5 The Elemental Detective

by Kirsten Weiss

  Donovan shot her an amused glance.

  “I know, I know,” she said. “But the coconut syrup was so good. Do you think they sell it on the mainland?”

  The wind tossed his raven hair, ruffled his white-linen shirt. “If they don’t we can always order some.”

  “Good, then I can stop over-eating.”

  “Are we getting any closer?” He sounded like a bored kid on a long car ride, and Riga bit back a smile.

  “According to my map, the kupua’s house is the next turn on the left.”

  Donovan turned the car up an even tighter path. They wound up the narrow road, its hairpin turns hugging the steep mountainside. Chickens pecked at the red dirt in the drainage gully.

  They hit a pothole, the car scraping the ground, and he winced. “Is it much farther?”

  A green-painted wooden house surrounded by wide-leafed plants appeared around the bend.

  “That must be it,” Riga said.

  The car ground to a halt in front of wooden steps leading up to a porch. A dream catcher hung behind a window, and iridescent whirligigs hung from the rafters, spiraling lazily in the warm breeze.

  Riga got out of the car. Donovan did not.

  She stuck her head in. “You coming?”

  He held his cell phone, looking at it with loathing. “I’m sorry. I need to make a call first. Do you mind going on without me?”

  “Nope.”

  She walked up the porch steps. Two surfboards lay tilted against one wall.

  The screened front door swung outward and a bearded man emerged. He was tanned, fit, and Riga figured he probably ate only raw food and did yoga at sunrise. None of which was such a bad idea. Her muscles twinged. She really needed to get back to her hapkido workouts.

  “Mrs. Hayworth?” The kupua extended a hand, and she took it. “I’m Mark Harrison.”

  “Hi, I’m Riga. My husband, Donovan, is in the car. He had to make a call.”

  He gave her a pitying look. “It’s hard to get away from work.”

  “He’s actually been doing a pretty good job of it, until now.”

  “I meant you, actually.”

  She laughed. “Is it that obvious?”

  “I can see it in your aura. So, no, it’s not that obvious. Would you like to come inside? Or shall we wait for Mr. Mosse on the porch?”

  “I think we can go in,” she said.

  He stepped back, and Riga caught the screen door, following him. A wide space opened before her. Low benches had been built into two walls in an L-shape, and they were cushioned with natural-colored fabrics and throw pillows. Behind the benches, open square windows, their blue-painted shutters wide, revealed lush trees framing an ocean view. A colorful throw rug lay on the wood plank floor. In an empty corner, a rolled yoga mat stood propped against a wall.

  “This is a great space for yoga,” Riga said. With a view like this, she could almost imagine herself stretching for the sunrise. Almost. “Do you practice regularly?”

  “Yoga, surfing, a little running… Very little running. You?”

  “Some martial arts, but I recently moved and haven’t practiced much lately. I need to find a new dojo.”

  “Don’t put it off.”

  She sat on one of the benches, turning her back on the view.

  “So, you say you’re interested in Hawaiian magic?” He sat on a meditation cushion on the rug, his legs folding easily beneath him.

  “Yes. Three things.”

  He laughed. “Only three?”

  “Two are fairly wide-ranging issues. I’m a metaphysical detective, and I practice ceremonial magic. So I have a basic grounding in magical theory,” she said, shifting uneasily, not liking to advertise. Or was it just that she didn’t like to advertise her recent failures?

  “More than basic, I suspect.”

  “Donovan and I have been having some unusual experiences on the islands. That’s the first thing, and I’ll wait for him to finish his call, if you don’t mind, before I ask you more about it.”

  “And the second thing?”

  “Under the Hawaiian system, how would one go about affecting the elements? Water, specifically.”

  “That’s a big question, and there are lots of answers. But speaking to you, I find that I want to tell you about grokking. Are you familiar with it?”

  Mentally, she tabbed through libraries of magical journals, came up empty. “No.”

  “Then you’re not a science fiction fan,” he said. “It was coined by Robert Heinlein in his book, Stranger in a Strange Land.”

