by Matt Larkin
Was that related to her father’s affinity for blood?
Pele kept her jaw set, her pace steady. Kū-Waha-Ilo could probably smell fear and she could not afford it, regardless. Any weakness would leave her vulnerable to him.
As she pushed deeper, she felt the fires of the Earth growing closer. Magma ran beneath the stone here, warming her feet and thrilling her soul, like a caress over every bit of her skin at once. It tickled her tongue and left her fingers twitching. She had delved deep enough to draw near to the source fires that fed Kīlauea, hadn’t she? The heart of flame, where the Earth brushed against the World of Fire far below, whence Maui had stolen the First Flame.
“You feel it, don’t you?” The voice came from the shadows ahead, reverberating through the tunnel, almost omnipresent.
Pele continued onward, into a more open cavern. A rent struck down the middle of the floor, allowing a hint of incandescent light to creep up from it, and puffs of sulfuric vapors and other toxins that might have poisoned a mortal who tread here.
“You’re here,” she said.
“Observant. You are almost ready.” The voice still came from everywhere, Kū-Waha-Ilo refusing to show himself, as if she did not, by now, know what he was behind that guise. His voice sounded too large. He sounded too large, as if the kupua filled the entire cavern but remained invisible. Maybe he was.
Supposing the truth about his nature did not exactly leave her aware of the extent of his abilities.
“Ready for what?”
“The reason for your life. The destiny for which Haumea bore you. The chance to become, like me, a servant to something greater. A shifting of the world order. A hope, however fragile, that if we cling tightly enough to the world and the future, we might break the cycle that keeps the world bound in eternal servitude.”
Pele turned about slowly, flaring flames up in both hands. She paced the cavern, shadows receding from her yet not revealing Kū-Waha-Ilo. Where was he hiding? “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Did you summon the vile ghost that haunts Puna?”
“It is not here for me.”
Pele spun at the voice, but still, nothing but shadows. Did he lie? It suddenly occurred to her she had no way to tell if Kū-Waha-Ilo misled her nor to force him to speak the truth if he didn’t wish to. “Can you send it away?”
“I will not. It is your burden to bear. A test, if you wish, of what you can become.”
“Become? What does that mean?”
“Even an ordinary human, sufficiently self-aware, might begin to see the otherwise invisible chains that hold reality together. Enlightenment is the first step in freedom from those chains. And you are more than human. You bear two grand bloodlines to give you the advantage, a leap forward, a chance to break the bonds and see the truth.”
Pele frowned. He had changed. Or at least, he had altered the way he spoke to her and dealt with her. No longer did he seem to treat her as an ignorant child, but as a pupil on the verge of some epiphany.
A pit opened in her stomach.
A realization.
That was exactly how Lonomakua had always treated her.
As if he had presented a puzzle before her and trusted her to solve it in her own time.
“You won’t help me banish the ghost?” Somehow, she’d managed to keep her voice steady, despite the pounding of her heart.
“No.”
Pele sneered. Two thousand miles across the Worldsea, and still she was not free of him or the legacy of his corrupt bloodline.
And she had completely wasted her time with this creature. He would never help her in any way that mattered.
Shaking her head, she stalked from the cavern.
Fires reflected off the evening sea. Three large pyres, one for each villager who’d lost his or her life the past night. And people didn’t dare linger until true nightfall.
Pele had returned to Puna to find funerals. She’d known when she saw the fires. Known the lapu had claimed more victims.
Kū-Waha-Ilo might have helped save the need for some of those flames. By refusing he had, in his way, almost lit the pyres himself. Not Naia or Milohai, ‘aumākua be praised—they remained alive—but these victims were still her people, and she was powerless to help them. As she stood upon the shore watching the fires die out, so too she watched the flames of those who counted on her now slip from the Earth and return to the Worldsea.
She had to clench her fists just to bottle her rage, her growing fury at her own impotence. If she let that anger out, she could annihilate the district with volcanic fires and earthquakes. She could crush an army, but had no way to save the life of a single child claimed by this darkness.
And one of those pyres was the soul of a child, his ghost pulled from the Earth before he had seen ten years. Each smoldering flame was like a little sun, burning her eyes, blinding her. Damning her for failing them. All she could ever come back to was the question: could Kū-Waha-Ilo have stopped this with his secret knowledge?
Pele stood stock-still, unmoving in the evening sea.
No one seemed to know what to do about this lapu.
But still, the kāhuna knew something. Makua danced about, casting off the ghosts, sending away the souls of the lost so they would not linger to haunt the living. No matter how much the living might deserve it.
This ceremony might have happened later at night, if not for the fear pervading the village. By now, the people spoke of a ghost, and Pele had even heard whispers of Nightmarchers. They knew something haunted the dark, and they were afraid. That fear most likely fed the hatred of this spirit. It might not have been sent here by Kū-Waha-Ilo, but it had still found its way into Puna at the same time as him.
Though it took a significant effort of will, Pele tore her gaze from the damning flames and watched the kahuna prophet.
