“The boar here are quite a nuisance,” he says. “It’s a constant battle keeping them out of the vegetable garden, and they’ve gotten much bolder of late.”
“Do you and the other men in the congregation hunt them?”
It’s a sneaky question because she hasn’t seen any men, except for Isaac.
The Reverend hesitates, as if he’s turning his answer over in his mind, checking for possible cracks. Something he doesn’t want her to know.
“Most of the boys born here . . . they didn’t survive far beyond infancy. I was an exception. Isaac is a convert, which is fairly unusual.”
“Did you ever find out why?”
“A doctor came. Once.”
A finality in his tone. Still, she presses. “That must be hard. How will your way of life, your culture, continue?”
“God will provide.”
They reach the end of the row, where the coffin sits, waiting. Julia stops, looks down at a freshly painted wooden cross.
Irene Greer. 1939. You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.
“I don’t know if she would approve,” says the Reverend. “But that is one of my favorite verses. Isaiah 55:12.”
Julia doesn’t quite understand why, but tears start to form in the corners of her eyes.
The Reverend gives her a moment, bowing his head in silent prayer. Julia wipes her eyes with the back of her hands. She hadn’t been expecting it, this emotion, this sense of connection. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, or the stress, or the years Irene has been moldering here, so far from home.
“Are you a religious woman?” the Reverend asks. Meaning Christian, of course.
At first she thinks about lying, but he would probably know. “I don’t mean to offend, but no.”
The Reverend nods. “So you think this is it, then, the end of her?”
“I think . . . well, okay yes. No one’s come back to say otherwise.”
“Well, not no one. Our Savior returned.”
“That’s always been a little hard for me to believe.”
“Like Thomas,” says the Reverend. “Unless I see the nail marks in His hands, and put my finger where the nails have been, and put my hand into His side, I will never believe. God does not seem to be so shy about showing his miraculous side here. Even the lowly gecko is capable of generating a whole new limb. Did you know that if it can, it will go back and eat its own tail? Just as we celebrate the resurrection by eating Jesus’s body, drinking his blood. Do this in memory of me.”
Not a correlation Julia would have made, and just the mention of a gecko causes an unpleasant flashback to her nightmare. She opts for a polite silence.
And then she notices a single small white flower tucked under a rock near Irene’s cross. The bloom looks like it’s been torn in half. She remembers Irene writing about it, the legend of the star-crossed lovers. The flower looks fresh, too, like it was placed there recently. Curious.
“I can’t imagine thinking that there is no soul,” the Reverend continues. “That all we are is chemically animated dust. What a horrific idea.”
He doesn’t say it in a preachy way, more with a genuine wondering. A human being under the role he has to play.
Maybe he’s never had a reason to want to just cease to be. Maybe he’s never felt the weight of days. She thinks about her urge to just walk into the ocean and keep walking after Evie was gone—or Irene’s half desire that the plane would have crashed on the way over. She thinks about the dark tides that can pull you out to sea, make you think the shore is too far away to reach. How your legs become leaden, your breath short, how eventually you just want to stop treading water and let yourself fall. The comfort in that idea. And the deception of it.
“Is that why resurrection is a theme on all the crosses?” she asks.
He looks up and over to the lava-rock wall that runs higher up the hill, where the edge of the jungle begins. A wistful expression. “Partly. I’ll quote someone you might find more palatable. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
Julia follows his gaze. For some reason, a shiver runs down her spine, as though the white tiger from her dream on the plane might emerge from the dense foliage and whisper in her ear again. The shadows of clouds move slowly across the fields. Not storm clouds, but still, there’s an atmospheric drop.
“I read that there were others who seemed to suffer like Irene,” says Julia. “Two tutors. Has anyone experienced anything like that since?”
“No one suffered quite like Irene,” he says with a note of melancholy.
“Why, how did she suffer?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Miss Greer.”
When he turns to her, the human being she’d gotten a brief glimpse of is gone. In its place, the Reverend again.
“Well,” he says, “we should discuss the disinterment. We will perform, with your permission, a small religious ceremony, just to ease the minds of our congregation, who are troubled at the thought of disturbing the rest of someone who—”
“Probably killed herself?”
He winces but doesn’t deny it. “Would that be acceptable to you?”
It seems like a small price to pay. “I don’t see why not.”
“Excellent. We could have everything set so that you could return with the pilot, after he fixes the refrigerator. After all, you’re not here on vacation like the others.”
He’s trying to get rid of me. It means she’ll have to shorten her timeline for finding the corpse flower, but it also means she’d be able to get off Kapu sooner. An appealing idea.
“That would be appreciated, thank you,” says Julia. If she needs more time, she’ll think of an excuse later. After all, Aunt Liddy paid in full.
Julia hears a commotion behind her and turns to see the redheaded woman standing there, whispering to Isaac, who looks visibly alarmed. For just a fraction of a second, Julia catches a glimpse of the face underneath the hair. All of it looks like it was badly burned, not just her jaw.
What the hell happened to her?
The woman turns away and hurries toward the greenhouse.
“Please excuse me,” says the Reverend. He walks over to where Isaac stands, and some kind of heated discussion ensues. Bits of it are carried on the wind.
