The Night Marchers and Other Strange Tales

by Daniel Braum

  “A little closer,” Max said.

  “A little closer and we’re going to be smashed.”

  Max moved to the edge of the boat.

  He took one last look at her, searching for some sign he could trust. Finding nothing, that lost and adrift feeling he’d often had as a soldier came back to him in an awful wave.

  “Do not follow,” he said, then dove.

  The warm water embraced him and current pulled him close to the rocks. He kicked, tight short bursts. Still he felt himself being pushed by the swells. He kicked harder, dragging himself forward with his arms. The current spun him, and then he felt himself drawn into a small space as if guided. His back touched rock and he swam up, bursting from the water into more darkness, but a breathable darkness. He allowed himself a few greedy breaths then whispered a prayer, barely audible above the echo of dripping water. He wriggled out of the water onto slick, cool rock. He breathed deep and slowed his heart. From somewhere deep in the caves came rattling and faint voices. The intruders. The chamber they rapelled into was up ahead.

  Max crept toward the sounds waiting for his eyes to adjust. The rock walls glowed with faint red phosphorescence as if they were angry. The air was thick with mist. It poured off the walls and moved despite the still air. Hidden in the crevices of the passages rested the bones of Hawaii’s Kings. Some were so ancient he did not know their names.

  He felt his way along the wall until he found an opening.

  “Forgive me, great King,” Max whispered, then reached in.

  He groped cool stone then felt something dry, a bone, hardened with age and sediment. He ran his hand further up till he felt an edge, the stone head of an ancient spear, resting alongside the King. Max pulled it out and held the weapon in front of him as he continued on.

  Light leaked into the passage from a large chamber ahead. Max approached silently and peered inside. Mist covered the floor to knee height. In the center of the room a patch of the mist glowed an artificial blue. Max crept over and felt along the floor. A cell phone. Kenjo’s. Still juiced but no signal. The boy was supposed to just watch and call. Had he followed them in, in a fit of bravery or stupidity? Max pictured the boy sliding down the ropes, tailing the intruders into the caves.

  He felt cold hands close over his and the spear shook. The mist circled him as if he were the eye of an ocean storm. A burst of sulfur and hot salt air wafted past. His mind’s eye filled with the image of a great King. Perhaps Kahmehamea himself.

  The King stood on a beach, the black volcanic rock and sand in stark contrast to his white robe and red-feathered hat. Lava oozed into the roaring waves, sending up clouds of hissing steam.

  “My Kings, I am sorry,” Max said. “Forgive the failures of your humble servant.”

  The chamber shook. The stones groaned like breaking thunder. The vision of the King disappeared and the mist was drifting out of the room into the passageways.

  “Kill them,” said a voice.

  Max was almost certain it had not been spoken out loud.

  “Yes, my Kings,” Max said, unsure if the order included Kenjo.

  The boy had violated kapu by coming into the caves. But the Kings would not want him to kill one of their own, would they?

  The report of a gunshot rang out from up ahead. Max ran, sliding as he navigated the twists and turns, until he reached another large chamber. A jagged hole had been blasted in the ceiling allowing moonlight in. Ropes dangled from the opening, their shadows twisting and changing shape on the curved cave walls, disappearing where they crossed the black tunnel mouths. A man clad in black, like a common thief, was frantically climbing, a canvas sack slung over his shoulder. At the foot of the ropes were piles of bones.

  Mist poured into the chamber, rising in a circle to the hole in the ceiling.

  The chamber rumbled and shook, then chunks of cave ceiling gave way. The man climbing the ropes fell along with fist-sized rocks. He landed with a solid thunk. Max ignored his moaning and unwrapped the canvas. It was as he feared, inside were the bones. He lifted the spear to plunge it into the man’s chest.

  The spear vibrated, or was it his hand shaking? He always knew he would kill for the Kings but he had never had to. Before him was a man, here to rob what he held most sacred. But still, he was just a man, perhaps just as he himself might have once appeared to the guardians at Neveshir.

