by Delle Jacobs
"Wouldn't think of it."
The faces of the islanders were unusually blank as they all watched the men in their somber black suits climb back into their carriages. The whips cracked over the horses' backs and the teams plodded up the long path to the hill that separated Hiapo's village from the flat plain of the harbor.
"Ain't no missionary ever treated these folks as bad as them folks do," Bartholomew grumbled.
He was an odd man, John decided.
When the back of the last carriage disappeared beyond the crest of the hill, John let out a huge sigh and wrapped Siren in a bear hug. The islanders burst into raucous laughter. Bartholomew stood aside, shifting awkwardly between his two big feet.
John turned to Bartholomew and clapped him on the back as he walked with Siren back through the gathering of villagers, who performed little dance steps and jiggled aloft whatever tools they had in their hands. John could see a hula organizing itself in their minds. It would be a secret tale for the night dances that would vanish whenever the white men came over the hill.
Kekoa grinned widely, a complete contrast to the solemn face he had shown the haole committee. John laughed back at him. "Where'd you get that name you called her?" he asked.
Kekoa shrugged. "It is not a lie. I only tell of her lineage. It is not so unusual to add parentage to a name."
"For a king, maybe," John said. Then the flicker of a smile curled his lips. "Or a goddess. But you could have just called her Namaka, as you usually do. Why did you invent that?"
"You would not understand. It is too hard for a haole."
The laughter roared through all. Even Bartholomew laughed.
John introduced the man, telling how he had warned John of the danger. But Hiapo and Kekoa only laughed harder.
"We know of Tom Bartholomew," said Kekoa. "He is a haole like you, John Wall, but he is also a good friend like you."
But Tom Bartholomew was a man with hidden sadness. Hiapo asked him to stay, but the man only shook his head and soon was gone, over the road to Honolulu and wherever it was he had found to live in the hot, dusty town.
As the evening grew long and they had passed their evening meal, Siren rose and walked along the crescent-shaped sandy beach to the point, looking out toward the leeward side of the island, past Honolulu Port and out to sea at the rapidly setting sun, turning the sky so deeply orange, it hurt John's eyes.
He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. Often he found her staring at the sea like this, and he would see the longing in her eyes. He kissed her neck, and saw the tilt of a smile on her lips.
Hand in hand, they walked along the rugged point as the tide quietly receded, baring the black rocks and showing the tops of the coral barely beneath the surface. The bright fireball sun dropped rapidly below the horizon, and darkness came quickly. Although they heard other couples near them making love in the darkness, they just lay quietly on the dark rock and watched the stars come out.
"Where is your Summer Sea, Siren?" John held her graceful hand and stroked over her palm with his thumb.
"It is wherever I wish it to be."
"Where is that? Can you see it from here?"
"It is far away."
"You miss the sea," he said.
"I am Siren," she said quietly. "I have decided."
Yes. She had. She had decided to give up her Summer Sea. For him. Could she never go back? He knew if he asked that question, she would not answer. Had she become mortal? She would not answer that either. He would have to be more oblique, or change the subject.
"When I sailed the Telesto, sometimes I would climb up to the crow's nest just so I could see the sea all around me. From there, when the day is bright, it sometimes looks like the ship is in a bowl, with dark blue water high up around it on all sides."
Siren twisted her hand in his and wove their fingers together, but she said nothing.
"But I think the Diamond Head must be many times taller than Telesto's mast. Seven or eight hundred feet, I'd guess."
She turned her face toward him, her green eyes lit with curiosity. "The Summer Sea cannot be seen, John Wall."
"But think how much of the ocean we could see from there. Do you want to climb it?"
"I have not seen the sea from such a place."
"Then tomorrow, let us climb the Diamond Head."
