by Jack Beal
With a nod, I head off across the smoky field. Once I’m out of range, I glance back at Alby. Every so often he stops to examine something on the ground before starting back up again. Having no clue what a silica-rich sample is, I follow his lead and begin poking around in the ash. “Dig, that’s what’s important,” my dad’s voice crawls over me in smoldering streams.
I whip around, but Dad isn’t there. Only a shroud of sooty air hanging around his fading voice. No, it’s not real, I remind myself. It’s all smoke and mirrors. I turn back to the gravel, amassing a bunch of rocks at random. My trembling hands prove uncooperative in putting each in its separate container, but in the end, I manage to get the lids clipped on and the samples zipped safely in my backpack.
When I finally scurry down the hill, Alby’s waiting at the bottom. “It’s about time,” he snuffs.
“Sorry, I was having trouble finding the samples,” I stutter.
“Of course, you were, Mr. Only-look-at-the-surface. Did it ever occur to you that this world we live in is three dimensional? Sometimes what we’re looking for isn’t sitting on the outside. Sometimes, we have to dig.”
I want to tell Alby Baker he’s a complete fathead, but his words rip a hole where my voice should be. All I’m able to do is gape and nod.
“Speaking of which,” Alby continues, “pass me your pole. We’re going to need to find some water if we want to make it back without passing out from dehydration.”
He’s right. Running my tongue along my dry lips, I’m suddenly regretting the empty water bottle fastened onto my bag.
Swooping the stick out of my hand, Alby hurtles over to the closest crevice, shoves it in and scrapes around. After lifting it out, he examines the tip. “Looks like it’s our lucky day. Pass me the flashlight.”
At the flip of a switch, the crevice floods with golden light. When Alby lets out a hoot of contentment, I peer in. But I can’t see the crystal pool he’s going on and on about. The only thing I can make out are billows of white haze that waltz around the light, bending the image until all that’s left is a silvery disc. It’s that same kind you might see when looking out from a deep well.
My heart beats up in my throat. “Not again!” I bellow. But my words never sound. It’s as if the crevice has swallowed them whole. Before I can absorb what’s happening, it swallows me, too.
Everything changes. When the void spits me back out, Alby is gone. It’s just me and the familiar scents of cooked earth, baked grass and sage that harken me back to my childhood. Relishing in its comfort, I draw in another deep breath. But the desert’s perfume has already been replaced.
I blink my eyes open to a new scene: a man, a march, and chains of white plumeria. When I blink again, a different picture is already rising to the surface. Faster and faster, windows materialize before me like portals. Each time, I’m thrust through only to be torn away again.
Nothing remains static. As the rings of light accumulate in layers, they expand. Not only up and down, but in all directions. My eyes round with wonder as the glowing rings light up my memories. Inside of them, I see myself. It’s as if we’re connected, twirling upon the same axis yet never touching.
As the next image dawns, the air is warm and briny. Dazzling shafts of light filter through the palms before casting long shadows on the wall. A tender rustling gives way to a piercing screech.
I turn away as the bus lurches to a stop. A man holding a clipboard with one hand and a seatback with the other is barking orders through a gravelly voice. “Everyone out for partner assignment. Move it!” His nametag reads Chet Setterfield.
As we funnel from the metal tube, I count two-dozen heads queuing up single-file. Outside, Chet has swapped his clipboard for a big, dirty toolbox he reaches into as each of us passes. There are forks, spades, drills and picks. Each of us gets one at random.
As I make my way to the front of the line, I draw in a deep breath of the warm salt air. Heart throbbing, I survey the scene. But not a single palm tree is in sight. Just unending breadths of earth and air.
“Flynn!” The man barks, handing me a tool. “If you could focus, that’d be great.” Muttering an apology, I fall into the back of the crowd. “Now that all the tools have been distributed, it’s time to assign the partners you will keep for the duration of your field ops this year.”
Squinting through the group, I locate the blonde cowlick as Chet’s voice bulldozes through the list. “Alby Baker and Robert Flynn.”
The Alby that approaches me hardly resembles the Alby I left in the Valley of the 10,000 Smokes a few minutes ago. The gray zip-up suit has been exchanged for a pair of dungarees, the helmet for a cowboy hat that he slings over his stiff cowlick. Even the condescending smirk has been replaced with a more timorous expression. “Howdy, Robert,” he says, sliding the pickaxe under his arm so he can offer me his hand. “I’m Alby.”
Then each time I pass through a window, I go back in time. But how far back? From what I can guess, probably not more than a few weeks or a month. Either way, this is before I botch things up with Alby.
Reaching out to clasp his hand, I stop short. “Good grief! Anything but that!” I wail, the color syphoning from my face. Dangling from my semi-outstretched hand is none other than a metal shovel with a T-shaped wooden handle.
Believing the slur is geared at him, Alby’s cheeks flash dynamite-red. He nips his hand back and shoves it in his pocket before turning starkly to where Chet has begun explaining the rules.
“Today you’ll be collecting new and ancient samples for later study and comparison. Get to it.”
Alby storms off along the crater’s curving rim without a word.
