Racing the Dark

by Alaya Dawn Johnson

  The two novices helped Nahoa lie down on the sheets. She was grateful it was a sleeping mat instead of the raised beds that she had been using for the past year-it reminded her of home. Someone pulled off her wet pants and someone else rubbed a balm on her swollen belly that made it tingle and cleared her nose.

  In the moments in between the wracking pain, she felt oddly distant from the situation. Her child would have good luck, she thought, being born on solstice eve. She stared out the single window and admired the powerful figure of Nui'ahi framing the dying sunset. She wondered if Kohaku was seeing the same thing right now. Was he keeping vigil in his aerie for the fires that so terrified him? Even tonight, the day most appropriate for joy and celebration, was he still afraid of whatever ghost his scorched left hand represented? Did he still speak to it?

  A pain twisted at her stomach so violently that she screamed. The head nun was by her side, her eyes bright with concern and eagerness.

  "Here, take this for the pain, my lady," she said, holding a drink to Nahoa's lips that smelled like urine and rotten fruit. Another contraction and she opened her mouth, swallowing as much of the vile concoction as she could without tasting it.

  An hour later, when night had fallen and the moon bathed Nui'ahi in her light, the baby still seemed no closer to being born. Sweat from her body had soaked the sheets beneath her, and she shivered as it cooled.

  "It's a girl, I think," Makaho said as she massaged her belly. "They are always more stubborn."

  Nahoa smiled, thinking about how her mother had given birth to seven girls.

  She was still smiling when Nui'ahi exploded, spewing molten lava high into the air. How pretty, Nahoa thought, absurdly, before the lava began running into the streets and the roaring wind flattened whole neighborhoods in seconds.

  The contraction that ripped through her then nearly made her lose consciousness. She wept as she screamed, for the thousands of people dying below her, and for her baby girl, who would be born in this river of fire and blood.

  Makaho stayed by her side, but the two novices rushed to the window, keening with shocked disbelief. The ground rocked beneath them and the tower swayed alarmingly, but remained upright. One of the girls shrieked and sank to the floor, weeping into her hands.

  "My family," she said, "they live southside. Right underneath..." she began sobbing again.

  Nahoa wanted to say something, but the contractions were coming faster and far more painfully now. She gasped under another onslaught, but the growing chorus of screams and wails coming from far below drowned her voice.

  Two hours later, when ash had blotted the moon and the stars so that the only light came from the red-orange lava that flowed through the streets, Nahoa gave birth to a baby girl.

  Lei'ahi, she called her: child of fire.

  In the moments before the world exploded, it spoke to him.

  He did not see her reflection in the glass of the aerie, but he knew she was there nonetheless. How could anyone not recognize the presence of a great spirit?

  "I owe you thanks," said her hateful voice.

  Kohaku did not turn to face it. He could not bear to look at its eyes. "Why?" he asked. Nahoa was giving birth, he had heard, locked away in a tall, hidden tower of the fire temple. He had only revenge to live for, and this simulacrum of his sister. It was mostly the fire spirit, of that he was sure, but his infrequent glimpses of the true Emea sickened him. When it begged him for revenge, he could never be sure who was begging.

  "Tonight's festivities wouldn't have been possible without your contribution."

  Kohaku glanced behind him. She was smiling. "Festivities?" he said.

  "Turn around."

  He did.

  "Three, two, one..."

  Nui'ahi exploded.

  "Merry solstice eve, dear brother."

  When he looked back, she was gone.

  "Why do you wish to become Mo'i?" it had asked, those many months ago.

  "I ... I mean ... for love. And especially for revenge."

  The flames suddenly billowed out and Kohaku danced backwards in fear. The tongues of fire seemed to form in shapes of a dozen crudely grinning mouths, but they vanished as quickly as he had seen them.

  "Better," it said, "much better. Many have come here for revenge and many have come here for love, but very few for both. Those few almost agreed, but in the end, they were too weak. Will you be different?"