In the morning, they filled gourds with water and wrapped some food and a papaya in bark cloth, and began the climb. Under protest, Siren wore the shoes, but John refused to go if she did not. The day grew hot, for there was no shade from the time they left the forest for the high slopes. As the day wore on, the sun grew hotter. His fear for her fair skin proved valid, for it was reddening. Perhaps it was a sign that she had indeed become mortal. His own skin had long since been leathery brown from all his years on the glaring sea, but hers, fair though it was, had not changed, until now. In the village, he had noticed the pinkish color, but the shaded shoreline and the frequent clouds of the island's windward side had kept her from burning badly. Now he began to worry.
He was prepared. He produced a smock shirt he had found for her in Honolulu Port and a hat woven from palm fronds. She frowned, but accepted the gift. He thought then it must be so, for Siren would not tell him of her vulnerability, yet she would know of it.
By mid afternoon, they had reached the rim on the low side, and descended into the ancient crater, having followed an overgrown trail that switched back and forth, along the mountain's steep side. They rested in the only shade available, provided by the flat-floored crater's steep wall to the summit, drank water that had grown warm and ate the fruit that had gone soft. As the evening approached, they returned to their climb, this time more strenuous, and long before sunset, they stood on the summit and gazed out over an ocean that was as majestic a deep marine blue as he had ever seen.
The setting sun turned her long, long hair shining gold and copper as the stiff wind whipped it about. She stood tall and straight, breathing in the glorious beauty of her view. The sea darkened, the sky became orange, with deep purple stripes and bulbous clouds that reached upward from glowing sunset into night. Briefly, so quick, he almost doubted he saw it, green fire flashed at the horizon, then the ball of fire that was the sun dropped as if it fell into the sea.
Siren removed the hat she had tied to her head, then the smock and the muu muu beneath it. Lastly she bent to untie the shoes she found so clumsy and set them atop her garments to weigh them down against the wind. Quietly, John stripped off his garments and stood nearby, feeling almost the intruder in her silent prayer to the sea.
In the growing darkness, she extended her arms straight ahead of her to the distant horizon, by now a nearly invisible line between darkening sky and darker water. Then the song began.
It was not a song he had heard before, yet it rang with the exquisite, clear beauty he remembered. It rolled over the cliffs and down through the valley to the sea, undulating, scaling up and down, and echoing off the clouds. John stared in awe at the beauty of song that tore through his heart, feeling the depth of her longing for her beloved Summer Sea. And rolling back over the waves came the deep male response of the seas, pouring out its love for its beautiful Siren. Tears filled John's eyes and were blown away by the savage wind that raked the crest of the Diamond Head. The sea had always been one with her, and now they were rent apart.
Whether she was the goddess of the sea or not, he could never say, for whatever Siren was, was beyond his comprehension. Hiapo called her Namaka-o-Kaha'i. Others in other places, she said, called her Kaah, or by myriad other names he could not pronounce. He only knew she was more than he could understand. She had said Sirens were not immortal, yet she had also told him of lifetimes beyond his own, so he could not imagine what she had given up.
She had come ashore to live with her lover, the penniless haole. She had truly breathed life into him when he would have died from the sea's ravages. Given him a new life beneath the sea where they had lived in perfect harmon
y. And it had not been enough.
And then she had given all of that away. For him. And he had nothing to give back.
For hours, Siren sang, and John listened, captured and enthralled by her music. The clouds bloomed against the bright silver disk of the moon, and the waves crashed their lacy white caps against the pale crescent of sand at the ancient volcano's feet, and all of it sang together, an exquisite harmony of love and longing.
Yellow streaked dawn came, then brightened in hibiscus colors. Siren lowered her arms to her sides and smiled.
"I am Siren. I have chosen."
"Have I also any choice in this, Siren?"
She turned to him with a cross frown. "Have you chosen, John Wall? If you have not, then I do not want you."
Had he? Yet, yes, he had. Perhaps he had chosen the very moment his lips had first touched hers and they had slipped into the sea. Why, he realized, he might never know, but it no longer seemed important.
When the sun shone bright enough for them to follow the narrow, gravelly path, they began their descent, and they reached the path from the coast road to the village in late afternoon. As they straggled wearily into the village, eager to reach the hut and rest in its shade, John spotted a stocky sandy-haired man talking to Hiapo. He felt a thud of trepidation hit his heart.
