by Daniel Braum
Max walked to the two boys sitting on the shore wall.
The brothers, Kenjo and Iwana, had grown since he had first seen them on the streets of Hilo running bump and grabs on locals and tourists alike. Kenjo was now tall and skinny and wore his hair in a long straight ponytail like Max. They were no longer boys but far from the confident teens who drank beer and surfed and vied for jobs at the giant hotels.
“Howzit?” Max asked.
“Good. Dakine,” Kenjo said, playing with his pooka shell necklace.
“Did you have grinds?” Max asked.
“Yeah, at da place by the new hotel like you said,” Kenjo answered. “Mrs. Nakamura didn’t make us pay.”
Good, Max thought. Hawaiians taking care of Hawaiians.
“If da snorkelers are gone for today, and nobody else is near the caves, why we still watch den?” Iwana asked.
“Because it’s your turn until tonight, when I will come to take your place.”
He grows bold, Max thought. There is so much I want to explain but so much to do.
Max rested his big hand on Iwana’s scrawny twelve-year old shoulder. “It is an honor to protect the alli, your Kings,” he said. “You’ll understand better when you are older.”
“I knew you were going to say something like that.”
Kenjo’s forehead furrowed. “Do you really think King Kahmehamea is watching us?”
“I know he is,” Max said.
Kenjo looked down at the water. They all sat motionless, with only the sounds of the waves and the wind.
They doubt, Max thought. They have experienced nothing to make them believe. Fancy cars and jobs and hotels and satellite TV, these things are real to them, but our Kings and Queens and the system of kapu—everything that makes us Hawaiian—is not.
Max wanted to tell him that once he too had rejected everything Hawaiian, that he had once thought that being American was the way to go. He had dozens of stories from his years at the Department but none of them seemed right. His old life had taken him around the world and he had done many things he now regretted, but he saw a better way for the boys.
After a few moments, Max stood. “See you tonight.”
They are far from old enough yet, he thought. But there is no one else. Soon I’ll have to tell them more.
****
Waipio’s pristine white sand beaches arced between jagged cliffs in elegant semicircles. The water was calm today, though Max knew the rage it could show. Old timers still spoke of the big tidal wave of Forty-Eight that washed through the valley. Max mourned the loss of life but was grateful that since most of the survivors had relocated to the city of Hilo, Waipio valley was left free of development.
The tall, green mountains cast their long evening shadows into the valley like black lava fingers creeping over the dense treetops. A single trail, the only road in, cut a steep winding “Z” through the green. Max followed it to the bottom. Three dilapidated vacation houses surrounded by giant ferns and moss-covered trees stood lonely where the path led deeper into the valley.
The pungent smell of taro stew wafted from an open window along with the mournful, ethereal refrains of a slow Hawaiian song. Besides the vacationing locals there were few neighbors to hear it. Jack Arake offered Spartan accommodations for backpackers a ways up the trails. Retired Dutch shipbuilders had built a tree house replica of a wooden tall ship and took in a few guests per season. And a few native Hawaiians, like Lakolo Johnson, had renounced their citizenship and come to live in the wild.
The growth rustled and a backpacker emerged from the path. The young man gave a friendly nod and said, “Aloha,” as he passed Max.
Max kept walking without responding.
Not all of Hawaii is their playground, he thought. They must understand.
Pink bromeliads and white orchids poked between giant oval rubber tree leaves and ferns competing for space in the dense growth. The trail wound into the valley and opened into a clearing that was once farmland but now grew thick with waist-high grass and overgrown bushes. Ragged fences, with “no trespassing” signs, lined the left side protecting rag tag houses. Lakolo Johnson’s mutts ran to the fence and barked as Max passed.
“It is me,” Max said, softly.
Something is wrong today, he thought, and not just because of the fences Lakolo put up. The dogs feel it too.
