by Heidi Heilig
He sat back; his eyes seemed to reflect my sadness. Then he nodded, as though making a decision. “Finish your coffee and come with me.”
I pushed the mug aside as he stood. “And where are we going?” I asked, following him out the door.
“Miss Song,” he said, throwing a grin back over his shoulder, “I’m going to show you your country.”
An answering smile crept unbidden across my face. It fell away, though, at his next question. “Can you ride?”
I stopped in my tracks. The horse seemed much more intimidating than she had an hour before. “I don’t know.”
He laughed. “Don’t be nervous. I’ve named her Pilikia, but she’s quite gentle.”
“What’s pilikia mean?”
“Trouble. More what we get into than what she gives me.” He paused, looking at the saddle—Western, with the high pommel and the big stirrups with leather guards to protect the rider’s feet when going through thick brush—and then back at me, or rather, at my skirt. “Will you be comfortable on the saddle? We can walk if you’d prefer.”
“No,” I said firmly. “We’ll go farther on horseback.”
He knelt, cupping his palms down near my knees. I stepped into his hands and sprang onto the saddle, sitting with my legs both over Pilikia’s left side. I had a brief sensation of vertigo—the height was intimidating—but then Blake swung up behind me, steadying me with his arms on either side of my body.
“What would you like to see most?” he asked.
I considered all the places I’d been, most of them long gone. “Something I can only see here and now.”
Blake glanced up at the sun; it was high in the sky. “All right. We just barely have time.”
He put his heels to Pilikia’s flanks, and we set off through town, traveling atop our shadow. It took me a few minutes to get used to the motion of the horse, so different from the rocking of the ship. As we passed by, Blake pointed out landmarks—here, the Kamehameha Post Office, Hawaii’s only connection to the world beyond the shore; there, a grassy square where the king gave free concerts on nights of the full moon.
“He’s even revived the hula, and they dance on the grass while the missionaries avert their eyes.” His lips were just behind my ear as though it was a secret, and I heard the amusement in his voice. “What do you mean, revived?”
“It had been banned for many years before Kalakaua took power.”
“Too licentious for past rulers?”
“It scandalized the foreigners, who only saw what they were looking for. The hula tells a story, but they weren’t listening.”
“You admire the king?”
“You’re surprised?”
I bit my lip. Earlier, I had been nearly certain Mr. D had sent him to test me, but now I was not so sure. Unless, of course, it was just a ruse? Or perhaps this was only conversation, and my own involvement was making me paranoid.
“He has his faults,” Blake continued. “But love of his own culture is not among them.”
As we traveled south on King Street, a keening cry on the wind, like hungry gulls, resolved into the high, sobbing song of professional mourners. The smell of thousands of cut flowers was carried toward us on the humid breeze. “Iolani Palace,” Blake said.
“I had guessed.”
The palace was draped in swathes of black bunting that hung over the wide windows. Beneath the somber trappings, Iolani Palace was a grand structure: two tall stories with four corner turrets connected by wide verandas and lined with delicate columns.
“It’s very European.”
“The king toured Europe before he had Iolani built. Some foreigners expected a hovel, so he spared no expense. That was going to be the palace, over there,” he said, pointing across the street to a smaller—though still lovely—building across the street. “The Ali’iolani Hale. But he put the government offices there instead.”
“Ah.” I licked my lips; my mouth was dry. “The treasury and so forth.”
“Yes.”
Beyond the palace, we passed rich town houses, including the black-draped windows of the home of the banker Mr. Bishop, Princess Pauahi’s widower. “This is the wealthiest block on the island,” Blake said. “Many of these families will be attending the ball, if you’re interested in that sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing?”
“The comings and goings of high society.” I couldn’t see his face, but in his voice—was it a hint of scorn?
“Oh. Not generally.” Then I frowned. “Your father is . . . an important man?”
Blake paused before answering. “He has important friends.”
