-skin wings, and those wings beat against the atmosphere with a sound like thunder being born. He soared higher and higher, and when he reached the clouds, he beat them so hard that the skies split open. Lightning cracked across the darkness like the world itself breaking apart. Thunder rolled and rolled, echoing between the mountains until it seemed the very stones would shatter from the sound.
The men who had twisted his teachings trembled. They fell to their knees, understanding suddenly and completely how small they were, how much they had been given, how foolishly they had squandered the trust placed in them. They wept and called out, begging forgiveness, promising to remember, swearing to return to the old ways of respect and restraint and gratitude.
Hatuibwari, circling high above with lightning still crackling around him, saw their fear. But more importantly, he saw their humility returning that crucial understanding that they were not the source of their own success, that they were part of something larger, that gifts carried responsibilities. He saw them becoming, once again, people who could be trusted with wisdom.
Slowly, the beating of his wings calmed. The lightning ceased. The thunder faded to distant rumbles like old men’s voices settling into silence. And Hatuibwari, his four eyes watching until the very last moment, collapsed back into the mountain. Not dead, not gone forever, but withdrawn hiding himself away in the deep places where only the truly humble might find him again.
From that time forward, the story became sacred. When a child is born in Makira, the elders gather around and tell him about the creature who taught their ancestors gifts that are not for greed. They speak of the four eyes that see everything, the wings that can shake the heavens, the serpent form that moves between all worlds. They teach the song of caution: take only what you must, leave a portion for the unseen. They explain that humility is not weakness but wisdom, that gratitude is not servility but truth.
And they whisper always they whisper this part that in wind that smells of salt and wet earth, when the air moves just so across the mountains and down to the sea, Hatuibwari’s four watchful eyes look again upon the people. Not to punish, but to observe. Not to judge harshly, but to see if they remember. To see if they give thanks. To see if they understand that the greatest gifts in the world mean nothing if the hearts that hold them remain small with pride and closed with greed.
The mark remains carved on shields and ceremonial objects and the doorposts of important houses. The four eyes watch. The wings wait. And the people of Makira remember that wisdom is a gift, not a possession, and that the line between blessing and curse can be crossed in a single moment of forgetting where the blessings came from.
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The Moral Lesson
Hatuibwari’s story teaches that knowledge and prosperity are gifts to be honored, not possessions to be hoarded or twisted for personal gain. When the people of Makira thrived through the wisdom he shared, some forgot the source of their success and began using sacred teachings for greed and power. The guardian’s fury reminded them that gifts carry responsibilities, that humility must accompany prosperity, and that taking without gratitude brings consequences. The lesson endures: we must remember where our blessings come from, practice restraint even in abundance, and always “leave a portion for the unseen” recognizing that our actions affect not just the present moment but future generations and the unseen spiritual world that watches over us.
Knowledge Check
Q1: What was Hatuibwari’s physical form and what did it symbolize in Solomon Islands mythology? A: Hatuibwari possessed a hybrid form combining human, serpent, and bat features he had a man’s face, a serpent’s coiling body, four watchful eyes that could see in all directions, and bat wings that whispered when he flew. This hybrid nature symbolized his ability to move between all worlds sky, earth, and water and represented his role as a bridge between the human and spiritual realms, belonging to no single domain but connected to all.
Q2: What essential knowledge did Hatuibwari teach the first people of Makira? A: Hatuibwari taught the people three fundamental skills: how to plant crops by understanding soil, seasons, and sustainable farming practices; how to heal using medicinal plants, bone-setting, and wound treatment; and how to carve with respect for materials, creating both functional tools and ceremonial objects. He also taught them where to find water during drought and the “song of caution” to take only what they needed and leave a portion for the unseen.
Q3: What does the phrase “take only what you must and always leave a portion for the unseen” mean? A: This teaching encompasses multiple levels of wisdom: practicing restraint rather than greed, ensuring sustainability by not depleting resources completely, recognizing that consequences exist beyond what we can immediately see, and acknowledging the spiritual world of ancestors and spirits who observe human actions. It represents the principle that moderation and respect for unseen forces and future generations should guide all human behavior.
Q4: Why did Hatuibwari become furious and what triggered his dramatic response? A: Hatuibwari’s fury was triggered when some people, swollen with pride, began believing his gifts were their own achievements rather than teachings received. They twisted his sacred talismans into charms for personal power and wealth, hoarded knowledge that should be shared, took more than they needed, and forgot the principles of humility and gratitude he had taught. This misuse of sacred wisdom for selfish gain violated the trust he had placed in them.
Q5: How did Hatuibwari demonstrate his anger and what was the result? A: Hatuibwari rose into the sky on his bat wings and beat the clouds so violently that lightning split the heavens and thunder shook the mountains. This terrifying display made the prideful men tremble, fall to their knees, and beg forgiveness as they realized their smallness and foolishness. Seeing their genuine humility return, Hatuibwari ceased his fury and withdrew back into the mountain, hiding himself away but not disappearing completely.
Q6: How do the people of Makira keep Hatuibwari’s memory and teachings alive today? A: When children are born in Makira, elders tell them Hatuibwari’s story, teaching that gifts are not for greed and must be honored with humility and gratitude. The people carve his four-eyed mark on shields, ceremonial objects, and doorposts as a constant reminder of his teachings. They whisper that in winds smelling of salt and wet earth, Hatuibwari’s four eyes still watch to see if people remember to give thanks and practice the wisdom he shared.
Source: Adapted from oral traditions of Makira Island (formerly San Cristobal), documented in Solomon Islands mythology and ethnographic studies of Melanesian creator-teacher figures and cultural hero legends.
Cultural Origin: Makira Island (San Cristobal), Solomon Islands, Melanesia