  “And it’s part of Hawaiian magic?” she asked, skeptical.

  “It’s the easiest English-language word to describe this type of healing. It’s to understand something or someone from the inside. To be so sympathetic, to walk in their shoes, so to speak, that you can enter the spirit body of the person or the thing being grokked, merge with it, and help it change.”

  “Isn’t that somewhat manipulative?”

  “It’s not intended to be. Perhaps I haven’t explained it well enough. All the kupua, or the grokker does, is share the dream of what the grokker wants to happen. It is completely up to the grokee if he or she or it wants to accept or reject the dream.”

  “How exactly does grokking work?”

  “Think about it,” he said. “Everything is energy. So everything is vibrating, and that vibration creates a broadcast, a pattern. Patterns can be changed.”

  It was a common magical theory, and one that she herself had experienced. But she knew that each tradition had its path to manipulating that energy. “That’s the theory – but the practice?”

  “It’s quite simple. You close your eyes, connect with the energies around you, and then merge with all the bodies of the grokee – spiritual, mental, emotional, and physical. Then visualize your dream of change. Become it. Change your own behavior as if you were the grokee, because in a sense, you already are.” He held up a warning finger. “But you can’t completely become the grokee. You need to be able to remember why you’re there, and who you are, so you can accomplish your mission. Then when you’re finished, you unmerge.”

  She raised her brows. “Mm. Simple.” They were getting off track, she knew, but she could never resist a good rabbit hole when it came to magic.

  “It is, and it isn’t. The grok will only succeed if you can banish your own negativity, fill yourself with unconditional love. For many people, this is the greatest barrier.”

  “And with grokking you can control the elements, such as water?”

  “You can’t control nature, but you can influence it. Unlike man, nature is open to multiple possibilities. In a way, this makes it easier to grok, because it can be influenced to do something it might have done anyway. The wind may blow in any direction, so any direction is possible.”

  “So one would try to become the spirit of the water, imagine oneself as the water, to grok it?”

  “Not try, do.” He smiled wryly, stretching his arms across the back of the cushions.

  Seated with the lush jungle behind him, sunlight winking off his golden hair, he presented a Buddha-like picture of contented goodness, of alignment with the world. But in her gut she felt an odd twist of… disgust wasn’t quite the word for it. Superiority? Was this her natural cynicism raising its treacherous head? Or something worse?

  I don’t have to be the wrong kind of necromancer.

  Yes, you do.

  I don’t need to use blood. I can choose my own way.

  Dark laughter echoed through her mind.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “No. Yes,” she said, feeling like a worm. Mark was helping her, freely sharing knowledge. Where were these crummy thoughts coming from? “I’m sorry. Things have been—”

  “Hello?” Donovan called.

  “Back here,” Mark said, twisting in his seat.

  Donovan walked into the room, and Mark’s eyes widened. He turned to Riga. “Wow,” he mouthed.

  Her men
tal darkness evaporated. A bubble of laughter rose in her chest. Donovan had eclipsed her again.

  “Sorry about that,” Donovan said. He sat down beside Riga, and draped his arm behind her shoulders, over the back of the cushions. “What did I miss?”

  Lips slightly parted, Mark studied Donovan.

  “I wanted to ask him about what I saw on the Kalalau trail,” she said. “May I?”

  He shrugged. “You saw it. I didn’t. Go ahead.”

  “Kalalau trail is a special place,” she said. “Isn’t it?”

  Mark nodded.

  “We saw many Hawaiian spirits walking the trail.”

  “Then you are fortunate to have such a gift.”

  “Is it a sacred place?” she asked.

  “An old place.”

  “When we were on the trail,” she said, “Donovan seemed strangely energized, unnaturally surefooted. So I checked his aura. It seemed like the auras of the plants and of the trail itself were reaching for him, blending with his own.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Mark said. “You have powerful mana, Mr. Mosse.”

  Donovan’s lip quirked. “Mana?”

  “Your spiritual energy. It’s remarkable.”

  “And the trail might react to that?” Riga persisted. Why had the menehune wanted her to see this? Or had there been something else on the trail, something she still didn’t understand?