Traveling north, away from the sea, we emerged into cooler air as we climbed out of the city. The shops gave way to the mansions and manicured gardens; the breeze shivered in the leaves of lush ferns by the side of the road. “This is Nu’uanu Valley,” he said.
I sat up straighter. “My father once hoped to make a home here.”
“Why did he decide against it?”
“My mother died before he could.”
“Ah, is that why he took you to sea? If things had been but a little different, we would have been neighbors. That’s our house, there, on the left.”
I peered down a wide drive lined with chunks of coral that curved through an emerald-green lawn studded with flowering plants. Under a mantle of trailing vines rioting with flowers, I caught glimpses of a boxy white Victorian house with a deep veranda, in front of which was parked an empty calash and a delivery wagon hitched to a sleepy mule. It struck me then—I might be able to learn exactly where the map was kept. Pilikia leaned in toward the driveway, but Blake kept her on the road, pulling gently at the reins and, for a moment, bringing his arm close around my waist.
“Isn’t your house included on this tour?”
“It’s in a bit of a state, with the preparations for the party,” he said apologetically. “You’ll see it soon enough. Just a moment.” He pulled the horse toward the opposite side of the road, where the trees drew in close. “There’s a natural spring here,” he said, dismounting and leading us into the trees.
It was only a dozen feet to the water, where Pilikia dropped her head and drank deep, but once inside the forest, the greenery wrapped around us like a soft embrace, and I could no longer see the road. “The island is peppered with them. There’s one farther up in the valley that the chieftains used to bathe in. Back then, commoners weren’t allowed to touch the water due to its mystic healing properties, on pain of decapitation.”
My ears perked. “Is it true?”
“What part? The healing or the head chopping?” he teased. “They believed it. And that’s what matters. I’m not going to risk it, anyway. Wouldn’t that be the worst way to cure a head cold? I have tried this spring,” he continued, nodding toward the water at our feet. “It won’t heal so much as a paper cut, although the water’s quite pure. Are you thirsty? Wait here.”
He disappeared into the thicket in a direction I’d have assumed he’d picked at random but for the certainty with which he went. The sound of his footsteps, muffled by the damp humus that lay like a down blanket on the earth, quickly faded, and for a few minutes, Pilikia and I were alone in the forest. It was an odd feeling, the rich green life pressing close around me, hiding everything from view—so unlike the open sea. The burbling of the stream, the call of hidden birds, and the susurration of the wind in the treetops were no louder in my ears than the sound of my own breath.
Then, as suddenly as Blake had gone, he returned, holding handfuls of mottled yellow fruits, each the size of my fist. He took a small knife from the saddlebag and sliced one in half to reveal pink pulp studded with tiny yellow seeds.
“Oh, guavas!” I said. “I’ve only ever seen them green.”
“Different species, I think.” He crouched near the water and rinsed the pulp from the rind, which he then filled with clear water and handed to me as though it were a teacup. The water was cool and sweet.
After
I drank my fill, he handed me another few guavas and I ate them whole, the rind giving way easily to the tart and tender flesh. Juice dripped down my chin, and he flicked out his handkerchief. “Mmm,” I said, by way of thanks.
Blake scratched the horse’s neck and fed her a guava. “They grow everywhere up here, along with several stands of excellent rose apples. Bananas and mangoes as well.”
“Who planted them?”
“The birds. The breeze. The garden Hawaii resembles most is Eden.”
“Ah.” I handed back his handkerchief. “My father feels the same way.”
He cocked his head. “But how do you feel?”
I hesitated. “I’m not sure yet.”
“Oh? I must work harder to convince you. Here.” He handed me the reins and swung himself up behind me. “We’ve got to hurry a bit, but I’ll show you my favorite spot on the island.”
“I’m not pressed for time.”
“Ah, but I can’t bring you there near to dusk!”
“Treacherous footing?”
“No, the Hu’akai Po.”