  A face appeared at the hole up above. A woman, with bright yellow eyes, her face framed in white cloth. Max caught the glint of an ankh in the moonlight as she threw the ropes down, then disappeared. Max stood frozen, spear pointed at the man who had gone silent and still.

  Footsteps clomped in the side passage. Max pivoted, ready to throw, but it was Nicola who emerged from the tunnel mouth. She was carrying Kenjo in her arms. Max lowered the weapon and ran to them. In the tunnel behind them another intruder lay on the floor, bleeding.

  Max touched the boy’s face. “You brave fool, you never listen.”

  “He’s more shaken up than anything, but he’ll live,” Nicola said.

  “I told you not to follow,” Max said to her.

  “And you violated kapu by coming here,” he said to the boy. “There’ll be a heavy price to pay.”

  A glimmer of understanding lit up in Kenjo’s frightened eyes.

  Nicola sat the boy down against a stone and wiped the grime from his face.

  The last of the mist swirled at the ceiling and exited through the jagged hole.

  “I want to help,” Nicola said.

  Max said nothing but sat next to them. In the moonlight Kenjo looked so scrawny and weak and the scattered bones so old and fragile. Nicola would be of service yet, he thought. Only watching her care for the boy, he wished there was another way.

  ****

  They returned to the house as the sun was rising. Max sent Kenjo to the bedroom the boys shared, and insisted he stay there and rest, though his tone implied punishment. The other boys kept trying to sneak in so they could ask him about what he had seen. Nicola and Max retreated to the porch.

  “Who is she? What does she want with the Kings?” Max asked.

  “All that matters is that she will take them away.”

  For a few moments they sat in silence. Then Max said, “No. You will tell me.”

  Beneath the trees, the mongoose began its daily routine of picking through the lychees.

  “When you left the Department you asked me to leave it all behind and come to Hawaii with you. Well, here I am. I finally came through, at least on that part. I stayed on at the Department for years, actually. Even you wouldn’t believe what wonders are out there.”

  “Who is she?”

  The boy’s shouts from a game they were playing joined the din of morning birds.

  “We met not long after you left. She helped me understand why you left the Department. At first we were partners. She was a lot like us. We were excavating a route on the Old Silk Road and one of the things we unearthed touched her.”

  Max imagined them lifting a linen wrapped figure from some desolate desert grave—pictured it jolting to life and reaching out a dusty hand.

  “Touched her?”

  “She was damaged. And was never the same.”

  From the way Nicola avoided specifics the reality of it was likely much worse than he could imagine.

  “And you led her here. You want me to think you came to stop her but you came to beat her to the find.”

  “Does that matter now? I am here with you.”

  In the chaos Nicola could have absconded with bones if that was why she was here, Max thought. But her game was always deep cover, layers upon layers. The guardians of Neveshir had also thought she was there to help, at first.

  Lakolo’s dogs barked. A pair of young backpackers walked past the overgrown grove.

  “Thing is, Max, last night would have caught her by surprise. She didn’t expect a fight. I know her ways well. Even a lion would rather scavenge a meal than fight to make a kill. Now she knows
she is up against you and me and some boys.”

  “Then she knows we will take the bones to a new resting place.”

  “She’ll wait for when we are most vulnerable and come for the rest of them then.”

  “We shall have to count on this.”

  “I said I will help.”

  Evasion. Misdirection. It was how she achieved success in the old days. Was she doing the same here? No matter, Max thought. Perhaps she might really be here to help. If not—

  “Alright. You can start by helping the boys bring the canoes to the shore. We have to make a run back to the caves then get everything in place.”

  The boys were eager and full of questions.

  Were there grave robbers? Did you kill them? Will we see the ghost marchers tonight?

  “No,” Max answered. “Not tonight. You must watch the house and look after Kenjo. Make sure he stays in his room.”

  The mongoose stopped and sniffed the air, watching all the commotion with its black eyes, deciding if it was safe to resume its feast.

