by Matt Larkin
Looking for … for her?
Pele’s breath had stopped, seizing up in her lungs. Her heartbeat had become a slowing drum, pounding inside her chest and reverberating up into her skull.
The figure turned, looked at her.
Saw her, despite the veil of time between them, as if he knew she peered back at him from the future.
And she knew him, even as he knew her.
Kū-Waha-Ilo.
Her father.
Pele fell over backward, clutching her chest and gasping. An eel was crawling down her brain, squeezing its way into her heart.
Then Lonomakua was there, holding her hand. “Breathe.” With his other hand, he cupped her cheek. “Pele, breathe. Look at me. Be now.”
She blinked, staring into those blue eyes of his. Beyond him, the sun had begun to set. She blinked again.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked.
“I saw Kū-Waha-Ilo. Here, in Puna. Maybe when we were in the lava tubes.”
And Lonomakua did not seem surprised. He helped her sit. He ought to have been shocked. Pele hadn’t seen Kū-Waha-Ilo since before Hi‘iaka was born. In fact, she’d barely seen her father even before that. He’d left Uluka‘a, that much seemed certain.
Left there and come to Sawaiki? Why?
For a moment, she just massaged her temples. That drum had left her head pounding. “I think maybe he left something behind. There was a … presence, out in the night. Like a … a disruption in the world, an anger seething in the shadows.”
Lonomakua’s face remained unreadable, save perhaps for a spark of curiosity in his eyes. But curiosity about the subject, or about her grasp of it? He watched her as though waiting for her to say more. The latter, then. Another test of her knowledge.
She folded her arms and glared at the kahuna. Considering she felt like she’d spent the night in Lua-o-Milu, she was in no mood for tests. “Just tell me.”
“The passions of a moment can cloud perceptions, make it hard to consider all possibilities. Hard to think clearly when the loudest sound you hear is the pounding of your own heart.”
At that, Pele shook a flaming fist at him in mock threat. Sadly, he didn’t even flinch.
“It felt like there was a presence …” he prompted.
So either there was one, or she had conjured up her fears out of her own mind. Pacing, she considered that. She might be able to attribute the sensations, even the oddly swaying trees, to nerves in the dark, but the eyeless bird was another matter. She hadn’t imagined that sickening sight. And the figure in the volcano—she’d seen that.
The ordeal with Kamapua‘a had prevented her and Lonomakua from talking half so much as she’d have liked. With a sigh she recounted the experience.
Lonomakua didn’t move during her telling, kept his hands on his knees until she had finished.
“So?” she asked, at last.
“What do you think?”
She threw up her hands. If she already knew what to think she wouldn’t have climbed back up here. “An angry spirit? A Nightmarcher, perhaps? A lapu?” The most feared ghosts across Sawaiki were said to be born from souls not properly sent away by kāhuna, consumed by their rage. A ghost lingering on the edge of the human world would eventually become either an ‘aumakua—a protective ancestor—or something worse. Lose itself in its anger and pain.
There were stories, of course. Lonomakua himself had recounted tales of the angry dead, haunting the living forever in some twisted attempt to share their anguish. But the thought of actually finding such a dark, angry ghost … even kāhuna would have feared that.
Lonomakua, however, looked more concerned than afraid.
Pele frowned. “If it’s a ghost who died in the taniwha attack, shouldn’t Kamalo’s prayers have sent it away?”
“The rituals don’t always work, Pele. Sometimes, if a ghost is angry enough, bound by strong enough emotion, it will remain. There are never any guarantees when you try to apply knowledge to worlds beyond our own. Besides which, the ghost may have simply wandered into this place, or been brought by your father. The kāhuna can only send the recently deceased. If this is a ghost, it has already missed—or refused—its chance to cross through Pō and leave the Mortal Realm behind.”
“So, what do I do? How do I kill the damn thing?”
“You can’t. It’s already dead. Maybe you could send it on its way to whatever lies beyond. If you could find a way to sever the ties it feels here.”