I frowned. “That sounds like it means trouble, too.”
“Of a very certain sort. Haven’t you heard of the Night Marchers? The Hu’akai Po are the spirits of the ancient warriors of Hawaii. All the locals know the story.” He leaned forward, his voice low in my ear. “Legend says they march all through this valley. When the warriors are walking, the first thing you hear is the sound of drums, far away, and someone blowing a conch shell. In the distance, you’ll see their torches glowing in the dark. By the time you hear the sound of marching feet, you must throw yourself on the ground, facedown, to show respect, but also to shield your eyes, because if you look at them directly, they’ll take you and you’ll have to walk among them till the end of time.”
His breath tingled on the back of my neck. I shivered, and he laughed, low in his throat. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.”
We rode farther up into the rain forest of Nu’uanu, leaving the houses behind, and stepping onto a thin dirt track that wound through the tall rose-apple trees, studded here and there with enormous staghorn ferns, like fantastical brooches on the slender shoulders of society ladies. In the places where the path was steeper, he leaned forward to help Pilikia keep her footing. His chest was quite warm against my back.
“Have you ever seen them?” I said. “The Night Marchers?”
“I’ve never found myself facedown on the road surrounded by an army of ghosts, but . . . I have sometimes seen torchlight on the mountainside. Who can say?”
“Fascinating.”
“Are you having fun with me?”
“Not at all! Myths reveal the history of a place. I mean, who are these warriors? What do they protect? Why do they wander? I know the Hawaiian chieftains never suffered commoners to look them in the eye—I read that once, but . . .” I stopped myself; I was gushing. “Well. I’ve never had a tour guide.”
“I would gladly teach you all I know about the islands. I’d need some time, of course.”
“A few weeks?”
“A few years!”
I laughed. “Maybe I should just look over your sketchbook.”
“Oh, Miss Song. It’s so much more than what you could read in a book.”
A red bird flitted across our path, and the trees opened up into a clearing where flowers winked from the edges of the undergrowth. The sun warmed the grass beneath Pilikia’s hooves, but the air was quite cool and as soft as a kiss. In the distance, rushing water whispered about where it had been.
“Is this it?” I asked.
“Oh, no, we’re not there yet. This is . . . well. You can see the places where the grass is growing a bit thinner? That’s because the earth was packed down under the hale pili—the grass houses. There was a village here when I was a small boy. The signs are faint, though.”
“Where did they go?”
“They died.”
I gasped. “How?”
“Foreign disease. The least dramatic type of slaughter.”
The path continued on the other side of the sunny clearing, but it had grown narrower, and the trees lower; green and yellow guavas hung from lichen-gray branches that wove themselves together at a height just above our heads. Blake stopped Pilikia and swung down from her saddle. He offered me his hand.
“We have to continue on foot, but it’s not much farther.” I took his hand and slid from the saddle; my shoes sank into the loamy earth. Blake removed his own shoes and socks. He grinned when he saw me watching.
“How do you think I keep them clean?” He threw his jacket over the pommel of the saddle. “Come.”
I followed him along a path no wider than my feet, lined with feathery ferns and drooping pink ginger. He pushed ahead of me, through the branches, bending them out of my way.
“What is this place?” I stepped under his arm as he held open a fall of vines like a curtain. The roar of water grew louder, and the fresh smell of crushed greenery filled my lungs.
“I told you before. It’s a sacred place. A secret place, where the water comes out of the caves in a fall so powerful it turns to mist and drifts in clouds down into a healing pool. Please,” he added with a grin. “Try not to lure me in and drown me.”
I smiled back at him. “Don’t you know how to swim?”
“Miss Song. Do you think I could have lived my life on an island and not learned how to swim?”
“Why is that a given? Do you want to escape?”