Tom Bartholomew.
Chapter 12
A fierce possessiveness swept over him at the sight of the man he'd decked in the tavern. No matter that the fellow had more or less managed an apology. John glanced at Siren, glad to see she had not removed the smock shirt he had given her. The odd jealous protectiveness surprised him, for the man had done nothing but help Siren.
Bartholomew saw them approaching, and he made an obeisance to the old man that surprised John, for few white men would know or even trouble themselves to learn the native way of showing respect to an elder. But then, Kekoa had said they considered him a friend. Bartholomew turned and walked toward them, his eyes fixed on Siren as if she were some sort of ghost.
"Bartholomew," John acknowledged, but it sounded like he was growling again.
"Wall. Good to see you."
John grunted. He'd never been fond of social lies. "What are you doing here?"
"Come to see Hiapo. Haven't been here in a long time. Used to have me a wahine—she died. Measles."
"Sorry," John replied.
"Should of come a long time ago. Just couldn't make myself do it. But it was good to see him again the other day. I should of stayed. I lived here oncet."
There was nothing for it but to invite the man to eat with them. But Hiapo had already done it, and this time Batholomew had agreed to stay.
The old man called for a feast to celebrate the visit of his haole friend. Bartholomew sat with John and Siren in the place of honor on Hiapo's platform while they were served the traditional foods, and drums and rattles played the sounds of the feast. John could tell by the sounds that tonight would be one of those nights Hiapo called for the hula. And as tired as he was, John wished they could have simply gone to bed in their little hut without even eating. But he would honor Hiapo above all men, and Hiapo had taught him hospitality was to be honored above all, in dealings with other men.
Bartholomew could hardly keep his eyes off Siren, and John seethed quietly. But it was not polite for Bartholomew to address her directly, so he did not. John wished he could punch the man in the gut for his ogling, but that too would be disrespectful to the old man.
Bartholomew set down the wooden bowl that had held his poi. "Did you hear the wind last night, Wall?"
John frowned at the man. He'd heard the wind and a hell of a lot more. "Yes."
"Sound strange to you?"
"Thought it sounded beautiful."
"So did I. Thought it sounded like the Siren's song. Ever hear the Siren singing, Wall?"
"Yes."
"Never heard anything more beautiful. People all over Honolulu are talking about it. They're saying it was the wind whistling through the trees, but it wasn't. I thought it was like the Siren's song. But it wasn't that, either."
Throwing the man a guarded glance, John asked, "Why do you say that?"
"Because the Siren's song is so beautiful it makes me weep. Makes me want to jump into the ocean and join her. Didn't feel that, quite."
"I heard, maybe there are many Sirens," John replied. "And maybe a man hears only the one who calls to him."
"Scares me so much I almost piss," Bartholomew said. "I seen men walk right up to the gunwale and jump into the sea. That's what I want to do when I hear her. Or see her. Ever see a Siren, Wall?"
"I've seen her."
"I ain't ready to die, Wall. She calls me. She devils my dreams with her flowing blonde hair. I can't sleep. That's why I gave up sailing, because I was afraid I'd go overboard, and I ain't ready to go."
Siren rose from where she sat against her heels beside John, and crossed in front of them. From the still-laden low table, she scooped up thick gray poi into their koa wood bowls and brought them back to the two men. She knelt before Bartholomew and sat the bowl before him.
"Do not fear the Siren's call, Tom Bartholomew. If it is not your time, you will not go. If it is your time, you will go."
His stare at her was a mix of deadly fear and horror, then softened to mere astonishment.
"Hiapo calls you Namaka-o-Kaha'i," he said. The sea goddess." He sent a wide-eyed sidelong glance at John. "T'ain't possible."
"I know," John replied.
"How come you're alive, then, Wall? Is this it?"
"I told you there's no explaining it."
"Yeah. Yeah, I surely do see why you don't say much."
