Firewalkers

by Chris Roberson

  “It’s a kind of a . . .” Patrick thought for a moment, and then finished, “let’s call it a community cleanup. And a cultural enrichment project, too.”

  “Is this part of our grade?” Angela Kururangi asked, raising her hand timidly. “Or extra credit or something?

  “I’ll repeat,” Patrick sighed, “again, you are not getting a letter grade in Te’Maroan Cultural Enrichment. The school has categorized it as an art elective with a pass/fail credit. And anyone that shows up and participates, passes. Now, as I was . . .”

  “Sir,” Tommy Hulana interrupted, “when are we going to learn . . .”

  Patrick held up a hand to silence him.

  “We’re not starting on stick fighting until after the winter break,” he said, wearily. “And that’s only if everyone brings back the permission slips signed by their parents.”

  There were some worried expressions around the group. He knew that some of the parents had expressed reservations about the kids learning a martial art at school, even if they would be using sticks blunted with foam and padding. But that was a debate for another day.

  One of the Kienga twins put up his hand. Patrick thought it was Ricky, but it could have been Joseph—he often had trouble telling them apart. “Sir, this community cleanup thing? You mean, like, picking up trash or something?”

  Before Patrick could answer, the other Kienga twin chimed in.

  “Or painting over graffiti, maybe?”

  Patrick shook his head, but as he opened his mouth to answer it occurred to him that either of those ideas weren’t a million miles from what he actually had in mind, in the broadest terms.

  “Kind of, yeah,” he answered, nodding slowly. “But not exactly. Here, it might be easier to show you.”

  He turned in place, looking at the houses across the street and then on the far side of the corner, trying to remember where the nearest of his Uncle Alf’s marks could be found. Then he remembered how he would sometimes take a break from doing his rounds as a kid, when he was just up the street from the school, and would stop by the black top to see if any of his friends were around before heading to the convenience store over on Burgess Street to play video games, burning through whatever quarters were left from the week before. And the last house that he would always hit before taking a break, the one closest to the school, was his Aunt Pelani’s apartment building just a block west of the Church of the Holy Saint Anthony, just a stone’s throw from where he stood now.

  “Come on, gang,” he said, bending down to grab the paint can and brushes, and then starting off in that direction. “A little exercise will do you good.”

  It only took Patrick a few minutes to find one of his uncle’s marks on the rear of a nearby building, all but completely obscured by vines and moss and dirt. He motioned the kids to gather around.

  “Okay, can everyone see this?” He pointed to the spot on the wall, about five feet off the ground.

  “It’s a wall, coach,” Nicky Tekiera answered with a smirk. “Right, but it’s what you can’t see that’s the problem.” Patrick set down the paint, and then reached up and began pulling vines off the brick, one strand at a time. “There’s something hidden under here that . . . well, it’s really important.”

  Patrick chewed his lip for a moment as he searched for the best way to explain it. He was pretty sure that bringing up invaders from another dimension or shambling hordes wasn’t the way to go. He needed a better way to couch it, both to stress the importance of the work and to help them understand the significance of what they’d be doing, at least in part.

  “Does anyone remember the story about how Pahne’i conquered fire, and taught the people how to protect themselves against shadows?” There was an awkward silence from behind him. “Come on, we’ve talked about this in class, you guys.”

  “Was that the one with the lizard god in it?” Joseph Kienga said.

  “No, stupid,” his brother Ricky answered, “he got the magic knife from the God of Lizards, remember?”

  Patrick glanced over his shoulder, and sure enough, Angela Kururangi had raised her hand and was waiting to be called on. She was a stickler for proper student-teacher etiquette.

  “Yes, Angela?” he said, turning back to wrestle with the vines. “You have something to share?”

  “He went to the First Volcano,” she answered, “looking for a way that the people could cook their food so that they wouldn’t have to eat it raw.”

  “And wouldn’t be cold at night,” Tommy Hulana added, eagerly.

