Roar of Sky

by Beth Cato

  “No, I encountered the arrogant attitude straightaway when I disembarked. Fortunately, our customer here is an important local businessman.” He frowned. “The inspectors didn’t harass you, did they?”

  Fenris pushed past Cy, muttering beneath his breath. If Fenris could work magic, he’d surely be evoking some sort of vengeful dark wizardry about now.

  “The plants received far more scrutiny than I did.” The soldiers had probably regarded them as more valuable.

  She thought she had masked her annoyance, but Cy leaned over and placed a kiss on her cheek, his whiskers grazing her skin as he stood. “It’s better for you to be invisible to them.”

  Ingrid knew he was right. “I’ll start unfastening the plants so you can carry them down.”

  He shot her a grateful grin that made a warm, fuzzy feeling arise in her chest. His brown eyes were shining with affection. “Good. Soon as we get this done, we’ll see about getting to that crater. Apparently, a nighttime tour leaves in a short while. Here’s a-hoping it’s not booked up.”

  “I had hoped this would be a place we could hide in plain sight for a while,” she said, expression wistful.

  “I know. Me too. I didn’t expect this many soldiers myself, even with our warning. We need to push on soon as the Bug can fly.”

  That’s all the encouragement Ingrid needed to hustle along. The vanilla orchids had sprouted three inches in their day aboard and many had started to bud. She wondered why she’d never heard of sylphs being utilized to help farmers—it seemed like such a natural use of their abilities—but the fairies were probably worth far more as niche cuisine. She shook her head in disgust.

  Cy returned with several crates and hauled the plants down the mast. Ingrid turned her attention to the food pantry and the captive sylphs. Their buzzing was quieter than usual, their demeanor wary. After she let them out, they fluttered throughout the cabin to verify the plants were indeed gone. She wondered if they were sad, but instead, the sylphs began to fly in their usual happy loops around her.

  Images and feelings flashed in her mind. The sylphs regarded the Bug as their home. It had been threatened, but all was well now. Their shelter, good people, and baked goods remained.

  Ingrid laughed. The sylphs’ emotions reflected her own, right down to the inclusion of pastries.

  With the engines off and the hatch open, a chill began to penetrate the ship, reminding her that they were moored at about four thousand feet elevation along the southern flank of a fourteen-thousand-foot volcano.

  “Do you need any help in the engine room?” she called to Fenris.

  “No.” His tone brooked no argument.

  Ingrid took the opportunity to retreat into the lavatory to dress for a chilly hike. She had just emerged when Cy returned.

  “The delivery’s done, and I’ve already spent almost every penny we just earned. An autocar will be at the gate in a few minutes to take us to the rim.” He assessed her apparel and nodded. To Ingrid’s relief, he looked excited about their excursion, not consumed with worry for her. “Fenris, how’re things here? Any gifts left behind by those inspectors?”

  “Do you think they left whirly-flies?” asked Ingrid, alarmed. Her slicker jostled, causing the empty kermanite in her pocket to jingle.

  “That’s not the kind of gift I meant. Whirly-flies are an expensive resource. They wouldn’t be left on just any airship that docked. I wonder more about planted contraband left to get us in trouble at the next dock. I already had to pass along some extra yen in my handshakes.”

  Fenris leaned back to glare up the hallway at them. “They made a mess of things, but I haven’t found anything insidious. I’ll have the Bug ready to fly in a few hours, but we cannot head to the mainland straightaway. I must do more thorough maintenance before we dare another week in the air.”

  Ingrid felt another small rush of guilt twist through her as several horrible what-ifs flashed through her mind.

  “We’ll be out past midnight, Fenris. Take a nap, if you can,” said Cy. Fenris snorted at the suggestion.

  “That late?” she asked. “Is the whole trek on foot?”

  “Shouldn’t you know more about this?” Fenris asked her as he joined them in the corridor.

  “Everything I know about Kilauea is from dry text written by mundanes. Remember, no geomancer dares to set foot here, quite literally.” She didn’t elaborate further; they had argued over the risks time and again. She maintained the vain hope that maybe, just maybe, her grandmother wouldn’t want to kill her, and might restrain the energy flow for a while.