—she heard—
—not in the—
—we should warn—
—faith, it isn’t time—
The redhead glances nervously over her shoulder, sensing Julia watching her probably, then picks up her pace, walking so fast she practically runs the rest of the way to the greenhouse. She pauses for just a second in front of the door, looks over in Julia’s direction one final time before opening it and slipping inside.
It’s like she wanted to make sure Julia saw her, know that the greenhouse had something to do with the conversation.
Julia marks it. She looks up to the sky and finds the clouds are now tinged with the softest gray. The storm is finally coming. She reaches into her bag to confirm that she’d packed an ultralight rain poncho.
She has to find an opportunity to slip away, do some exploring, storm be damned, if she wants to catch the early flight back, which she desperately does.
A fluttery something catches her eye, and she looks down to find another white flower. In fact, there are a few scattered near the closed coffin.
The Reverend and Isaac are still deeply engrossed in conversation. Whatever it is must be bad.
—we don’t need to—
—I’m not saying—
The coffin’s lid is slightly askew. Julia crouches, picks up the flower by her foot, pretends to hold it like she’s contemplating . . . what? Life, its meaning, those kinds of serious things.
She takes a closer look at the coffin. Another flower, caught or intentionally pressed under the lid.
She’s not—
Almost without thinking, almost like her arm is reaching out of its own accord, Julia touches the lid, pushes it slightly, just enough to get a glimpse inside.
A lei. There’s a lei, made entirely out of the white flowers. It gives her a shiver that she doesn’t quite understand, like there’s a hidden meaning just out of reach. Her eyes are drawn to the line where the jungle begins. She feels someone, something watching.
Finally, the discussion/argument ends, and the Reverend walks back over to her, visibly strained. Isaac follows, nervous sweat dripping from his brow.
Julia stands.
“A situation has arisen that requires my immediate attention,” says the Reverend. “Isaac will escort you back to the resort before the storm makes landfall.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Not a real question of course, just a chance to dig.
“Thank you kindly, but it is church business, and best handled among the faithful. I do hope you’ll enjoy the remainder of your time here.”
It’s said in a finishing tone. But she needs to find out what he meant when he said no one suffered like Irene. She needs one more opportunity, at least, to question him.
“Would it be possible for me to attend the ceremony for Aunt Irene?”
He seems surprised, and pleased. “Oh. I must apologize that I didn’t consider asking. Ordinarily our ceremonies are off-limits to guests. But if you respect the same conditions of not speaking with the congregation, and keep a respectful distance from our members, I believe we could make a special exception in your case.”
Isaac’s eyes fall on the coffin. She didn’t have a chance to close the lid properly. He must see the lei inside.
It doesn’t seem possible for someone so pale, but his skin actually blanches at the sight.
CHAPTER 13
ISAAC’S PACE ON THE RETURN to the resort is much brisker, as if he can’t wait to be done with his charge so he can get back to whatever more serious business is under way at the church. The moisture in the air is full-force tropical, and he’s walking so fast that sweat forms a T along his spine. Breathing hard. It must be hell to walk along the dirt path in those dress shoes, too.
“If you want to take a break . . .” Julia starts.
If he hears her, he pretends not to. The broad, grassy fields are behind them, and they now skirt the jungle again. The sound of wind in the palm trees so similar to the sound of ocean waves. Like they’re talking to each other.
“There’s some shade over there. . . .”
“I’m fine,” Isaac says. “Thank you very much.”
He doesn’t ask her how she’s doing, or turn around to see. Julia’s hair is damp from the sweat trickling down her own neck. God, she wishes they’d given her a hat. Still enough sun shining through the scattered clouds that she’s figuring the back of her neck will be lobster red soon. She’d take out her rain poncho, but since the damn thing is waterproof, it’d only make her sweat more. She can feel a blister starting at the back of her heel. New boots.
“I can make my own way if you need to get back to the village.” She’s still hoping to slip away at some point—she needs to hit the wayfinder points programmed into her GPS phone, and she hadn’t really anticipated that they’d be so corralled and observed. With the storm coming, today could be her only chance.
Isaac exhales hard, as if he was thinking he’d love nothing more than to ditch her. “I can’t.” His tone is short. “What I mean to say is, I’ve been instructed to escort you to the resort.”
He seems to realize he’s bungled the proper hospitality response, because he adds, “It’s actually my pleasure to escort you back.”
She wonders what on earth could have gotten so deep under his skin to fluster him so. He casts an occasional nervous glance in the direction of the jungle, like he’s expecting something he doesn’t want to see.
Well, if he doesn’t need a break, she does. She deliberately slows down.
He doesn’t seem to notice, and keeps walking. So she heads to a palm tree offering some shade, leans against it, lets the cooler sea breeze ruffle her hair. There are clouds gathering out on the horizon, but they don’t look particularly threatening. A couple of coconuts lie on the grass, encased in their thick green-skinned husks. God, what she wouldn’t give for something to drink.