  “Of course. As I said, everything is energy, and everything resonates. If your husband’s energy field – his aura – was resonating at a sympathetic frequency to the land, it would be attracted to him.”

  “But I haven’t seen the land connect with him at home, where we live,” Riga said.

  “Perhaps, Mr. Mosse, your resonance has changed recently. Your state of mind will determine which energies will resonate with you. A negative state of mind will attract negative, and vice versa.”

  “From a magical perspective, is there anything else special about that trail?”

  His white teeth flashed. “You want more than spirits and natural auras?”

  “One more question,” Riga said. “What can you tell us about the menehunes?”

  “The little people?” Mark laughed. “Never met them. Some of my friends swear they exist, but I haven’t had an opportunity to study the phenomena. There is much to learn from the Hawaiian philosophy of huna – it’s a lifetime of study, a path, a journey. Menehunes are not an avenue I’ve explored yet.”

  Riga nodded, disappointed. The menehune had wanted her on that trail, had told her she’d seen what she needed to. What the hell had she seen? Her discussion with Mark had been fascinating, but she remained baffled. “Thank you.”

  Donovan snuck a look at his watch.

  “I wish we could stay longer,” Riga said, “learn more. But we’re on a schedule.”

  The kupua tilted his head. “Life is long. Perhaps you’ll return some day, and we can talk about the mysteries of the menehune.”

  They stood, and Mark walked them to the door. As she passed beside him, he leaned toward her. “Lucky girl,” he said, under his breath, darting a look at Donovan.

  She smiled. “I agree.”

  Riga and Donovan got into the car and drove away.

  “What are you thinking?” Donovan asked after a long silence.

  “That I’d rather be a kupua than a necromancer.”

  “Riga, you can be whatever you want to be.”

  “Yes, but there’s no use denying one’s natural… talents.”

  The highway opened up, unfurling like a wave, and the Ferrari cut through clefts in the flattening hills. They swung inland, and soon found themselves driving beneath a canopy of Eucalyptus trees. The trees arched over the road, a living cathedral.

  A sign indicated Koloa, and Donovan turned onto a smaller, residential street. More turns and they were in the center of the town. Neatly painted wooden buildings with sloped, tin roofs lined the main street. They cruised past a shop with a fifties-era Texaco pump and a life-size wood carving of an attendant, oil can in hand. A family picnicked in an open, park-like area across the street, beneath what appeared to be a ruined Norman church. Riga did a double take. The island could not possibly have a ruined Norman church.

  Donovan pulled behind some shops, and parked in a lot beneath a monkey puzzle tree.

  “We’re meeting that seal responder, Petra, at her gallery,” he said, and hopped out of the car.

  Riga’s heel caught on the floor mat, and she flipped it free, stepped out. “The last person to see Dennis alive. Except for the murderer. Unless she’s the murderer.” Reaching behind her, she unpeeled her damp tank from her back. The air was humid, unmoving. A bead of sweat trickled down her chest.

  “Let’s think positive,” he said.

  “Would thinking positive mean she’s the killer?”

  “Thinking positive would mean getting some clarity.”

  Riga laughed hollowly.

  They passed a dive shop and paused before a green-painted wood building. A sign in the window declared: Hawaiian Arts and Crafts. The window was filled with wooden carvings, paintings, jewelry.

  “See anything you like?” Donovan asked.

  She tilted her head, admiring the curve of his muscles beneath his slacks. “Yes, but not in the window.”

  “Mmm… For that, I may let you join me in the shower when we get back to the hotel.”

  “Let me?”

  He grinned at her then leaned forward, his attention caught by what appeared to be a flattened wooden mallet studded with sharks’ teeth. A leather thong was strung through one end. “Now that’s a helluva weapon.”

  Riga preferred her Kimber .45. If she had to put holes in someone, she’d rather do it from a safe distance. But she nodded. “Looks deadly. And beautiful.”

  “My kind of girl.”