Max crossed the clearing. Fruit trees, overgrown and crowded with ferns and vines, stood in rows, the lonely last vestige of a plantation. A slender mongoose picked among fallen fruit from a big lychee tree. It looked at Max with alert black eyes and froze. After sniffing the air it continued nibbling.
Behind the trees were rows of freshly tilled earth and irrigated ditches. Green tops of taro and carrots sprouted from the muddy mounds. Just beyond, a dozen young boys kicked around a soccer ball in a patch of dirt in front of a low, long house.
“Aloha,” Max called.
The boys abandoned the game and surrounded Max in a noisy pack.
“Everything’s done,” a boy named Akani said. “We even already had dinner.”
“Good, good,” Max said, then he dashed for the ball.
The boys chased him. Akani looked strong and healthy and that made Max happy. He, like all of them, had been on the street at one point or another or in situations destined for no good. Here, living with him, they didn’t have much, but had a chance to grow up with their heritage. There were others who helped, like the school principal Mrs. Makana. She added real Hawaiian history to the lessons and put the kids on the rolls with no problems and no questions. It was every Hawaiian’s right under law to renounce United States citizenship, but they didn’t. This help was their way. Until Hawaii was strong again, their help would have to do.
“Homework done?” Max asked, guarding the ball.
“It’s Friday!”
“Right,” Max said. He kicked the ball then ran up the steps to the porch.
He sat on an old plastic milk crate watching the boys play in the twilight. Behind him, the front door opened into a big kitchen that took up most of the house. Even though the dishes were not done he let them be. As the shadows of overgrown fruit trees merged with the growing darkness their game changed to a kind of tag that involved chasing fireflies.
When they began to tire Max called them to the porch. They gathered ’round jostling for positions on the steps and against the rail.
“Another story,” said Kekipi. His name had been Paul once, but Max called him Kekipi because he always had something to say.
“Estaben Cruz, Bert Marin, and da rest of da kids at school are all seeing da new Batman movie this weekend.”
“An den getting PlayStation games at da Plaza.”
“If that’s what you want,” Max said. He lit an old kerosene lamp. “I figured you are all old enough to hear different stories now. The secret ones. The ones only for grown up Hawaiians. Do you think you are grown up enough?”
“Can’t we hear the stories and get a PlayStation?”
Kekipi’s buddies punched at his arm and told him to shut up.
“Alright, alright. Listen then,” Max said. “I’m going to tell you about the Kahuakai Oka Po. The Ghost Marchers of the Night.”
Trees and ferns rustled in the breeze, their overlapping shadows forming twisted shapes on the porch.
“Somewhere, down by the shore, where the beach meets the valley is the doorway to the Lua O Milu, the nether region. It is a place where spirits cross to and from our world.”
Flashes of mischief and delight lit up in the boys’ eyes.
“Don’t bother looking,” Max said. “You’ll never find it. Only the spirits and keepers of Hawaii’s secrets know where. And don’t let me catch you trying, or then we’ll never go to the movies—”
“Lua O Milu. That’s like hell, right?” Akani asked.
Their minds are so full of haole ideas, Max thought.
“No. It’s not like hell,” he said. “It simply is a place. A place where the
spirits go. At the end of each month, just before dawn, if you are lucky, their phantom forms can be seen on the beach and in the valley.”
A round of excited murmurs rang out from the boys.
“Then how come I’ve never seen them?” Kekipi asked.
A lone dog howled, followed by a chorus of barks. The boys laughed nervously.
“I want to see them. Can we go?” Akani asked.
“There are many things about Hawaii that are dangerous. And this is one of them, “Max said.
“But you can take us,” Akani said.
“I cannot protect you from everything,” Max said. “For now, I can tell you the story. Once a year all of the ghosts gather by the doorway. A great procession of the ghosts of kings and warriors marches through the valley and then back to the doorway to enter the underworld. Any in their path will die.”
“The ghosts kill them?” Kekipi asked. “You’re just saying this to make sure we don’t sneak out at night and nick things from Lakolo Johnson’s tool shed.”