  “Right,” Patrick nodded, dropped a fistful of vegetation to the pavement at his feet. “The people who lived on Kovoko-ko-Te’Maroa didn’t know anything about fire, so it wasn’t just that they ate their food bloody and cold, but their nights were full of terrors because they had no defense against the shadows that crept outside the grass walls of their huts.”

  “Pahne’i knew about it, though, didn’t he?” Sandra Kaloni interjected. “Didn’t his mom tell him about it, or something?”

  “He saw it when he went to visit his dad, the god of the ocean,” Ricky answered.

  “How can there be fire under the ocean?” Joseph sounded skeptical.

  “It’s magic, dummy. He’s the god of the ocean.”

  “Technically you’re both right,” Patrick said. “Pahne’i’s father lived in a cave under the ocean. But yes, Pahne’i had seen light coming from burning logs in his father’s long house, and had eaten cooked fish and boar there. So he went to ask his mother—and yes, Sandra, she was the one who knew where this burning light could be found.”

  Patrick could remember his Uncle Alf telling him the story, time and again over the years, and if he listened hard enough he could almost hear the echoes of the old man’s voice, bouncing around somewhere far back in his mind.

  “Pahne’i’s mother,” he could remember the old man saying, “who had been introduced into the mysteries by her own mother, told her beloved son everything she knew about the secret light he had seen, told how it burned within the breast of every man, but extinguished when brought into the air. She told him how the sun and the stars were of the same stuff, floating high above the waves. And she told him the secret name of the light: Fire.”

  Patrick had managed to pry loose most of the vines, and picked up the paint brush to use the end of its wooden handle to start digging moss out of the grooves.

  “Pahne’i’s mother told him that the fire lived far away to the west,” Patrick continued, “at the edge of the world, in the place where the sun went to sleep every night. So Pahne’i sailed west, for eight days and eight nights, until he came to Helekea, the First Volcano, climbed up to the very top, and then climbed down inside of it.”

  “Where he fought a lot of monsters!” Nicky Tekiera was always the most interested in Te’Maroan legends that involved monsters of one kind or another.

  “With that magic knife of his,” Ricky Kienga amended, quickly.

  “Yes, with the moonstone knife he’d been given by the god of lizards, which was said to shine like the stars themselves.” Patrick gritted his teeth as he scraped away a particularly ground-in bit of moss. “He fought the tikua demons that live beneath the earth, sending their shadows back down to their master. Then he came to a lake of fire, resting in the bottom of the volcano. He tried a bunch of different ways to carry it back with him, but it burned everything he tried to put it in, so in the end he drank it and carried it back in his belly. Then he climbed back out and headed home.”

  “Wait,” Sandra cut in, “what about the god of shadows? Didn’t Pahne’i fight him down there, too?”

  Patrick shot her a grin over his shoulder. “That was the next trial he faced—good memory, Sandra—but it wasn’t on that same island. He got caught in a storm on the way back, and was lost at sea in the cold and dark for days and days. When the storm finally cleared, he was in an unfamiliar part of the sea. He continued sailing east for a long, long time, trying to find his way back home, until he cam
e to a shore that stretched out to the north and south as far as the eye could see.”

  “The mainland?” Tommy asked.

  “Maybe,” Patrick answered noncommittally. “Island people sailed all over the place, so it’s entirely possible that they might have gotten that far. Anyway, as Sandra says, it was there that Pahne’i encountered the God of Shadows, after climbing down into a big hole in the ground, like an unhealed wound on the land itself.”

  “Why was this dude always going around climbing down into holes?” Joseph sounded skeptical.

  “Because he was looking for more monsters to fight, I’ll bet!” Nicky said, bouncing his basketball on the pavement to punctuate his point.