"Do not fear, Tom Bartholomew," Siren said again. "There is much you do not know, but you will not regret what you must do."
Then she returned to her place beside John.
The drums, the deep-toned ones they kept hidden in dark caves, came out. The hula began. This time, when the singer began his tale of the sea goddess, three women wearing short, thickly bunched skirts and leis circling ankles and wrists and crowning their heads, began a fluid, swaying dance. The story, John now understood, was told in the hands.
It was told in the hula that Namaka-o-Kaha-I, was sister to the goddess Pele, who was the fire of the great volcanoes, or the ancient homeland of Tahiti. When Pele stole her sister's husband, she fled, and Namaka-o-Kaha'i followed in anger. Pele came to the Islands of Hawaii, first to Kauai in the north, but her sister followed and everywhere Pele put her digging stick in the ground, Namaka-o-Kaha'i caused the waves to rise up and fill the hole. And so Pele fled to the next island, and the next. But each time the sea goddess raised the sea against her sister. Finally, when Pele reached the biggest island, Hawaii, she hurried high up the mountain to thrust her stick into the ground, flinging fire at her sister the whole way, and causing the sea goddess's hair to burst into flames. Try as she might, Namaka could not make the waves reach her sister, who thrust her stick into the land, and there she stayed, raising the enormous volcanoes that spew fire to this day. Namaka-o-Kaha'i returned to the sea, where she had dominion, and Pele never again dared to go near the water where her flame-haired sister awaited. And to this day, the sea goddess, Namaka-o-Kaha'i is recognized by her hair that burns in the daylight.
John privately wondered what had happened to the lover, but he thought it wise not to make mention of it.
"Is it true?" he quietly asked Siren, for he no longer thought such things were nonsense. He himself had heard the sea singing back to Siren.
"Men tell the stories they can understand," she replied.
It would have been proper for John to invite Bartholomew to stay the night in his hut with Siren, but it was the last thing he wanted to do. He had found it hard enough to sleep within hearing distance of the Oahuans. A white man, he didn't think he could handle. But Hiapo spoke of it first, and insisted the man not return over the coast road to Honolulu in the night when the spirits of the old warriors who had been slain
by King Kamehameha roamed along the cliffs and valleys near the Pali. John breathed relief.
Although he made love with Siren that night, it was very quiet, almost tentative, for something about Bartholomew troubled him deeply. John only wanted to hold on to his beloved through the night, more for fear that he would disappear than she, he thought.
In the morning, he rose at dawn and saw Bartholomew waiting for him near the dusty road that wound up the hill and around the old crater called Diamond Head. He shrugged, and joined the stocky American he'd just as soon not see again. For a long time, they just walked, saying nothing.
"No dock work today," Bartholomew said. "Don't know why we're going. The Galinda is still repairing her yardarms. Got the mast done, though. Hull scraped. She'll be going out in a few more days. Guess we'll load her by tomorrow, maybe."
John grunted. He hadn't planned on working the docks today. He'd only gone along because Bartholomew seemed to need something.
"Captain Sligh needs a bos'n. Told him I'm done with the sea."
"Thinking of changing your mind?"
"Don't know." Bartholomew's eyes were fixed on the dirt path ahead of them, but John could see the man's longing for the sea, or perhaps it was for his Siren, etched in every weathered crevice of his face.
Silence came upon them again, and only the muffled shuffle of their footsteps sounded against the loudly singing birds and quiet lapping of a gently rolling incoming tide. The day was growing bright, but early thunderclouds were coming in, already rapidly growing tall and rimed in bright silver by the sun. John knew to expect a warm downpour before he returned to the village.
"She's very beautiful," Bartholomew said at last.
John nodded, as if his silence could speak for him, knowing who the man meant.
"Think you're right, Wall. There's more than one Siren. She's a Siren, ain't she? Only she ain't my Siren."
"How do you know?"
"My Siren sounds different. And she's got blonde hair, not red. Just as long, though. Just as beautiful. You think she's right? About following the Siren, I mean?"