  "Different how?" Kohaku felt terrified but somehow exhilarated, talking with this inhuman spirit that could kill him at any moment.

  "Will you," said the spirit, "take a handful of ashes from Konani's urn?" The flames thinned briefly so that he got a clearer view of that dark center of the flames-an urn containing the remains of Konani, the one who had given the ultimate self-sacrifice to bind the fire spirit. On the outside of the urn he had written the words of the geas that still bound the spirit and allowed civilization on the islands to survive.

  He suddenly understood what that morose voice was asking him to do. It wanted Kohaku to remove a support that could destroy all the advances made by humans in the last thousand years. If the hundreds of volcanoes throughout the islands began to erupt again, millions would die and the survivors would be forced to scrabble a living in the ashes.

  And in return, Kohaku would get revenge.

  "You're trying to break free," he whispered, wishing that he were strong enough to refuse.

  "I'm always trying to break free. But even if you take a handful of the ashes, I'll still be bound. I'll just have a little more leeway, a few small ways to show myself in the world aside from candles and hearth fires. I long to burn, penitent. As much as I'm able."

  The spirit's obvious desire sent a wave of terror through him. Still, beneath that terror was a sudden sense of possibility. He had come here expecting to die and instead he had been offered a chance to have everything he ever wanted-and to commit the greatest crime humanity had ever known.

  "Kohaku"

  His head snapped up at the sound of her voice and his breath strangled in his throat. It was impossible. He hadn't heard that voice since he was ten years old. Reluctantly, he looked up and saw her in the flames, smiling sadly at him.

  "It's me," Emea said.

  "Stop it!" he yelled suddenly. Angry tears were forming in a hot ball in the back of his throat. "Don't mock me like this!"

  "It's not mocking you," she said. "I can come here because I was burned in Nui'ahi. My spirit melded with the fire."

  Kohaku met her eyes-where her green irises should have been, he only saw licking flames. Could it be real?

  "Please, Kohaku ... do what it says. Take revenge for me. Promise me you won't let Nahe get away with my death."

  He couldn't hold back the tears. He stared helplessly at the wavering figure of his sister. "But ... what about everyone else? How many people will I kill if I do what he says?"

  "It is just a little fire, Kohaku ... no one in the world would be harmed by just a little more fire."

  Her image flickered and vanished, replaced by featureless blue flames.

  "Have you made your decision?" the spirit asked. "Do you take revenge for your sister and become Mo'i, or do you join the ashes?"

  He couldn't even be sure if what he had seen had been his sister, but he wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe the fire spirit's assurances of how harmless his actions would be. He wanted revenge and he wanted Nahoa.

  "I agree," he said finally. "I'll take the ashes."

  "The fire will burn you," the spirit said, a crackling excitement in its voice, "and the ashes will sear your skin, but you must not let go. If you do, you will be consumed-just another sacrifice. If you succeed, you will be Mo'i."

  Kohaku nodded, his heart thudding.

  "Do you make this sacrifice willingly, supplicant?"

  "Yes," Kohaku said.

  Before he could think about it, he put his arm in the fire.

  It burned so badly he was afraid he would faint, but he bit down
on his tongue until he tasted blood, just to clear his head. His fingertips could barely reach over the edge of the urn, but as quickly as he could he reached inside and scooped out a tiny handful of ashes.

  The pain that he felt then did make him scream-the ashes were eating into his muscle and bone but leaving his nerves to shriek in misery. He almost dropped them, despite the warning of the fire spirit, but he held on, keeping Emea's image in his mind as he pulled his arm carefully out of the fire. He held it close to his chest as he collapsed on the floor, uncaring of the ashes that mingled with his sweat and tears into a grimy paste on his cheeks.

  "You were the first one," Kohaku heard the spirit say softly, barely audible over his own low moans. "No one else held on. You must have truly loved your sister."

  When the officiates opened the door, they had been shocked to discover Kohaku still on the floor beside the great fire, covered in ashes and holding his mangled left arm to his chest.