Pele groaned and rubbed her eyes. They burned from lack of sleep. She was too tired for this. “If Kū-Waha-Ilo sent that ghost here, maybe he can call it away.” It didn’t explain what the man was even doing in Sawaiki.
“A bound spirit? Yes, maybe. We do not have enough information to say for certain.”
‘Aumākua. She had far too many things to worry about. Finding the Waters of Life, a godsdamned lapu, and now Kū-Waha-Ilo. To say nothing of Poli‘ahu and that mess. No wonder she had a headache.
“Can you find him?” she asked.
Lonomakua frowned slightly, but he nodded. “I’ll leave Kapo to attend to Hi‘iaka.”
Dusk had settled by the time Pele returned to the palace.
She had no idea how to address the issue of the lapu just yet, but she wasn’t going to let it harm Naia or Milohai.
The former queen had drifted off into fitful sleep as the sun set, her brother sitting by her side. Pele now sat on the threshold, staring at the tapa cloth Milohai had hung over the door.
Makua lingered nearby, the prophet tending to Naia on occasion, though Pele saw no real benefit to his ministrations.
“You can’t break the curse, huh?” Milohai asked, finally shattering the silence that had settled between them.
“Of course, I can.” She tried to force as much bravado into her voice as possible. Her people needed to see her as confident, even haughty. Irrepressible and undefeatable. No matter how helpless she felt in the face of a foe without form. This enemy could not be burned, could not even be seen, save for that glimpse in Kīlauea.
“Then why are you in here, instead of out there?”
Pele favored her adopted brother with a withering gaze and he wiped his nose and looked away. “I’m watching over you,” she said, catching Makua looking at her now.
“I’m not a child.”
She turned back to the doorway. Outside, the wind was howling, agitated—or hungry. “I didn’t say you were.”
What play went on in the shadows obscured by the tapa? She could almost feel something moving out there, sending her skin crawling. No villager would be out in the night. As far as Pele knew, none of them had yet begun to whisper of lapu, but that was only a matter of time. They didn’t know what seeped into the village as the sun set, but they knew there was something out in the night. Something angry.
And in her awareness of that anger, it pounded at her temples, pulsed through the land. Milohai was right. She should be out there. Was she lying to herself? Thinking she was here to protect him and Naia, when the truth was she was hiding from a foe she didn’t understand and could not overcome?
“The kahuna said Naia will get better,” Milohai said.
Just trying to fill the silence? He was afraid, too, and her lack of action probably exacerbated his fear.
“She will,” Makua said. “Assuming someone deals with the cause.”
A barb? A subtle reminder Pele had sworn to attend to the spirit and had failed? Oh, how she wanted to send Makua himself to face the thing. Except, someone needed to stay, keep praying to protect the villagers. Protect Milohai and Naia.
Pele rose, not looking back at either of them. “It’s time.” Make it sound like going out had been her plan all along. Before she could think better of it, she hugged Milohai, and cast a stern glance at the prophet. Then she lifted the tapa and stepped around it.
Fog had drifted in with the night, creeping through the village and pooling in the spaces between houses. Clouds once again obsc
ured the moon, so with the fog she could see only three or four paces ahead, if that.
“Where are you?” she whispered, edging away from the relative safety of the house. That safety was a facade, most likely. Kamalo would keep praying, perhaps warding the houses. But if there was a lapu here, sooner or later it would find its way into a home. Invisible and intangible, it would hover above a sleeper, whispering of fear and damnation. Siphoning off bits of the victim’s life, its soul.
She shook her head, then lit a torch in her hand. What was she doing? Intentionally frightening herself by remembering every story she’d ever heard of these ghosts?
Passing through the fog was like wading through a nightmare, everything around her twisted, obscured. Seeming too far away. Like huts that should have been a few paces from her suddenly stood beyond reach, as if she herself had stepped into Pō.
No insects chirped, but there was some sound on the edge of her hearing, something she couldn’t quite make out. She wasn’t certain whether that was worse than the oppressive silence from before or not. It was like … whispers. Like men whispering far away, their words lost.