  ****

  Max’s wooden canoe bobbed in the surf. The moon, reflected in the water, caressed the boat with light. Max gently lifted one of the stone urns from the caves, out of the boat and onto the shore. The sticks he had placed inside clattered faintly.

  I am sorry, my Kings, thought Max. You are alone in the caves and in the hands of outsiders while we set our bait.

  “You sure they are watching?” Max asked.

  “She’s been watching since she set foot here.”

  Max counted the jars then looked at the moon. He hoped it would see killing tonight.

  Nicola monitored a piece of equipment, some sort of tripod mounted scope she had retrieved from her boat.

  The night was alive with the sound of frogs and sets of waves breaking on the shore.

  “Movement,” Nicola said, and pointed to the monolithic cliffs breaking up the glittering patterns of stars.

  “Up top,” she said.

  He didn’t take her binoculars. He recognized the silhouettes of his boys, Kenjo’s scrawny frame and long hair among them.

  “They never listen,” Max said. “Stay here, I’m going to fix this.”

  “No,” she said, and pointed to where the trees met the sand a few hundred yards away.

  A group of black-clad men emerged from the tree line. They held their handguns straight as tin soldiers and moved in a perfectly uniform line. A tiny golden ankh hung from gold chains around each of their necks. He wanted to yell to the boys to run but he hoped they’d be smart enough to figure that themselves now. Nicola reached for her weapon. Max pushed it down with his open palm.

  “This time you will listen,” he said.

  She wants to fight, Max thought. I understand. Queen Lilohani wanted to fight when Captain Cook came, but knew it would spill her people’s blood fruitlessly.

  Nicola raised her hands and they allowed the men to surround them.

  Their eyes were far away and unfocused as they took Nicola’s pistol and searched them both. A tall man with sickly purple veins visible beneath the pale white skin of his neck signaled to the tree line. A woman emerged from their shadows. She too was dressed in thieves’ black but a white turban was wrapped around her face. She stopped in front of Max, barely standing as high as his neck. A fold of the turban covered her face below her nose. The rest of her features were delicate and her skin a healthy sun-touched gold. Her amber-yellow eyes were trained on them.

  She stepped closer to Nicola and Max anticipated the words he knew were coming—a smug “we meet again,” or an “I win.”

  But instead the woman flicked her wrist at Nicola without any fanfare, sending a cloud of dust into her face. Nicola let out a single cough and collapsed to the sand, the black-clad men not reacting to her or any of the action around them.

  “Do not fret. It is not so bad,” the woman said to Max. “Your Kings will be safe with me. I will believe in them”

  A hint of cinnamon, lily, and something burnt and oily scented the air.

  “You will not take them,” Max said.

  “Have you looked at your Island? Really looked at it?” she said. “Your Kings have grown so weak. No one believes in them. I will believe in them for you.”

  “I will not let you rape them.”

  She laughed. “I will sing to them. Nourish them the way they desire.”

  She opened one the stone jars. Finding only the sticks, she laughed again; her breath reeked like a homeless wretch on the streets of Hilo.

  “Where are they?” she asked.

  Max didn’t answer. The woman stepped around Nicola laying in the sand and seemed to ponder Max’s silence.

  “Very well,” she said. “Yesterday, at the docks, I watched you take the tourists’ picture. I know you want to burn the hotels down. Return to the Hawaii that was lost when Captain Cook came. But you do not. Instead, you tell stories to children. Dig up tikis in the jungle. Your Kings still remember blood. But they will not taste it here. This battle is lost. You are part of America. Fat and mighty America sitting on you with her suntanned bottom, and you are too weak to ever shake her off. But there are places where your Kings will make a difference. I will take them there.”

  The waves went still as if the moon had decided to let go of its hold on the tide. The chorus of night sounds went silent.

  In the back of his mind Max thought that he should be bothered by her words, but he was captivated by the layer of white mist floating just above the surface of the water. It thickened and rolled along the beach.

  “You are haole,” Max said. “Truly without breath. The Kings do not care for whatever your petty plans may be; they care for the wind and water. Fire and stone. For the Island they fought for and its sons and daughters.”