  I long to burn ...

  Below him, distantly, he heard his guards pounding on his door, desperate to tell him what had happened. Soon, he would have to wipe the guilt off of his face and go back down to meet with his advisors and those district chiefs who had survived the carnage. He would have to conduct the relief effort for what was left of this once-great city, as though his missing left hand wasn't an indictment for hundreds of thousands dead and wounded.

  Kohaku walked down the stairs and opened the doors, his eyes dry as ash.

  Akua hadn't expected Nui'ahi to erupt. She hadn't expected events to go that far. She stared at the burning city and the flowing lava with as much horror as anyone else on the small ship that had just cast off from the docks. Leilani was facing the other direction, only her rigid neck muscles giving away the fact that she was desperate to turn around. Feeling an unexpected moment of pity, Akua loosened the geas holding her. Leilani turned around slowly, a gasp escaping her lips when she saw what had happened. She mouthed her husband's name.

  Akua tried to imagine how many people would die before the night was out and, despite everything, felt staggered by the number. She, who knew death perhaps better than anyone, could hardly believe it.

  "What have you done to my daughter?" Leilani asked quietly, staring at Nui'ahi as though she was still bound by the geas.

  Akua thought about the black angel that soon the whole world would know about. "Nothing," she said, just as quietly. "What she did, she did entirely to herself."

  The Essel that Lana saw when she arrived two days later was a smoking, ashen husk of its old self. Southside, most of the buildings had been smothered by nearly four feet of ash that still fell from the gray sky, barely lightened by the sun. The east side, where her parents lived, had been ravaged by fires, some still burning, but most now contained by the simple fact that there was nothing left to burn. Survivors hurried through the streets with their remaining possessions clutched to their chests with one hand, and a cloth clamped over their mouths and noses with the other. Some people noticed her as she glided overhead, but they all stared at her with glazed eyes, and then looked away like they had been hallucinating.

  The death had vanished after the eruption. She knew it would return, but something about the abundance of death in Essel had lured it away.

  She thought she would scream when she finally found her parents' street. All but three of the houses had been burned to their foundations, and the three still standing were merely gutted frames. She landed and walked slowly up the street, telling herself that her parents weren't necessarily dead, that maybe they hadn't been at home. She had to laugh at herself, then. The eruption had taken place solstice eve-everyone in Essel had been at home.

  People stared at her as she walked down the street, and some even pointed, but none seemed inclined to do more than that. Perhaps part of the reason she refused to hide her wings was because she felt a responsibility now to show people that they were living in the time of a black angel. That all the destruction they saw here was probably only a taste of what was to come. The bottom of her wings collected a gum of ash and water, but she didn't try to shake it off.

  Her father's shop was one of the places that had burned to the foundations. Looking at the heap of charred wood and ash, she knew that anyone caught in the blaze would have had no chance of survival. Tears swelled in her throat, but she couldn't seem to force them out. They just made her whole body ache without the luxury of any release. Was this how Kai felt? He must be the strongest man she knew. She looked up and saw a man rifling through the ruins in the back of the house.

  "Stop that!" she said sharply, even though she knew it was absurd to deny another victim the possessions for which her parents would no longer have any use.

  The man stood up and she realized it was her father.

  They stared at each other for a long time.

  "You ... you're not ... you can't be," he stammered. His hands were covered in soot and his left cheek was puckered with an angry red burn. He looked exhausted enough to fall asleep where he stood.

  "It's me, Papa," she said.

  He stepped closer. "Lana?" he said, disbelieving. "But you have ..." He ran the next few steps and enveloped her in a desperate, shuddering embrace.

  "We never thought we'd see you again," he said.

  The tears that had been building burst like a dam and she sobbed on his shoulder, the way she had as a child.

  "Where's Mama?" she asked.

  He froze and pulled slightly away from her. "She's gone," he said quietly.

  Lana felt more sobs rising in her throat. "She ... died?" she asked. Was that why the death left her?