“There are some things you will never see, some places you should never go,” Max said. “This does not make them less real. It does not make them less worthy of your respect. Your history is real, whether you believe in it or not.”
Kekipi covered his shoulder to protect against another round of dead arms but all his buddies were listening raptly.
“They don’t want to hurt us, do they?” Akani asked.
“Oh, no. Not if you are good Hawaiians,” Max said. “If they want anything at all it is your belief. Which is why I am telling you this story tonight. Soon I will be asking more from you. For more help protecting the island. More responsibility. And in due time, if you are good, I intend to show you.”
“Cool,” several of the boys said in unison, then laughed.
“You guys are baboozes. He’s telling us this because there’s no cash to go into town and do stuff,” Kekipi said.
“No,” Max said. “I don’t think you are stupid and in need of being tricked. The Ghost Marchers are as real as the flow of lava Pele sent across the highway last month.”
Something white streaked across the edge of the trees. Kekipi’s smug expression changed to fear.
“I think I see one,” said Akani.
Max scanned the row of trees expecting to see nothing, but by the big lychee stood a woman, her long blond hair shining white in light of the moon.
“Inside. Now,” Max said to the boys.
He walked down the stairs and stood there, blocking passage, as the woman crossed the muddy taro patch.
“Easy, it’s me,” the woman said, holding her open palms outward.
“Nicola?” Max said in disbelief, recognizing the voice.
Her hair was longer and streaked with gray, her body leaner, and her face defined with fine lines at the corners of her eyes and lips, making it stronger, more beautiful than he remembered, but it was her.
“I wasn’t sure if this was the right place,” she said.
“How did you find me?” Max asked.
“Your boys by the bay. Don’t worry, they’re fine.”
Some of the boys appeared at the window, watching intently.
“Just an old friend,” Max said to them. “Nothing to be afraid of.”
But he wanted her away from the house. He hadn’t seen her since the incident at Neveshir and his last days with the Department of Relics and Antiquities. He had always thought of the Department as protectors but in the end he concluded that at best they were nothing more than a secret squadron of grave robbers posing as soldiers. After raiding the buried city like a band of common thieves Max resigned and returned to Hawaii. But Nicola stayed at the Department. Max had feared for her, for the path she was taking. Mining the past for power and wealth without respect. Without context. Without responsibility. And his fears turned out to be true. Over the years he had heard she had left the department and gone mercenary. Rumors of her more notorious jobs, like the bargain for the Yeti’s Hand and the hunt for the Tasmanian Tigers, had reached him, even here. He had hoped that the rumors would be all that would find him.
“Not going to invite me in?” she asked.
“We don’t get many visitors. Come, we will go somewhere to talk.”
The boys looked disappointed. Max led her deeper into the valley. They walked without speaking, the path noisy with chirping frogs and geckos. Max stopped at a large mound of earth. A huge rectangular stone poked out of its top corner. Smaller rectangular stones, like a ruined wall, framed the area.
“I can’t believe I am standing here talking to you,” Max said. “You scared the boys.”
“You knew I’d be back.”
“I suppose. I hadn’t given it much thought lately.”
Faces carved from wood and stone rested overturned in the shadows beneath the trees; the darkness beneath their angular brows and protruding noses, blacker than the surrounding night, gave the idols a sentient quality.
“I should say, welcome, then,” Max said. “Forgive me that I have no lei of flowers or grass skirt.”
He searched her face for a hint of the woman he once knew. He found only the result of years of obsession in her eyes and her ropy muscles. It only meant trouble that she had come.
“Hawaii is everything you said it was,” she said. “Your connection to it is spoken of in certain circles.”
He didn’t like the sound of that.
“Ease my mind,” he said. “Tell me you are only here for me, on some nostalgic whim.”
“I wish I could,” she said.
In the distance the dogs barked again.
“I serve the island now. No one else.”
“Same old Max. Why do you torture yourself? We were soldiers. That wasn’t our fault. You’re still punishing yourself.”