  If not, well . . . Ingrid might fall over dead as soon as she stepped off the mast. At least it’d be instantaneous.

  Cy looked grim. “Only the last part of the trip is on foot. I told the tour agent that my wife”—Fenris made an amused choking sound—“had a leg injury that made prolonged walks difficult. He said, and for the sake of my physical well-being I’ll quote, ‘many weak-willed women and elderly take our tours.’”

  “Weak-willed . . . !”

  “I had to stop myself from laughing when he said it.” Cy’s broad grin softened her indignation. “The descent into the Kilauea crater is done on horseback,” he continued. “I was cautioned that you’ll be required to ride astride, as they use Mexican saddles.”

  “Is this when I’m supposed to faint at the indecency of the suggestion?” she said wryly.

  “Have you ridden?” Cy asked.

  “Yes, but not since Mama’s passing.” And not for months before that. They had stopped riding after Mama had discovered she was pregnant. “I’m a fair rider. Get me into the saddle, and I will manage from there.”

  Cy nodded as he turned to Fenris. “If there is any sign of volcanic activity—an earthquake, a plume—don’t wait for us. Take the Bug and go. Same if you see soldiers flood the dock. Go.”

  “I get it. The moon rises, I go. A cat meows, I go. But where am I going, exactly? Or am I to assume you’re dead and we won’t be meeting again until the afterworld?”

  “Preferably not,” said Ingrid. From a drawer, she pulled out gloves Lee had packed for her in San Francisco.

  “I think the nearest public mooring masts are in Hilo to the northeast,” said Cy. He fumbled in the lower cabinet to pull out a readied travel pack, only to find that it had been left open by the inspectors. He quickly checked the contents then belted it shut again. “We can plan on meeting there, worst comes to worst.”

  “Unless my presence triggers a major volcanic event, in which case Hilo could be at risk from lava as well as from a tsunami,” she added as she wiggled on the gloves.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t look into properties in Hilo, then. Now go. Shoo. I have work to do. Ingrid, don’t die.” Fenris’s scowl added weight to his words. “Don’t be out all night either. I won’t be happy if I have to come looking for you two.”

  Ingrid didn’t drop dead upon making contact with the ground. That pleased her.

  Beneath her feet, the earth thrummed as if she sat up front at the Damcyan Theater as a full orchestra played. She looked to the tour company’s horses as a kind of barometer, and was relieved to note that they didn’t act skittish like horses did in San Francisco before the quake.

  Cy, on the other hand, was appalled to realize his elastic rig for Ingrid’s boots prevented her feet from slipping into the stirrups.

  “I think that’s just as well,” she murmured as everyone mounted up. “I can’t angle my toes up, anyway. My foot would have slipped forward in a dangerous way. I’ll be better off without using stirrups.”

  Worry shone in his eyes. “We could ask for some rope . . .”

  “Mr. Harvey.” The false name had a nice ring to it in an icy tone. “You’re a horseman. You know how dangerous that would be if the horse tripped or rolled. Help me mount up.” She motioned to the tall stump that was serving as a stool. “I’ll be fine.”

  Cy snapped his mouth shut and did as she asked, but she could tell he was still worried.


  Once she was in the saddle, Cy modestly situated her skirt then gave her a little nod, clearly more at ease. Ingrid’s mother had always told her she had a natural seat, and apparently Ingrid hadn’t lost that knack amid her spasticity issues.

  About a dozen people were in their group along with two native Hawaiian guides, one to lead and one to play caboose. Ingrid studied the horses. They looked older and well used, but in good care, her own bony mare included.

  The trail took them away from Volcano House, a renowned inn, and through thick woods. A waxing gibbous moon played shy behind a tattered sheet of clouds, granting them little illumination through the canopy. A few flashlight beams flickered to reveal brief glimpses of thick vegetation. Birds were quiet, a fact that emphasized the murmur of voices and the jingle of tack and the plod of hoofbeats.

  Far ahead, the leader waved to direct everyone right. The lead horses emerged from the trees, the rest following. Ingrid brought her horse to a stop and stared downward, breathless in awe and terror.