She turned slowly, using the torch to burn away fog as she passed. And still finding nothing. It wasn’t going to come to her, especially not with the fire lit. She knew that. Ghosts avoided flame. It would not easily cross into light, not even fire light.
Reluctantly, she closed her palm, snuffing out the fire. “All right, then.” Even her voice seemed like a whisper, stolen by the howling wind. Shivering, she spread her arms wide and turned about in the fog. “Here I am.”
Nothing.
Just the wind, the whispers. A scent maybe, coming in off the breeze, like the smell of fish left to rot in the sun. And the intense, ever-increasing thumping of her heart, threatening to climb up her gut and lodge itself in her throat.
Teeth clenched, she willed herself to calm. Shut her eyes for a moment, though the thought of being even more blind left her shaking. One breath, two, to steady herself, then she opened her eyes. Continued to turn.
From the corner of her eye, a shadow, a silhouette, seemed to pass through the fog. She spun to face it. Only the blanket of white, concealing fog. Had that looked like a woman? The phantom she’d seen in the volcano? Or was her mind playing tricks back then? Or now? Pele took a few steps in that direction, but nothing was there.
The sensation of a presence suffused the fog, though. Nothing to be seen, nor readily detected with any of her other senses. And yet … she felt someone, something there. Watching.
A scream echoed through the night. Brief, brutal, and all the more shocking for the stillness that had seized Puna. It had come from the beach. Pele hesitated, afraid to know what had made such a sound. She could still find her way back to the palace.
Instead, she relit her torch and hurried down to the shore. Whatever had made that sound had been in agony.
She didn’t want to know.
She had to know.
A body lay crumpled there, lying facedown in the sand. The slight form indicated a boy or maybe a woman. Pele knelt by the body and rolled it over. By its size, she’d have guessed a young man, but his face had been so desiccated as to scrunch up with wrinkles befitting an ancient man in his final years. The boy’s eyes were so bloodshot they seemed almost red, and trails of blood wept from the corners.
“Fuck you,” she whispered into the darkness. It was like what it had done to the sentries before, only this was probably a child.
Men’s voices shouted, and their forms ran in her direction. Pele rose, extinguishing her torch, and stepped back into the fog. Almost immediately, more men, bearing torches, rushed over to check the body. Cries of horror went up, followed by a rapid exchange.
A woman looked to be in charge, pointed back down the beach, and the men withdrew. One of them stopped to grab the boy’s body, first making some kind of sign of warding before touching the corpse.
Pele watched them leave, uncertain what to do. The truth was, she had no solace to offer anyone this night. She had to find the godsdamned lapu and banish it, but she had no idea how to manage either feat.
Still shaking, she stalked back toward the village. The darkness, the fog, seemed to well at her periphery, scattering whenever she looked too closely. It was out there, watching her, mocking her weakness. Perhaps even feeding off the fear it engendered. Some spirits were like that. If this one fed on fear, it would soon find a feast in this village.
The overwhelming sense of a presence approaching stalled her steps, and she spun to see a silhouette in the fog once again. Damn it. Damn this thing. She took a step toward it, casting alight both hands. This time, the shape did not scatter. Indeed, it moved toward her with obvious intent. Ready for another victim.
“I will burn you to ash,” she said.
“Pele?” the silhouette called from the shadows.
A moment later, Lonomakua strode into the small ring of light her torches radiated. His face was awash with concern, although she thought his eyes might have been slightly amused. Of course, it could have been the way they reflected her torches. “Are you all right?”
“No.” No, she was not all right. “This village is haunted. My father is a monster. The whole district is going to shit.”
The kahuna frowned, slightly, perhaps at her outburst or perhaps in empathy. “I found his tracks.”
Pele drew nearer the kahuna, as if his mere presence might somehow scare away the angry spirit. “I don’t know what to do about the ghost—if that’s what this spirit even is. It killed a boy now.”