Oblivious to what’s just happened, I trot after him. “Did you want to stop and try here?” I ask. But Alby just rolls his eyes and keeps walking.
Fine, ignore me. Shovel slung over my shoulder, I change my trajectory, leaving Alby and the others behind.
The further I stomp across the desolate landscape, the more bitter I become. I’m tired of this stupid mission. I’m sick of the clues going nowhere. I’m even sick of searching for Hazel. As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I want to take it back. It’s not that I don’t want to find her, I justify, it’s just I’d have to be dumb to believe” whatever-it-is” who’s calling the shots will actually let me. With a violent grunt, I catapult the shovel from over my shoulder out across the bed of rocks.
“What are you doing?” a tinny voice drifts toward me.
I swivel around. My legs are surprisingly steady considering the hammering in my chest.
As the gentle wind sends Hazel’s long, black spirals dancing over her ample breasts, she approaches me cautiously. “Why are you here?”
I try to answer, but I suddenly can’t remember what to say. All I can do is stare, mesmerized by the earth-colored skirt that hugs her body closely, stretching over her curves like ripples of sand.
She approaches me guardedly, eyes wide with curiosity. “You have come to the Fire Pit of Halemaumau to dig, haven’t you?”
I shake my head no, but she doesn’t let up.
“Don’t you know it’s forbidden? Do you know what happens to those who come to dig at the place the Earth was born?”
My eyes dart over the landscape as if seeing it for the first time: an enormous crater dipping deep into the entrails of the Earth.
“It’s her womb,” she says, lowering her eyes. “Those who steal from her hollows steal a part of our past. As punishment, she steals a part of their future.”
My body quakes uncontrollably. “She?”
“Pele,” she eyes me curiously, tucking a drooping flower further behind her ear. “You don’t know the legend of Tutu Pele?”
>
I shake my head no.
“Pele is the goddess of contradictions. She is the fire that both destroys and creates. She is the one who created this island. She is our mother, our connection to the Earth.” Casting a glance to where my shovel lies in the dirt, her eyes narrow into slivers. “You are not the first to attempt steal a piece of her. Many come to dig. Then they take, unaware of what it means for the rest of us. Unaware or unconcerned. They don’t see that when we dig, it shouldn’t be to extract. It should be to plant.”
“But I didn’t come to steal anything!”
“Oh yeah? Then why are you here?”
Thrusting my hand into my orange pants-pocket, I clutch onto the pocket watch. “You have to believe me, Hazel! I came here for you.”
“What did you say?”
“I said I came for you.”
“No. The part where you said my name.”
“Hazel?”
“My real name is Hai’Kela. Hazel is just what Martin calls me.”
The world I’ve built up is suddenly crumbling at my feet. Hazel is supposed to be mine! “Martin?” I try sounding nonchalant.
“Oh, just a guy from the mainland who comes to speak with my father from time to time.”
“Your father?”
“Yeah. My father is a reverend, too. Martin says Hawaii is the only place on Earth where people live in harmony despite their differences. That’s why he comes here: to learn from us.”
Something inside of me creaks, then clicks into place. Eying the drooping white plumeria tucked behind Hazel’s ear, my mind scuttles backward. I see the ring of light, like the opening to another world. Inside, the man wearing a white flower necklace. A surge of excitement sends my arm hairs standing on end. It’s all connected. I’m getting closer.
A suspicious look creeps over Hazel’s face. “If you don’t know Martin, how did you know to call me that?”
“Because you’re the one who told me to. This isn’t the first time we’ve met, even if, at the same time, it is.” Pulling the watch from my pocket, I glide it into her hand.
“But how did you…” She stops abruptly, examining the weathered timepiece. Then, as if she’s done it a hundred times, she tugs on the crown jutting out from the top, unscrews the front of the case, pops open the hinge securing the face, and peers into the tangle of gears. When she finally looks up, her eyes are somehow changed. “Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“The message hidden between the cogs and pinions.”
“That’s for you to determine.”
“How so?”
“Because you’re the one that wrote it.”
Clicking the watch back closed, Hazel whips her gaze up to meet mine. “What do want from me?”
“I want you to believe me. I want you to help me.”
As she stands there contemplating, the stress builds in my chest. After what seems to be an eternity, Hazel lets out a long puff. “Fine.”
As the strain in my chest breaks, a sensation of relaxation oozes over me. I did it. In a moment of euphoria, I reach for her hand. But Hazel simply stands there, as if rooted to the ground.
“Come on! We need to leave right away!”
Her countenance falters. “I…can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t leave the island. I’m not allowed. I’m still too young.”
“What do you mean?” My voice is spiked with panic.
“I must remain here until the Ali’i Twins claim the sky.”
“What?”
“The next time the Gemini rules the night, I will be of age to leave.”
“But that will be too late!” I stammer.
Hazel’s voice lengthens, the words smearing into one another. “If any of thisss isss true, it won’t make a differenccce.”
The Fire Pit of Halemaumau begins to tremble. But it isn’t Pele come to spew her fire upon us. Instead, streaks of darkness sift over the light, blotting them out pixel by pixel. I try planting myself in the moment, holding onto the jagged crater beneath the blue hibiscus sky. But the darkness seeps in. It eclipses the glowing amber sun and casts murky smudges over the landscape until nothing is left but darkness in the place the Earth was born.
