Reef Runics
By W. S. Wetherfell
A Study Of Sunken Pictoglyphs
Associated With A Geognostic Network
Waiting To Be Activated For
Global And Personal Transformation
(As Illustrated By The Author)
Except there were no illustrations.
Next stop, the Internet.
Specifically, that small, exclusive corner of it to which his Uncle Byron had introduced him shortly before departing to ransack the globe's far-flung bookcases—even then, in retrospect, preparing Ambrose to receive the burdensome bequest of Castaway Books.
Wetherfell and his book warranted not even a stub on Wikipedia, but the denizens of Byron's exclusive collectors' forum had bragged about keeping certain works out of Wikipedia entirely. Ambrose started a thread with the title of the work and made one brief query to see what anyone might know about it. Then he returned to the book itself.
The whole thing was printed on the fake parchment; the pages felt slippery, as if no ink would ever dry upon them. The printing job looked antiquated, but numerous clues in the book indicated that it was of recent production, a specimen of the riotous variety that self-publishing had afforded eccentric authors to propagate without a care as to whether the world actually wanted them. It was enough that the authors wanted them! Of most interest, the last dozen or so pages of the book were left blank for notes, and these had been almost completely filled with an elegant cursive script.
The door jingled and he started to say his usual tourist-friendly, " Aloha! " But as he lifted his eyes from the book, his greeting died into " Al…ohhhh… "
"Hey, brah, my ma says you got some money for her you wanna give me."
"Cutty," he said. "Not sure Auntie is cool with that."
Cutty sucked air through teeth the color and texture of coarse, wet sand. "No, man, she's cool. She asked me could I swing by." He pushed up against the counter, fingers frantically drumming on the nautical map laminated there, beating a tattoo on Tauai. To his own surprise, Ambrose found that he had instinctively hidden Wetherfell's notebook under the counter. "She asked me!"
It seemed reasonably unlikely that Cutty would have descended on the bookshop other than at his mother's request, but caution was always warranted when Cutty came around. He'd have to be on high alert for shoplifting, if nothing else. Cutty wore only a pair of ratty khaki board shorts and there wasn't much in the shop he could have hidden in them. But even so.
"Lemme just call her," Ambrose said. "We hadn't agreed on a price."
"Right on." As Ambrose dialed Kailani's number, Cutty said, "How you been, anyway?"
Ambrose watched his hands. Cutty wanted something. Money, that went without saying. But there was an anxious jitter he knew from their teens.
"You heard about the old dude who died at Hollows?" he blurted. And there was the old Cutty. He had a secret but he wanted to boast, couldn't contain it even though he knew he should keep his mouth shut. "I was working for him! Kahuna's apprentice kine ting."
Considering how to get rid of Cutty most efficiently, he said, "Cutty, if I give you money for these books, it's not gonna make it to Auntie. I know you better than that."
"Shit, Brose, you know me, true! But I been working with her, helping out, cleaning houses to make some cash. You call her up, brah, she tell you."
Kailani wasn't answering. Island-style reception. She was no doubt out on some windy road, tucked way back in the folds of the cliffs. He made a judgment call.
"Tell Auntie I give her twenty for the books," Ambrose said. "But I only give ten to you now, and the rest to her next time I see her."
"Only ten? The fuck, brah?"
"These books are shit, Cutty! There's one I have to run down might be worth more to a collector, but I need more time on that. For now…"
Ambrose held up a ten.
Cutty scowled, his premature age lines like twin knife wounds alongside his thin, jagged mouth. Then it uptwisted at the corners, like sutures jerked too tight. Cutty took the bill.
"Maybe your old kahuna should have taught you some money-making spells."
"Dude wasn't into any shit like that," he said, halfway to the door, anxious to blow his cash. "Old Wetherfell just wanna stare at fucking doodles on the rocks."