  He shook his head. "No ... I don't think so. Just before the eruption, she disappeared. She went out for a quick trip to the market, and she never came back. I went out to look for her ... so I wasn't here when the house caught on fire."

  As if to prove her father's words, she felt the death suddenly reappear behind her.

  "Lana," her father said, gripping her elbow. "Your mother made me promise to give this to you if I ever saw you again. I don't know why ... maybe she knew something might happen to her." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a necklace. Strung on the leather cord was a key carved out of bone-the exact match of a necklace Lana had seen countless times before, and never suspected a thing.

  "She wore this every day for four years, and then just after you saved her last year she gave it to me. She said you might know what it meant. Do you, Lana?"

  She nodded mutely, unable to speak past the grief and anger. Instead, she took the necklace and put it in her pocket. Slowly, the pieces of this puzzle were falling into place. Behind her, she heard the whispers of a growing crowd.

  She looked up at her father. "Did the fire destroy all of your instruments?" she asked.

  "Everything except this." He held out one of his old tortoiseshell lutes. It had been his favorite back on their island, but she hadn't heard him play it for years. "I kept it in a different place than the others," he said. "I think I always liked this old thing the best, I was just too embarrassed to play it."

  "Would you ... would you be embarrassed to play with me?" she asked, pulling the arm bone flute out of her pocket.

  He looked surprised-she had never been particularly interested in music before-but he nodded. She turned around and faced the growing crowd of survivors, their faces haggard and disbelieving.

  "Have you come here to kill the rest of us?" one asked, sounding as though he wouldn't mind if the answer were yes.

  Suddenly unable to speak, she simply shook her head. She squatted down in the ashes next to her father and put the flute to her lips. The flute always had the right to go first. She waited in the dead silence, wondering what could possibly be equal to this disaster.

  The song she picked was simple-one woman's lament over how she would soon be leaving everything she loved forever. The sound of her flute had never carried so far, and her father had never played his lute so delicately. Hundreds of people listened in
dead silence as her father sang, and the black angel mourned the destruction she had foretold.

  High and sweet, she played, until even the death seemed to weep for what it could not help but do.

  Note on Pronunciation

  The language of the islands in Racing the Dark is based mainly on Hawaiian, with some Japanese and a dash of invention. The use of an apostrophe ( ') in a proper noun (for anything besides a possessive) denotes a glottal stop-the sound one makes between the first and second syllables of "uh-oh," for example.

  Otherwise, names generally sound the way they look, with each syllable pronounced and no "silent e," as in English. For example, "kale" would not rhyme with "quail" but with "ballet." The letter combination of "ei" rhymes with "hay." The combination of "ai" rhymes with "sky." Below is a list of the pronunciations a few representative names and places.

  Iolana - "EE-oh-LAH-nah"

  Leilani - "lay-LAH-knee"

  Mandagah - "mahn-DAH-gah"

  Nui'ahi - "new-ee ' AH-hee"

  Emea - "eh-MAY-ah"

  Ino - "EE-no"

  Pua - "POO-ah"

  Malie - "MAH-lee-eh"

  Kalakoa - "KAH-lah-coe-ah"

  Ali'ikai - "AH-lee ' EE-kah-ee"

  Kaleakai - "kah-LEH-ah-kah-ee"

  Acknowledgments

  This is my first novel and any thanks must begin with my family. My father, Ford Johnson, remains a constant inspiration to me. My mother, Mary Fogg Johnson, taught me to read and has supported everything I've tried since. Phillip, Lauren, Alexis, Aunt Vanessa, Aunt Betty and Uncle Darrell. Joan and Gary Pellegrino, who have so lovingly made me a part of their family.

  High school left an indelible stamp on my writer's soul. At the National Cathedral School, I had the luck to encounter teachers whose effect on my life and my writing continue to the present. I must mention three in particular: Mr. John Wood, Ms. Jessica Neely, and Ms. Mari Schindele. And of course Frank Njuki- Katende, my favorite friend from Zamunda.