“Time goes, you say? Ah, no! Alas, Time stays, we go.”
~Austin Dobson
SIXTEEN
THE ART OF STAYING AND GOING
1959, 18 YEARS OLD
Where am I? Peering out into the darkness, my pulse judders in hasty, abnormal ticks. While I can’t see a thing, I’m filled with an overwhelming sense that I shouldn’t be here. I should have left already. But something’s forcing me to stay. Something that doesn’t want me to go.
I try to recall how I got here but my mind draws a blank. It’s like huge chunks of my memory have been wiped clean. I remember finding the flying saucer in the field, the little girl and the strange zaps. I know I’m on some kind of a mission and things are going in the wrong direction, but I can’t seem to remember the specifics anymore. It’s almost like…I’m getting too young.
As the invisible grip draws me deeper through this yawning chasm, I swallow hard. Despite the icy air that prickles my skin with goosebumps, I’m sweating uncontrollably. What happens if I hit the bottom? Worse yet, what if there is no bottom?
I kick my legs and flap my arms, as if to slow myself down. But my body only falls faster. As hot, oily tears spill down my cheeks, a sinewy voice slithers around me. If any of thisss isss true, it won’t make a differenccce. I try to make sense of it, but the words twirl and tangle until all that remains is an oscillating hum extending on forever.
A radiant white feather floats down from above, lingering near my face. Suddenly, it begins spinning faster on its axis. And faster. Before I can react, it pulls me with it. My body flips around sporadically until I’ve lost all concept of up and down. Beads of saline fly from my skin as I’m flung around like a rag doll.
A queasiness develops in my heart, rides up past my esophagus and explodes into my throat. Air! I need air! But my lungs prove unresponsive. Wheezing violently, my chest pumps hideously.
Suddenly, a swift movement sends me spiraling to the left. Or is it to the right? I try to brace myself but how can you hold yourself up when you don’t know which way is down? In the matter of a moment, the icy blasts are replaced with scorching surges of heat. From darkness, a tiny light ignites. One after the other, the white spotted feathers dangling in the air catch fire. Burn Bright. Together, they dance like plumes of lava before turning dull and deteriorating to dust.
In an instant of panic, I sling my legs out like kickstands. Only they won’t budge. It’s as if they’re strapped down. What’s going on? Where am I? I strain to see what’s coming next, but I can’t move my neck, either.
And that’s when it hits me. The smoke and mirrors have disappeared. All that’s left is what’s usually hidden. It’s like the darkness you need in order to see the light. It’s the empty space everything else is painted upon, like strokes of color across a blank canvas. This is the void. I’m still inside.
Is this what happens for six long years at a time? The thought makes me want to vomit. Or maybe it’s the rotations, growing wilder by the second. As another burst of green bile surges into my mouth, I gulp it back down. Then, clenching my eyes, I draw in a deep breath and pray for the wave to pass.
An overwhelmingly tinny odor swirls up my nostrils. Gunpowder. As the realization sets in, my heart free-falls into my knees. The situation is worse than I imagined. I’m not inside of the void.
I’ve already been zapped.
A dollop of light dances around me like a firefly. Then it splits, creating two frantically gyrating droplets. From them four, eight, and sixteen. The drops split again and again until I’m surrounded by countless pirouetting silver orbs. Spinning, the gleaming beams connect, until they form a metallic net.
Suddenly, the cage begins turning. As my body is thrust back into motion, my vision fuzzes. I can feel my eyes darting around in their sockets, but I can’t make them stop. The screen fastened in front of me lights up, but I can’t focus enough to see what it says.
My temples throb blisteringly as if being pounded with hot coals. “I can’t take it anymore!”
The muffled sound of wind filtering through a metal strainer zings through the silence. “Control to Mastif. Do you copy?”
Tears of joy brim up. “Loud and clear.”
The voice is garbled between the low whizzing and high-pitched whistling of the radio waves. “If you’ve lost your footing, don’t forget you’ve still got two hands. Over.”
My eyes bulge in disbelief. “Negative Copy, Mastif. Can you repeat?”
“Affirmative. Don’t forget to deploy your hand controls. Over.”
Despite the stabbing headache radiating like a thunderclap down my neck and up my arms, I manage to wiggle my fingers. Just in reach are two metal switches that I grasp in either palm. “Roger.” I quiver, holding my breath. As I squeeze one of the levers, my body topples forward. The other one sends me reeling backward. I manipulate the controls carefully until I’ve managed to steady myself completely. The silver lights suddenly disappear, leaving me once again in darkness. Only, this time, instead of falling, I’m swinging easily as if suspended in thin air.
When the disembodied voice grumbles, “Bravo,” I let out a sigh of relief. But my victory is short-lived.
The screen attached to the inside of the metal cage switches back on. Under a row of tiny orange lights glows a large number 1. “Are you ready?” a voice asks.
“Affirmative,” I answer before I can think better of it. While the aluminum cage remains still, my head turns dizzily.