Ambrose didn't let out his breath till the door had settled and Cutty's shadow cleared away. He went to the website for Tauai Tides , the little local paper that was half come-on to the tourists and half purveyor of their worst nightmares. "Timely as the Tides, and Just as Accurate!" Visitors coming in from the airport, picking up the local paper to see what was happening, were treated to listings of community events, church-sponsored luaus, "The Morning Mahalo," and hair-raising reports of entire families swept from rocks by rogue waves, dengue fever outbreaks, toddlers maimed by monk seals, convertible drivers and passengers killed by falling coconuts while speeding along scenic coconut-tree-lined drives, hikers washed from slippery trails to certain deaths on rocks below, and drownings…many, many drownings. In January, the visitor death counter reset to zero, and the articles that led with "First Fatality of the Year" soon crept up to "Fourth Since February," usually rounding out to a couple dozen by Christmas. The Chamber of Commerce couldn't wait to reset the mortality counter, but the local journalists seemed to take a mordant glee in their reportage. As tourist dollars soared, would the island set new records for spending and fatalities? Throw in a handful of shark attacks, and Happy New Year!
But the news of that morning's drowning was still meager. " Diver Drowns at Hollows Reef… seventy-three-year-old Watson J. Wetherfell of Sonoma, California…"
"Wetherfell's book!" Ambrose whispered. Kept reading.
"…Chained to the rocks in an apparent suicide, he entered the water Monday night and waited in fifteen feet of water as his oxygen ran out.… Discovered by snorkelers Tuesday morning.… Investigators seeking any individuals with knowledge of his activities prior to Monday night."
"Fucking Cutty." No wonder he wanted to brag but was afraid to. What else does he know? And what about…
Ambrose slid the slick green book, Wetherfell's book, the dead man's book, out from under the counter and leafed to the last few pages.
I have secured the services of a local guide, a trustworthy-seeming fellow, part-Hawaiian, although I am disappointed that any knowledge of the authentic Kahuna traditions, as espoused by Max Freedom Long, is clearly lacking from his education, no doubt due to the lingering influence of Christian missionaries and their attempted eradication of the old ways. Perhaps I can take this one under my wing once the ritual observance has been completed, making him a member of my "Ohana."
"Fucking Cutty," Ambrose said again, a phrase he had uttered many times. "And you, Wetherfell, a fucking terrible judge of character. 'Trustworthy'?"
A reply had appeared to his post on the collectors' forum. The message was from Bibliossifer , an irascible sort whose opinion Uncle Byron had valued highly.
Bibliossifer
Antiquarian
Posts: 4,407 Re: Wetherfell's Reef Runics
«Reply #1»
This guy is a flake. Not that he didn't
sometimes grab a live wire. That's what
happens when you actively peel away
reality's insulation. He believes (believed?
is he still alive?)
"Not right this minute," Ambrose muttered.
in an interconnected network of pictorial nudes
for the global mind,
It took Ambrose a minute to deduce that Bibliossifer had either mistyped or been autocompleted into posting "nudes" when he'd surely meant "nodes." Reading on confirmed it.
basically the intersection points of ley lines,
sacred hotspots that had to be activated by
meditating in their presence. Claimed (on
dubious evidence) that certain ancients
predicted climate catastrophe, rising sea
levels,
everything we're seeing today, but
unlike say Nostradamus they did some-
thing about it. The runes were somehow
key to humanity's survival. Unfortunately,
for him, the runes tended over the ages to
have wound up in dangerous or inacces-
sible places. He was booted out of Tibet for
trying to climb onto the roof of the Potala.
Nearly died in Burma/Myanmar—first of
snakebite, then at the hands of the police.
Exposure and dehydration almost took him
in New Mexico. I can't imagine the quality
of meditation in any of those conditions
could have been very good.
Ambrose typed a reply.
Castaway2.0
Dealer
Posts: 273 Re: Wetherfell's Reef Runics
«Reply #2»
It looks like the remaining site was underwa-
ter, an offshore pictoglyph here on Tauai. He
died on paradise in 15 feet of water. Picked
the wrong assistant.