  “The way I always heard the story, he went underground to get away from the heat of the sun, after having been outdoors so long,” Patrick answered, appraising the state of the mark he’d uncovered. Reaching down, he picked up the paint can, twisted off the lid, and began to touch up the cracks and gaps where the decades-old paint had flaked away. “Anyway, he found the God of Shadows, who promptly swallowed Pahne’i whole. For eight sunless days and eight moonless nights the darkness tried to consume him, but he was kept warm by the flames that were still burning deep inside of him. And finally he found the strength to cut his way free with his moonstone knife, and in doing so discovered the secrets for keeping the shadows at bay. The God of Shadows retreated back into the dark, presumably to plot his revenge, and Pahne’i returned to the surface and sailed off in search of home.”

  He stood back from the wall, hand on his chin as he studied the mark. It had taken some time, but it looked almost as fresh and clean as it had the day that his Uncle Alf had first carved it into the brick and laid in the salt-infused paint. Patrick could hear his great-uncle’s voice echoing in his thoughts, reciting the end of the tale, again and again.

  “Once home, Pahne’i was able to disgorge the fire he carried in his belly into the pits of his mother’s village, and taught the people of Kovoko-ko-Te’Maroa the art of cooking, so that never again were they forced to eat their meat bloody and cold. And he taught them the secrets of how to defeat the shadows, so that they would never need fear the nights again.”

  Patrick set the can of paint on the ground and began cleaning the last of the white paint off the brush’s bristles with a Kleenex as he turned to face the kids.

  “And this is what Pahne’i taught them,” he said, nodding toward the spiraling mark, “the secret of how to defeat the shadows. These are traditional Te’Maroan symbols, and my great-uncle carved them here a long, long time before you were born, as part of a ritual that was believed to protect the people who lived inside the house from danger. The fact that they’re somewhat obscured, kept in safe places, is kind of the point. But when they get completely covered over by vines and moss and dirt, then they are lost, and forgotten.”

  Patrick looked from one face to another, gauging their reactions.

  “This is who we are,” he went on, pointing at the spiraling mark again for emphasis. “It doesn’t matter whether you believe that the old stories are true or not. They still belong to us, they still help define us. They were a really important part of island life, and it was something that the islanders who came here to Recondito felt like it was important to preserve. Just like the Pahne’i stories I’ve told you, and konare and stick fighting, and the songs that the old folks used to sing. If we don’t look after these things, and keep them alive, then they’ll be lost and forgotten, just like these marks have been, and the people that come after us will never know that they were ever here.”

  “So what do you want us to do about it?” Tommy Hulana asked.

  Patrick reached down, picked up the paint can and brush, and then held them out at arm’s length toward the kids. “What you just saw me do. There are marks like this all over the neighborhood, and I need you to find them and take care of them, just like I did with this one.”

  “And that’s it?” Nicky Tekiera. “Just clear out the dirt and crap and put paint in the grooves?”

  “That’s it. Now, there are marks like this on buildings all over this corner of the Oceanview, but you’ll have to go looking for them. They’re usually on the backs of houses, or on the pavement near front doors, that kind of thing. Don’t bother looking anywhere east of Delaney or north past Crouchfield, though. Stick to the southwest part of the neighborhood.”

  From the expressions on their faces, it appeared that most of the kids were mostly swayed by the argument, or at least convinced enough that they didn’t feel the need to debate the point. But even if they were onboard with the idea that it was important to keep up the old traditions, would they be willing to put in the work to do so themselves?

  “All right, then,” Patrick said, bending down and picking up the handful of brushes that were sitting beside the paint can. He straightened up, and held the brushes out to the kids on the open palm of his hand. “Can I count on you?”

  A few of the boys exchanged dubious looks, and Patrick saw that he might have to sweeten the deal.

  “And when you’ve finished cleaning them all, I’ll throw a pizza party for the whole group,” he added.

  That brought them around. Nothing like the offer of free pizza to motivate a group of middle-school kids.

  “Okay,” Patrick said with a slight smile. “Let’s get to work.”

  The Kienga twins took charge of the paint can, and the other kids all took a brush each.