The kahuna scowled. “I thought I heard something.” He shook his head. “You need more information before you can do anything about the spirit.”
Damn it. Pele turned about, shaking her head. “Where do Kū-Waha-Ilo’s tracks lead?”
“They lead farther inland, into the valleys. I can show you.”
“You’re going after him?” Milohai asked as Pele headed away from Puna. He had chased after her, away from the stares of the villagers.
She turned. But that rage seething on her chosen brother’s face—that she understood. All too well. “Yes. If he called whatever did that to Naia, he’ll suffer for it.”
“Then take me with you!”
She chuckled, then shook her head. “Someone needs to stay here and care for your sister.”
Milohai frowned. “I can fight.”
“I’m sure you can.” But the boy would have no means of fighting someone like Pele’s father. The powers kupua wielded left ordinary humans ill-prepared for a conflict. Kū-Waha-Ilo would boil her brother’s blood or worse, without so much as a second thought.
And maybe Milohai knew that, but it clearly pained him to do nothing to avenge the wrongs done to Naia.
Pele patted his cheek. “I’m going to fix this, Milohai.”
With that, she continued out of the village.
As expected, Lonomakua waited for her on the jungle’s edge. Concern lit the kahuna’s eyes. He feared for her, confronting Kū-Waha-Ilo. Feared for her to go see her own father. The sentiment warmed her.
“Where is he?” she asked, voice soft.
Lonomakua indicated a mountain beyond the jungles. “There’s a valley there. You’ll find a pass through the jungle, albeit a difficult and hidden one. Do you want me to show you?”
Pele shook her head. “No. I have to deal with Kū-Waha-Ilo myself.”
The kahuna only nodded, but she could see in the man’s eyes he was proud of her for it. Some things a person had to do for herself, without the crutch of anyone to lean on. “Pele, you have to hurry. When night falls, spirits grow stronger.”
She nodded. She was much more worried about the people left here in Puna. This spirit grew more aggressive with each passing night. She could only pray Lonomakua and the local kahuna might work together to protect the people. On impulse, she embraced the kahuna. “Please try to protect everyone.”
“I always try.”
With that, she
took off at a near run.
15
Days Gone
Pain was the first thing she was aware of. Pain pounding in her head, coursing through her back, neck, shoulders. Everything hurt. Everything save a welcome warmth radiating near her cheek. Pele opened her eyes and looked into the small fire before her, seeing nothing else for a time.
At last she turned enough to catch a glimpse of her surroundings. She lay in a grove in the forest, probably not far from the shore. Late afternoon, by the look of it. Something stirred beside her, then Lonomakua sat near her, his back to the flame. The kahuna pressed a calloused hand to her forehead, then nodded to himself and offered her a gourd of water. She tried to sit, but the pain of it blurred her vision and left her gasping.
“It’s all right,” he said. “Take it slow.” He lifted the back of her head, then dipped the gourd, pouring a few welcome drops into her parched throat.
Pele coughed, half choking on it, and Lonomakua laid her gently back on the ground. “How did I get here?”
“You tried climbing the old banyan on the north slope.”
She shut her eyes again. Oh. Right.
The godsdamned tree.
She’d gone up to try to get a better view. Her foot had slipped. After that … No. She didn’t remember. Just things spinning, impacts, darkness.
Milu, she was lucky she hadn’t cracked her skull. And ‘aumākua, her ankle hurt. Had she broken it? Sprained it?
“Can you feel the energy of the flame?” he asked sometime later.
“Mmmm.”
“The strongest firewalkers can not only control that energy, they can draw it into themselves, converting it into fuel for their bodies. Do you want to try that?”
Oh. So this would be a lesson then. It was undoubtedly too much to ask that her nearly dying should earn her a reprieve. Rather, her failure had earned her a new assignment.
“Instead of sending your mana out to control the flame, pull mana from it. Call it into you and direct it to the places that hurt the most. I know you can do this, Pele. Just put your hand in the fire.”