  They walked inside, setting the bell over the door ringing. A gust of frigid air blasted them and Riga’s skin shivered beneath the air-conditioning. More Hawaiian art and shark-teeth studded weaponry lined the walls. On a square island in the center of the shop, racks overflowed with hair sticks and cheap jewelry.

  Behind the cash register, a woman looked up from her magazine and brushed a strand of ash blond hair behind one ear. Her eyes blinked a startling shade of dark blue. “Aloha!” She was long and lean and tanned to leather.

  “Hello, I’m Donovan Mosse,” he rumbled. “And this is my wife, Riga Hayworth. We have an appointment with Petra Singleton.”

  She closed the magazine. “That’s me. Welcome to the islands, Mr. and Mrs. Mosse.”

  “I have to ask.” He pointed at the flattened mallet in the window. “What is that?”

  “That is a leiomano.” She went to the window and gently removed it from its stand, handed it to him. “As you’ve no doubt guessed, it’s a traditional Polynesian weapon. But it’s really a piece of art. The teeth are tiger shark. Here.”

  He grasped it in one fist.

  “You loop the cord around your hand so you can release the leiomano and swing it if necessary. It’s sort of a mix between a club and a dagger.”

  He swung it experimentally. “Nice balance.”

  “It’s a beautiful piece,” Petra said.

  “Take a look at this, Riga.” He handed it to her.

  The wood was smooth, felt right in her palm. Gently, she touched one of the teeth and a drop of scarlet welled from her finger. “Ouch!”

  “Careful.” Petra laughed weakly. “I guess that warning came a little too late.”

  “My fault.” Riga handed the leiomano back to Donovan and sucked her fingertip. She’d expected sharp, but not these jagged little razors.

  “Now that you’ve bloodstained it, we’ll have to buy it,” Donovan said.

  “Was that your plan?” Riga asked.

  “Rubbish. You absolutely do not have to buy it.” Petra smiled impishly. “But I’d love it if you did.”

  “Then buy it we shall.” He handed it back to her. “Can you box it?
”

  “Certainly.” She scurried behind the counter and dove for boxes and tissue paper.

  Riga leaned against the counter, watching. “We understand Dennis Glasgow took over your seal watch the night he was killed.”

  Petra jerked, fumbled with the leiomano. Caught it. “Well, you do get right to the point, don’t you?”

  Right after Donovan bought an expensive piece of art, Riga thought wryly. “What time did you leave him on the beach?”

  Petra shoved some jewelry stands aside, and spread tissue paper upon the counter. “It was a bit after midnight.”

  Riga prowled around the counter, watching her jerky movements, her stiff posture. Was the woman naturally uptight or was this a reaction to the questioning? She relaxed her gaze and Petra’s aura unfolded, hot pinks and snapping blues. Naturally uptight, Riga decided. “Did you talk at all?”

  “I suppose we did. The usual chitchat.” She laid the leiomano down and folded paper around it.

  “And what was the usual chitchat?”

  “Oh, you know. How’s it going, has anyone approached the seal, seen any unusual activity?”

  “And had you?”

  “No. The beach was dead quiet.”

  “Was anyone around when you left?” Riga pushed on the edge of her magical senses, expanded outward. Felt a tug from a weathered paddle hanging high on a wall.

  “Sorry,” the shop owner said, “I didn’t see anyone. And I certainly wouldn’t have left if I’d known someone was lurking, waiting to harm the seal.”

  Riga tore her gaze from the paddle. “Not to mention Dennis,” she said dryly.

  “Him too, of course.”

  “Did you hear anyone?”

  “Nope. Sorry,” she said cheerfully.

  Donovan handed her his credit card. “How well did you know Dennis?”

  “Not very well. We only knew each other through the Society, saw each other at meetings, at seal watches. I liked him. He was always cheerful. He got along with everyone.”

  “And the Aquatic Protection Society?”

  “Oh, they’re marvelous. They really get it. And they have teeth. Townsend has completely transformed the place. Before it was all about public awareness. Now they’re actually doing something real. That’s why I got involved. And if I catch the person who killed that seal…” She drew a finger across her neck.