  The Kilauea caldera stretched miles in circumference, the edges fringed by the dark silhouettes of trees. Off to the right, a long stretch of the steep cliff released billows of steam, but as if by gravity, her gaze was pulled into the abyss below. It was impossible to judge the drop in the scant light, but it had to be several hundred feet. The land below consisted of absolute blackness. Perhaps a mile in the distance, color returned in a splashing cauldron of red, orange, and yellow.

  “That down there is the lava lake of Halema’uma’u,” said their guide, his pronunciation of the place like lilting poetry. “That’s the home of the goddess Pele. That is our goal.” He reined his horse to the right. The rest of the pack followed. Ingrid couldn’t help but continue to look left, utterly dazzled, until the trail began to slope and trees obscured the view.

  To Ingrid’s surprise, she couldn’t smell any sulfur despite the vents in the cliff nearby. The thickening forest around them dominated her olfactory senses with moisture, fresh greenery, and pleasant rot. The horses huffed as the incline grew steeper and the lead horses rounded a switchback.

  She leaned back in the saddle for balance, grateful to be on a well-trained trail mount that knew her job without need for guidance on Ingrid’s part. Her hands dropped to where she could grab the pommel, if necessary. Her lower legs actually felt strangely relaxed as they draped down.

  “How are you, my dear?” asked Cy.

  “Quite well, really.” Her double layers of tights couldn’t prevent cold from creeping up her skirt, though. She shivered. With one hand, she unfolded and angled her cloth headband to partially cover her ears.

  They continued to zigzag their way down the cliff. The steep embankments along the well-worn holloway were alive with moss and ferns. The chill made her fingers curl and lock in their grip on the reins, the pressure of the wedding band unfamiliar and uncomfortable within her glove. As time went on, the cold brought stiffness to her leg muscles again, escalating to an edge of numbness and pain.

  An animal rustled in the brush, and she caught the brief sight of some large birds dashing away—chickens, perhaps, or pheasants. She rested a fist on the pommel, ready for the horse to react, but the mare only flicked an ear, unperturbed.

  The foliage began to thin. The bleak blackness of the crater was like gazing into a sky without stars, the infernal lake a red sliver in the distance.

  The path abruptly leveled out. There were no more trees. Hooves clopped on the dry lava bed and sent up small sparks.

  “Everyone dismount! We leave horses here,” called the guide. Groans abounded as people heaved themselves from their saddles. Cy surrendered his horse and led Ingrid’s mount to a tall rock where he helped her to the ground.

  Her feet touched down, her soles zinging with pain as if she were walking barefoot on the nearby a’a rocks. She drew in a hiss of breath.

  “I’ll fetch your umbrella from the packhorse.” He headed toward a corral made of stacked lava rocks and planks.

  “Well, Madam Pele,” she whispered. “If you can hear me right now, please know that I truly hope that my pain doesn’t irritate you as it does other Hidden Ones. No one should have to feel like this.”

  Cy returned with the tall umbrella he’d purchased for her in Honolulu. It made for an excellent societally appropriate walking stick. She was grateful to lean on the crook handle as Cy shared his water canteen with her. Then they joined the tour group, situating themselves near the back, and began to move. Walking hurt, but not as much as standing still. The umbrella’s metal ferrule made a small, hollow clink every time it struck the pahoehoe lava that formed the ground. The black surface was smooth and uneven, set in ridges and waves.

  Ingrid glanced back. The cliff blocked over half the sky; the steam vents along the edge sent small plumes heavenward. Looking forward, a much larger plume of gray and a gleaming line of red marked their destination. Flashlight beams angled this way and that. Sporadic knee-high stacks of chunky a’a rocks marked their path. Her modified boots helped her lift her feet, but the dark, uneven ground made it difficult for her to judge her steps. She relied on the umbrella to prevent her from kissing the lava. Cy hovered close as a shadow but gave her space to walk on her own. The night’s chill soon faded, replaced by the heat of exertion.

  “Hey, you brave to do this, walking like that,” said the rear guide, trotting alongside her. He gestured with his own walking stick. “I use this, and I still fall sometimes.”