Survived every manner of hardship for seventy-plus years. Finished off by Cutty in three days.
Is this a book we should snag? And how
much can the Collective get together for it?
Fell into the hands of a good woman who
could badly use a few $ and has no desire to
keep it.
Less than a minute later:
Bibliossifer
Antiquarian
Posts: 4,408 Re: Wetherfell's Reef Runics
«Reply #3»
Definitely get it out of circulation. I think we
can put $500 toward its safekeeping.
Castaway2.0
Dealer
Posts: 274 Re: Wetherfell's Reef Runics
«Reply #4»
Thx. Will advance the $$$ and get reim-
bursed from the pool.
Bibliossifer
Antiquarian
Posts: 4,409 Re: Wetherfell's Reef Runics
«Reply #5»
It'd be worth seeing if he had any other books
with him.
Ambrose glanced at the pile of tattered Cartlands, parted the pages of the topmost, a well-thumbed copy of Lord Ravenscar's Revenge . Inside the cover was an inscription, black ink, cursive: " To my dearest W., himself the soul of Romance and my own Lord R. In love eternal, your darling C. "
Castaway2.0
Dealer
Posts: 275 Re: Wetherfell's Reef Runics
«Reply #6»
Looks like we got them all.
Even then wondering what else Cutty might have made off with.
His cell phone lit up. Kailani. "Hello, Auntie! Good news!"
"Yeah? Ambrose, I sent Cutty over there, did he—"
"He's been and gone. I paid him ten toward a twenty and I'm holding the rest for you, yeah? But in the meantime, one of these books, I've got a collector who'll take it for a pretty good price. How's five hundred sound?"
"Five hundred, no joke?"
"Only thing, Auntie. I just want to make sure…were these books from the house of the visitor who died this morning at Hollows? I mean, it seems like they'd want to get that place cleaned up fast, but still.…"
"No, Ambrose, I been busy with school and taking care of Kai today, haven't done any cleaning. Those are all from yesterday and last week, yeah?"
"Okay. That makes it simpler, then."
Simpler but not for him.
"Come by, I'll write you a check, okay? Just you, though. No Cutty."
"Thank you, doll. I be over tomorrow, yeah?"
"Oh, Auntie, one more thing. Cutty said you were—he was helping you clean houses? It sounded a little—"
"What? I can't let that boy in no house with his record! You know better than that!"
"I know Cutty, that's true."
"I think maybe he asked if he could throw some of his old books into my boxes. I said okay to that. Oh no.… Ambrose, were they stolen?"
"Don't give it a thought. If anything, he's getting them from the library bins just like me. No worries, okay?"
"If you say so. I gotta go, this little bird needs feeding."
"Tomorrow. Five hundred."
"Yah, that's good news! I find you!"
"Oh, and hey, you know where Cutty's living these days? I have another ten bucks for him. Is he still up in Schefferville?"
"No, I don't think so, he lost his car and he's down somewhere in Honukai now. He won't tell me where."
But Ambrose had a good idea where to start looking.
* * *
Up Lauhala Canyon, behind the Road's End Market (technically three miles shy of the actual end of the road), was a depressing cluster of unfinished vacation homes, stranded when the regulators preemptively declared the area a flood zone, triggering insurance costs equal to a second mortgage on each property. All stood on thirty-foot columns accessible by stairs that were never finished and in some cases had been partly dismantled. Squatters, in a shifting muddle of loose affiliations, moved through the houses while ownership passed from bank to court and back to bank again. Actual floods had followed the prophetic rezoning and left high mudlines on the pilings under a dense wrapping of vines. Ambrose parked his scooter under a spreading albizia that had grown like a weed in the time since construction stopped. The late-afternoon sun blazed; the air was still and humid this far from the ocean. As he waded through the saw grass, crickets stopped their chirring , like a sentry system working in reverse.