Isaac gets about a half mile away, almost to the top of a small knoll, before he realizes that she’s not behind him. He doesn’t bother to hide his irritation—she watches him practically stomp his way back. In the meantime, she takes a seat by the tree, digs around in her bag for the knife. Finds it. He might confiscate it, seeing that it wasn’t on the “approved for Kapu” list, but she figures he’s just as thirsty, if not more so, than she is. She grabs a coconut, pierces the skin and starts to saw into the husk. It’s tougher than she thought it’d be.
Finally he reaches her. He notes the knife, seems like he’s about to say something, but just reaches his hand out instead.
“You’re doing it wrong.”
She gives him the knife. He quickly stabs the top of the husk with it, and then saws through the matted fiber. Does the same thing every few inches until he can pry the top off in sections, which he then starts to pull away roughly, angrily.
“I never knew it was so much work,” Julia says.
“Yeah, well. It is.” He tosses it to her half-peeled, then gets to work on the second coconut.
He’s really pissed at her. Why, though? She tugs at the husk—it’s incredibly hard to pull off, but she manages. Underneath is the round nut, a wizened, hairy ball.
Isaac makes short work of his, tearing the husk to shreds with a sinewy strength she wouldn’t have imagined him capable of. He holds the revealed coconut, his hands reddened. Finds the eye of it, twists the knife in, then hands it to her.
“Thank you.” Julia gives him the other one, and he digs a hole in it, too.
She holds the shell up to her lips, tips it back. A rush of coconut water fills her mouth. It’s not cold, but it’s refreshing nonetheless.
Isaac does the same, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. When he’s done, he wipes his mouth with the back of the hand that holds the knife. He looks out at the ocean, the waves rolling in on dark lava rocks. No beach here.
“You know, I can make it back on my own,” Julia says. “We’re halfway there already, right?”
He doesn’t say anything, just stares at the waves.
She tries another tack. “I really appreciate everything you’re doing for Irene, for our family. It means so much to my aunt Liddy, to bring her home. She’s not doing so well herself, and—”
“Do you know how coconut trees get from one island to another?”
“No.”
He nods, still staring out at the ocean, the incoming storm. “The husk is a boat. The coconut falls onto the beach, and the waves pick it up, carry it on to another island. It floats on currents. It can still be viable for a year, travel three thousand miles. But it’s all because of the husk.”
Why is he telling me this? “That’s really interesting. I had no idea.”
“No, you don’t. He’s putting us all at risk.” Isaac takes another sip from the coconut, a longer, deeper drink, the way men at a bar knock back a bourbon when they need liquid courage.
“I’m sorry . . . what—”
“Just allowing you to be here. Your very presence. It’s stirred things up. Things that shouldn’t be . . . stirred. And now, letting you come to the ceremony.” A bitter laugh. “You saw the lei. Do you know what that means?”
He takes his now-empty coconut, throws it hard at the ocean. It sails through the air, arcs, then crashes into the waters with a splash.
The violence of it shakes her. And he’s still holding the knife.
“No,” she says. “I don’t.” What the hell has gotten into him? He practically trembles with barely contained rage.
“You’re right,” he says tightly. “You’re right. You’ll be fine walking back
to the camp by yourself. Here, take this.”
He offers her the knife back. The sides are wet and sticky from the coconut.
But the way he looks at her. A pure, vicious hatred, as if he’s considering pushing her off the cliff, trying to work himself up to it.
And he could, couldn’t he? No witnesses, no one to know better, suicide runs in their family, plus there’s a handy trail of accusations about her mental health courtesy of Ethan. She would just be subsumed into the island’s history of tragedies, another casualty, a haole who didn’t listen.
For the first time, it occurs to her that maybe Irene didn’t jump off a cliff to her death.
When she doesn’t take the knife, he throws it into the ground, where it lands blade down.
“Suit yourself.”
And with that he heads off down the trail, back toward the village, and the church, and the Reverend, and the coffin with the white flower lei inside. She watches him become smaller and smaller, until the path takes him down a hill, where he disappears altogether.
Once he’s completely out of sight, Julia breathes a little easier. She hasn’t been the focus of that level of vitriol since she exposed a health insurance executive who’d been booting children with cancer off their parents’ policies. She wonders why it was directed at her instead of the Reverend, since apparently that’s where Isaac’s beef lies.
She drinks the rest of her coconut water, tosses the empty shell on the ground. Then she reaches into her backpack, pulls out the GPS phone, and powers it on. Still at fifty percent power. Damn, she forgot again to charge it. Two missed calls from her favorite great-aunt. She ignores them, clicks the map button, and then the red pin for Irene’s camp—sees that it’s only about a mile and a quarter away from her present location. The waypoints with probable spots for the corpse flowers are farther.
She faces the jungle—something solemn, eerie about it, a wall of dark green. Isaac was definitely spooked, so maybe she’s just reverberating from his agitation. Misty clouds gather around Kapu’s peak. It could be raining already. And how long will the charge on the satellite phone last?
It’s not smart. It’d be better to wait until after the storm clears. But that could take a few days, and she desperately wants to cut her stay short, go back with the pilot. She has the print map too, a backup. And if worse comes to worst, it is an island, and all she has to do is head in the direction of the ocean. Right?
The Nightmarchers Page 15