  The woman grabbed a pistol from the nearest man and cocked it, the click unnaturally resonant in the silence. “I wonder, do you really know your Kings at all?”

  Max didn’t flinch from the gun and the woman seemed confused. Then she saw the cloud of white surrounding them and jerked her gun to the side. Her men spun around, pointing their guns in all directions.

  The mist coalesced into wispy bodies. Long lines of translucent ghosts were assembling along the shore. Grim, blank-eyed faces on the ones nearest. The procession of Kings appeared in the surf. Long robes trailed behind them. Max couldn’t tell where the robes ended and the dark-green water began.

  “Great Kings. Soon I will have all of your bones and—”

  Max lunged for her. Then someone fired and the night erupted into wet pops like dud firecrackers followed by the metallic click-clicks of dozens of futile trigger pulls.

  Max tackled the woman and they rolled in the sand, his hands finding their way around her neck. A pair of misty hands solidified around his. The mist formed an arm and then a body. Max thought he’d feel a sense of awe being so close to the Kings but all he felt was blood-lust, the need to wring the life from this intruder.

  As he choked her he watched the other Kings reach for the men. The King’s faces were stern, strong, and regal but blank, like an idealized picture and not the faces of real men. Bullets whizzed through their round, feathered hats.

  I’ve been calling myself a peaceful priest when all along I was always just a killer, Max thought. Maybe the boys will grow up to have the luxury of hands that do not know death.

  The men dropped their guns and fell to the sand, coughing and clutching their throats. Beneath Max, the woman gasped for breath. Her turban had slipped down. The bottom of her face was shriveled and wrinkled, like a shrunken head. Blackened teeth stuck out from turned out lips. Max could see how the scar almost formed a handprint, like a slap immortalized in ruined flesh. She muttered in a foreign tongue with the last of her air.

  Max squeezed the life out of her and a wave of nausea welled in his gut. It had been decades since he had killed, but this felt different and horribly right. She was wrong to think she could take the Kings but she was right
that they lusted for blood. He knew it now. With his hands around her neck he was in tune with them, an instrument of their desire.

  The Kings turned to where Nicola lay on the sand among the dead.

  Max moved in front of the great King. Max saw the veins in his feathered hat, the pores and scars on his solemn face, the tattooed bars and triangles on his arm as his hand reached out.

  “No! This one defended you,” Max said.

  The surf bubbled and hissed as if lapping over molten lava.

  “Intruder,” said a voice, though neither the King’s mouth nor opaque eyes moved.

  “I am your priest. And I say spare her,” Max said. “Without me there is no one.”

  The ghost raised its other hand and Max flinched. When he opened his eyes, the Kings were gone and the mist had rolled down the beach.

  Nicola’s eyes fluttered under shut lids. She moaned as Max pulled her away from the rising surf. His relief only lasted a heartbeat. The procession had moved toward the mountains, towards where the boys were still watching. Max ran, hoping to intervene again but the ghosts disappeared and reappeared on the mountain in the blink of an eye. Heat lightning flashed, and the sulfuric smell of lava, tinged with burnt flowers wafted past him. Max watched the boys scatter. He watched Kenjo’s scrawny form in silhouette drop to his knees before the King.

  “Run,” Max said. He didn’t have the breath to shout.

  “He’s just a boy. One of us.”

  Maybe they didn’t hear. Maybe there was no place for mercy for one who should have known kapu.

  Max sprinted but it was too late. Kenjo’s body went slack. The procession of ghosts disappeared over the peak.

  On the beach, the last tendrils of mist receded from the fallen intruders. The surf’s murmur had returned and the chirp of geckos and peepers again filled the night. Up on the mountain, the boys were screaming.

  ****

  The wind hissed through the palms shading Nicola as she slept. Monstrous orange birds of paradise and white orchids sprouted among the overturned tiki and remnants of an old stone wall.

  Max stood in the shade, a lei of fresh flowers in his hands. He waited and watched as she opened her eyes.