He nearly tripped over a bicycle abandoned at the edge of a concrete pad, then entered the shade cast across the carport by the house above. He stopped before a tent pitched on the concrete, with a pair of familiar, ratty board shorts draped over the angular spine like a khaki flag.
"Cutty! It's Ambrose! Got your ten bucks, man."
A slow unzipping, and Cutty emerged blinking, eyes far away. "Hey, brah. Ten bucks, you said?"
"How much was Wetherfell paying you?"
Cutty's eyes widened and he started to pull back inside, but Ambrose held out the ten-dollar bill and he paused on the threshold of the tent, torn.
"Guess he wasn't paying you enough to keep you from stealing his stuff, huh?"
"What's your deal, Brose? He was just some tourist idiot. I mean, I didn't want to see him dead but he was asking for trouble, disrespecting the ancestors, yeah? Fucking haole thought he was some kine kahuna. I was supposed to be his fucking kanaka lucky charm or some shit."
"You're fencing his books, Cutty. That makes me an accomplice. Your mom, too, for that matter. I don't like to see Auntie in trouble for shit you pulled."
Cutty looked disbelieving and made as if to brush him off. "Nobody cares about no books, brah. Woulda been a lotta trouble for twenty bucks."
"You could be in trouble! One of those books you bagged was like his diary. He talks about hiring you. If cops ever read that thing—"
"You turning me in, Brose?"
"No, man, I just want the story. Listen, seriously. I'm not turning you in, fool. But I need to know. You stole the books before he died, right?"
Cutty fell over backward into the tent and gave a huge sigh. Then, almost immediately, he came out on hands and knees and sat cross-legged in the entry. Resigned. Ambrose heard irritated voices arguing overhead in the squat. "Keep it down, brah, don't want none a them having dirt on me. C'mere. Closer. Hit?"
Cutty had gone back in for a blunt, apparently. He lit it now, the fragrant, dense smoke puffing up like incense to appease the squatters overhead. Ambrose took a short toke, noting that what little flower it had was skunky. He settled opposite Cutty on the concrete pad and passed the doob back.
"I met him at the rental, up Icehouse Road. I was hanging with my mom while she cleaned the place, stocking towels and shit. When he showed up, we got to talking. He was way into my mom cause she's pure Hawaiian, yeah? But the kahuna stuff, shit, he wasn't getting nowhere
with her. She's all about Jesus. So I kind of start answering his questions. He knew about the runes out at Hollows. Wanted to know about diving, where he could rent equipment, find a guide, all that. I talked him into hiring me."
"His last mistake."
"Hundred bucks a day, Brose, to drive around with him. Told him I could get him the kama'aina discount wherever. It was good work for me! Easy! I just turned on the natural charm, you know." Coarse beachy smile. "I had to put up wit a lot of bullshit, though. He wanted to see the heiau , back of Uncle Lucky's, said it had some connection to the runes."
"I happen to know Uncle Lucky said he'd shoot you, you ever set foot on his land."
Cutty raised his hands, innocence incarnate. "I look stupid? I took him up the cliffs by E'e'ki, showed him the rockfall where we used to get high, told him it was the ruins of a old temple built by menehune . There's so much graffiti and shit carved on those rocks, he believed me. We did stuff like that, drove all over the island for three days. At night he did some purification rituals. Finally he was ready for the big dive at Hollows. I took him out to the rock once in the day, just swimming like, so he knew where it was. His plan—and this was all his idea—he gonna dive down and chain himself to it! Yeah, brah! Like a sacrifice! He had full tanks to stay a good long time in some kind of trance or meditation. That Lemurian bullshit, you know? He said all these stones around the world were connected, and he had the wisdom from all the rest of them, and this was gonna be his last one. They all charged up from Wetherfell giving 'em a look, and it only take him meditating over the last one for the whole thing to switch on. Then…I don't know what after that."
Fantasy & Science Fiction - JanFeb 2017 Page 25