  “Now, some of them might be too tall for you to reach from the ground,” Patrick said, dusting his hands off. “So you might want to get a broom from home, or maybe a stepladder. Or maybe you could see if one of your older siblings could pitch in.”

  He nodded toward Regina Jimenez, who was at the rear of the group with her sketchbook clutched to her chest.

  “Regina, your brother’s pretty tall, right? If he helped out, maybe I can arrange for it to count toward his community service.”

  The girl looked up from under her eyebrows at Patrick, a stricken expression on her face, and tightened her grip on the sketchbook.

  “Oh,” Patrick said softly. Had he hit a nerve, mentioning Regina’s brother? Still in high school, Hector Jimenez had been charged with a misdemeanor back in the spring, underage possession and consumption of alcohol, and had lost his driver’s license and been sentenced to thirty hours of volunteer work. He’d come around the school a few times on weekends, helping out with various clean up jobs or minor repairs, and seemed to have gotten his act together.

  “Okay, everybody,” he went on, turning his attention back to the rest of the group and raising his voice. “Get out there and get to work. The sooner those marks are all cleaned off and cleaned up, the better.”

  As the other kids drifted away, heading off in different directions individually or in small groups, Patrick hurried to catch up with Regina, who was shuffling along by herself, her eyes on the pavement in front of her.

  “Regina?” Patrick tapped her lightly on the shoulder to get her attention, trying not to startle her.

  She turned around, flinching slightly. She wasn’t shy, exactly, just reserved, and seemed more interested in the things she wrote and drew in her sketchbook than anything going on around her most of the time. Patrick suspected that she had joined the Te’Maroan Cultural Enrichment program in large because he would let her sit and draw in the back of the room without bothering her, though he knew that her Te’Maroan grandmother on her mother’s side had been pleased to hear that Regina was taking an interest in island culture.

  “Sir?” she said in a quiet voice.

  “I just wanted to ask about Hector,” Patrick explained. “Is he doing okay?”

  She looked at the ground at her feet for a moment, and seemed to be considering her answer before opening her mouth.

  “Regina?” Patrick urged gently. “You shouldn’t worry about getting him in trouble. I’m worried about keeping him out of trouble. That’s what the police are here for.”


  She took a breath and then let out a ragged sigh.

  “He’s started hanging around those kids again,” she said. “You know, the ones from before?”

  Patrick nodded. Hector had been arrested back in the spring at a warehouse party out by the docks, in the company of some repeat offenders from another high school.

  “Is he drinking again?” Patrick asked.

  She briefly met his gaze, and then looked away, shoulders hunched.

  “Taking drugs?” Patrick guessed.

  Regina blanched. And then, after a long pause, slowly nodded.

  Patrick let out a labored sigh. If the kid was lucky, he would be staying away from the harder stuff. Patrick had seen far too many kids dip their toes in the water only to find themselves in way over their heads at the deep end of the pool quicker than they could have imagined.

  “He’s going to some place in Hyde Park today,” Regina went on. “The kids he’s hanging around with got their hands on some new stuff that they want to try out.”

  Patrick chewed his lower lip. Maybe there was still a chance to stop Hector before he got in too deep?

  “It comes in, like, this pen thing.” Regina held up her mechanical pencil and mimed the act of injecting it into her arm. “Like the kind kids with allergies use?”

  “You mean Ink?” Patrick said in a rush, his eyes widening. “Your brother is going to take Ink?”

  Regina nodded. “Yeah, I think that’s what he called it. He’s never done it before, but I think he just wants those stupid kids he hangs around with to think he’s cool.”

  Patrick took hold of the girl’s shoulders with both hands. “Regina, do you know where he’s going to go? Where he’s going to take it?”

  “I think so.” She pulled a smart phone out of her pocket. “Mom made us install that Find Friends thing? So we wouldn’t get lost or whatever?”

  She tapped the screen, and then turned it around to show it to Patrick. There was a green dot marked “HECTOR” just the other side of Prospect Avenue, at the edge of Hyde Park.