“We broke kapu,” he said. “Therefore I must—”
“…suffer the punishment, I know,” she said. “Kapu. Taboo. Same thing. Break no kapu or punishment will be swift, harsh, and clear. This Hawaii you long for never sounded like such a pretty place to me. Step on the shadow of a king and be put to death. Very enlightened.”
“What else do you remember?”
“A lot.”
It had been twenty years since he had told her that anecdote. He thought he saw a flash of the loyal, wide-eyed girl in her eyes. Then he noticed the bulge of a gun beneath her baggy khaki pants. She was not the girl he once knew, but a stranger. A dangerous stranger. He looked away.
“The only way to subvert the will of the Kings and escape punishment for breaking kapu is to find a priest or a city of refuge before a penalty is enforced,” he said. “You stand in one such place. I have sought refuge and I serve my penalty. As a priest, a guardian of the alli, the Kings, I can offer you a new start.”
“I was hoping for some help, not salvation.”
Max pictured her the last time he had seen her, in Neveshir. They were packing up all the relics for Washington. The buried city was supposed to have been empty for centuries, the realm of no one. But it hadn’t been empty. The realization he had stolen an entire heritage had been his spark for change, but it had only pushed Nicola deeper into obsession and ignited her spiraling fascination with the dark, forgotten corners of the world.
“It is said that the bones of your Kings possess the power to—”
“Stop,” Max said. “Even you must know some things are still sacred.”
He scanned her posture for sign of threat, uncomfortable at how easily his old soldiers’ instincts came back to him.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, surprised by the sincerity in his words.
“I haven’t come to steal,” she said.
Max wanted to believe her.
Bats swooped above them, devouring mosquitoes and bugs.
Someone was running up the trail. Nicola drew her pistol.
“Put that down,” Max commanded just as Akani crashed through the brush into the clearing. Seeing Nicola, the boy threw his hands in
the air.
“That’s one of my boys,” Max screamed.
Akani leaned forward, hands on his hips, out of breath. Nicola lowered the gun.
“You know never to come here,” Max yelled.
“I’m sorry,” Akani said, dropping a cell phone. “Kenjo called. Someone’s in the caves.”
Max grabbed him by the shoulders. “How many?”
“At least three,” he said, through heavy breaths. “They were up top and rapelled in with ropes. He said he was going closer to get a better look.”
“Caves?” Nicola asked.
She must not know, Max thought. But everything was happening too fast.
“You did good,” he told the boy. “Catch your breath. Go back to the house. Tell the boys to stay inside.”
Akani stole a glance at Nicola and slowly returned to the trail.
“My boat is at the shore. I can help,” Nicola said.
If what the boy said was true, the Kings were in immediate danger. If it came to it, she was a capable fighter, from the looks of her more capable than he. And she could get him there fast.
“Come,” he said, and as soon as he spoke the word, he knew that it would cost him.
****
Nicola’s boat, a sleek black cigarette with a pair of oversized outboard engines, was tethered to a cluster of lava rock jutting from the shore, well hidden beneath a patch of palms. Nicola retrieved a small box from her pocket, clicked it, and an array of electronics beeped and whirred to life.
Max jumped in, then Nicola, perfectly counterbalancing the rocking boat.
Just like old times, Max thought.
Nicola pulled the cords and the engines roared. The boat sped into the waves and Max opened his arms and prayed. A cloud of spray engulfed him.
How had the unthinkable happened, he wondered as they bumped over the dark water. If the caves had been found by outsiders then our belief and the island’s strength has truly faltered. He tried to figure how long a head start the intruders had. A half hour? Maybe more. Enough time to reach the Kings.
When they reached the cliffs Nicola slowed the engines. Heat lightning zig-zagged in the sky. The rocky silhouette showed no sign of intruders or of Iwani or Kenjo anywhere.
The boat rocked in the waves, drifting closer to the jagged rocks lining the shore.