He laughed and reached for me, helping me across a rocky patch of the trail where orchids bloomed at my feet and my father’s words resurfaced: “heaven in a wild flower.” The path smoothed, but I didn’t let go of Blake’s hand. “My mother talks of sending me to England to complete my education,” he said. “But no, I don’t want to leave.”
“Why not?” I asked, and then I stopped dead in my tracks. We had emerged from the exuberant undergrowth into a large clearing where, as Blake had said, a silver spray of water burst from the cliff face fifty feet above our heads, enveloping the mossy black rocks in clouds of mist as it fell to shatter the mirror of the black pool at our feet.
“Why not?” He turned to me, his face shining. “This is paradise, Miss Song,” he said, gesturing at the roaring falls. “This is home.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Blake dropped me off at the ship near dinnertime. We hadn’t had time to explore the caves above the falls, but Blake gave his word he’d show me some day. Neither of us set a date, though; we knew the promise was empty. Despite the guavas, I heard his stomach growling on the ride back, and I hoped it was loud enough to mask the sound of my own. This close to the ship, I smelled Rotgut cooking fish stew and I hesitated on the dock. I might have invited Blake up for a bowl, if he were of another era, and I’d had another upbringing.
Bee was there on the deck, watching us impassively. Blake raised his hand to hail her, and she nodded without saying a word. His eyes sparkled as he leaned in to whisper. “She is certainly a pirate.”
“Not at all. She was a cattle herder.”
“What? Like a paniolo? A cowboy?”
“Cowgirl.”
“Like Annie Oakley!”
“She’s better with a revolver than a rifle.”
“Who cut her throat? Was it cattle rustlers?”
“A man jealous of her . . . her marriage, actually.”
“How awful.” Blake gazed at Bee. “It’s hard to comprehend all the evil committed in the name of love.”
“Or greed,” I said, remembering Kashmir and Slate and the business I’d mostly forgotten all afternoon. I took a step back, toward the ship, suddenly anxious not to have Kashmir come up on deck and see us together. “Good night, Mr. Hart.”
“Until the full moon, Miss Song.” He tipped his hat to me, as though ready to leave, but he did not go. “I would like
to ask,” he said after a moment. “I would be honored . . . if you would attend as my personal guest.”
“Oh? Oh! Oh, ah—I was attending with, uh . . . with my tutor, actually,” I finished lamely. Puzzlement flickered across Blake’s face; it was a terribly unbelievable story, for the time. “He is also my dancing instructor,” I extemporized.
“Do you dance much on the ship, then?”
“Ah. Well. You must have heard that dancing is a cure for seasickness!”
“Odd,” he said. “A sailor who gets seasick?”
I laughed a little. What else could I do?
“Well,” he continued, dropping the point. “Perhaps he would prefer to have the evening off? There are many events in Honolulu that night.”
“I . . . I know he is eager to attend the ball.”
“Ah. Then I will be pleased to see the both of you there,” he said, but he seemed less pleased than he had a moment before. He tipped his hat again. “Good night then, Miss Song.” He turned Pilikia toward home. Her ears swiveled forward, and she broke into a trot with little urging.
I climbed up the gangplank; here, on the deck of the ship, I was once more on firm footing. I met Bee’s eyes. “He doesn’t have any cattle either,” I told her, and she laughed.
Kashmir and Slate had not yet returned, so I needn’t have worried about being seen, though I could have been worrying about where they were. But I was too hungry to worry. I ate so fast I barely tasted my dinner, outpacing even Rotgut, although that may have been because he was telling me about the rock lobsters he’d caught on the reef, while I was focused more single-mindedly on consuming them. It was only shortly after I finished my bowl that I heard Kash and Slate tramping across the deck above my head.
After a moment of consideration, I made up two conciliatory bowls of stew and carried them topside. I found them together, their heads close. The captain’s face was drawn, and though they spoke in low tones, his gestures were emphatic, and he broke off abruptly when he saw me approach. Kashmir accepted the bowl gratefully, but Slate just shook his head.