  Ingrid gritted her teeth. She knew her limp was visible, but she didn’t appreciate the reminder.

  “She’s recovering from an accident,” said Cy.

  “Oh yeah? Well, we almost to the lake. It’ll be worth the effort, savvy?” The line ahead slowed for some indiscernible reason.

  Cy motioned to a scraggly bush growing nearby. “I’m surprised to see plants growing in such a desolate place.”

  “These bushes here are ohelo.” The guide’s light tone turned serious. “I think you missed Harry’s talk since you came in the last autocar, so I tell you now. See, these sacred berries are always offered to Madam Pele first, then visitors here can try them. Otherwise, she gets mad. People joke, say they want to see her mad, because they hope to see active lava. But no, they really don’t want to see when she gets angry.”

  “I assure you, we have no desire to see Madam Pele angry,” said Ingrid. The guide nodded, somewhat placated, and moved onward.

  As they continued to shuffle forward, Ingrid could finally see the reason for their delay: a bridge across a chasm. Flashlights aimed downward gave no true indication of its depth. She eased her way across and was stunned to realize she could still sense the earth’s energy, even with empty space beneath her.

  As they neared Pele’s home, the earth felt like a living, breathing, aching being. It wasn’t moving, but it yearned to. The lava lake wasn’t in view as they walked through a shallow valley, but she felt its pulsations, like how a person could sense the sea through the heaving deck of a ship.

  “Are you pulling in energy?” Cy murmured.

  “Not much. I am starting to feel feverishly hot, though.”

  “So am I,” he said, unfastening his leather coat. Sweat sheened his face.

  With the help of Cy and the umbrella, she trudged up a rocky slope. Tephra shifted underfoot. Cy caught her as she began to slip. As she stood upright, her left calf muscle seized. She bit back a yelp at the sudden agony.

  A woman dropped onto a rock nearby, nursing a banged knee with both hands, and all the others had slowed their pace, struggling not to fall on the steep terrain. Ingrid took the opportunity to pause and work her fingers into the back of her boot. The knotted muscle hurt to touch, but she rubbed it nevertheless.

  “Do you need to sit?” Cy asked. He propped his bowler hat to sit higher on his head.

  “No. Let’s get over the rise.”

  The heat increased as they climbed. The entire tour group was panting and gasping for breath. Some removed the
ir jackets and shawls. The ground crunched underfoot, revealing a crusty layer of sulfur atop the black lava.

  The leaders reached the top. Gasps and squeals carried down the slope. Ingrid pushed her reluctant legs to move faster, and with Cy at her side, she reached the crest.

  Before them lay a living vision of hell. Ingrid had never seen anything so beautiful in all her life.

  Chapter 5

  The lava lake looked to be half a mile in length and glowed in lurid red, gold, and yellow. Black islands crested along on molten waves. The fiery surf emitted an angry roar, punctuated by rattles and bangs like gunfire or cannons. One of the men nearby dropped to the ground as if he’d been shot. Other people hunkered over him, but his companion shook his head and waved them back. “He’s not hurt. He was in the war.” A simple statement that said so much.

  Cy flinched at the rattles and pops, but stood like a statue. Most of the others did the same, even the tour guides, who had surely visited this place times beyond measure.

  Ingrid had never known such a sense of reverence. She took in the sight of the earth’s raw majesty, the contrast of liquid creation against the broad span of twinkling stars on high. Most of the clouds had cleared, though volcanic gases fuzzed the view of the far edges of the lake.

  A sharp, human whistle split the air. The tour guide waved both arms to catch their attention. “Wander around. Walk closer to the lava, but always watch your feet. If your shoes are smoking, get out of there! We do have extra shoes if people need them, but remember, the walk back will feel especially long in shoes that don’t fit, right?” A few people laughed as they moved down the embankment toward the lake. After a minute, Ingrid and Cy were left alone on the crest.

  “If hell looks like this, I want to go there,” she said. “This is my idea of heaven.”

  Cy cocked his head to one side. “Back in Seattle, you did express an interest in possessing a lake of fire of your own, so I can’t say I’m surprised by your reaction.”