He’d insisted on coming to Puna with her, yet he’d done almost nothing to help her since then. He clearly held some mutual animosity toward Lonomakua, the only kahuna who had ever really helped her. No, Makua had played on Pele’s generosity long enough. He’d used her power to claim his own, becoming important in Puna, gaining authority he had perhaps never had before.
Makua’s rhythmic chants seemed to invoke ‘aumākua and akua both, beseeching them to guide away those who had newly passed. The useless old fool had done nothing to abate the wrath of the lapu, nor to stop Kamapua‘a or even to thwart Poli‘ahu.
He claimed it lay beyond his Art. Meager arts, then. And still, she dared not interrupt his ritual. The last thing anyone needed now was more angry ghosts menacing the living.
Instead, she circled the so-called prophet, making her way to his temple atop the hill.
How blind she had been. So caught up in her struggles she had not recognized Makua a parasite, clinging to her glory while offering nothing in return.
She paused at the top of the temple. It must have taken weeks to gather all the waterworn stones that composed the open-air platform there. In its center stood a brazier burning sacred smoke, lit with a flame that must never be allowed to flicker out. Ki‘i masks ringed the temple. A grass roof covered the brazier itself, shielding it from the heaviest rains and winds, but it was the kāhuna’s duty to keep the flame ever lit. None but a kahuna could approach the fire.
Within those flames lurked a hypnotic message she could never quite make out. Like falling into herself. Perhaps that was the meditative trance Lonomakua had so often urged her to try for. If she truly achieved it, maybe she would find more answers, knowledge beyond human ken. As a kupua, she was far more than human in power, and yet still bound by the limitations of human wisdom—what little there was of that. The kāhuna, on the other hand, were by and large weak old men, but they had at least glimpsed knowledge from Pō.
The prophet’s stumbling gait dislodged gravel, alerting her to his approach long before he crested the hill. She turned to see him, leaning on his walking stick. No doubt exhausted from his dancing and invocations, but she had neither time nor p
atience to concern herself with tact. Not while the lives of so many, of perhaps her entire island, hung so precariously over the volcano.
“My Queen?” he asked, his voice raspy.
“What do you see in the flame?”
“I … There are many sacred mysteries, of course, My Queen.” Sacred mysteries—or the kāhuna’s desire to protect their own importance as the keepers of secret lore.
She closed the distance between them in two strides so she could glare into his eyes from a breath away. “I am the Flame Queen of this island, trained by a kahuna. Do not prevaricate with me, old man. A ghost haunts this village. That means you have failed in your duty, one way or another. So, prophet, prophesy something useful. Now.”
The kahuna fell back, clearly unused to being spoken to this way. After a moment, he composed himself and motioned for her to follow. He led her back to the sacred flame. “I’m not sure I can find the answers you seek. This is your destiny, regardless.”
Her destiny? What was with men telling her about her destiny?
“You can look into that flame and find some answers,” she said. The kahuna could plead ignorance all he wanted. It remained his duty to protect humanity from the Otherworldly. He had lived with power and the reverence of the masses. It was time he earned that. Besides, he had begged her to take him along to this place and had since done almost nothing to aid her. “Find answers to this lapu. Are your eyes so weak? Do you need me to give you a closer look into the flames?”
The kahuna recoiled from her threat and spread his hands, his face that of a helpless child caught in a lie. At last he pointed to the ocean. “You want me to dive in and find you a fish. Not just any fish. You want me to search the Worldsea for a specific fish. Had I a thousand lifetimes and the ability to breathe water, still I could not guarantee success in such an attempt.”
The ground rumbled with her growing irritation. What was he saying? That there was no hope? She refused to believe that. Not now, not ever. “You will try! You do not get to give up. Lives hang by perilous threads!”
At that, she shoved the kahuna—violating several tabus, of course.
A growl escaped the man’s chest. A growl unlike something that ought to have come from anything human.
Pele fell back a step, fires springing up in her hands. It took her a moment to even form words. “What are you?”
“A simple prophet,” Makua snapped, but his voice remained thicker, deeper than it ought to have. Like when Kilioe got angry. Kilioe … daughter of Milolii, a mo‘o. Both of whom had served Kū-Waha-Ilo …
Who had also spoken of her destiny.
Was it … possible? What was Kū-Waha-Ilo doing on Sawaiki? He hadn’t seemed surprised to find out Pele was here, two thousand miles away from Uluka‘a. Because he’d expected her here? Because someone had told him already she’d come for her supposed destiny?
Damn it. “You’re serving him, aren’t you?” Pele took a threatening step toward the prophet. Had Lonomakua known? Was that the source of their animosity? “Who are you, really? A mo‘o?”
Makua—or whoever he was—bared his teeth at her. Teeth too long, and perhaps a little pointed. “You overstep your bounds, My Queen.”
No.
No, Pele suspected she had just begun to find those bounds. “Tell me the truth!” she roared, flaring her flames to engulf her entire torso. “Tell me the truth before I reduce you to cinders!”
“I am not permitted to reveal any more yet.” Makua fell back from the raging inferno now swirling around Pele.
“No more lies, no more games, no more tests.” She stalked closer, backing him up against the wall. “Show me your true form, lizard.”
Makua growled again, his eyes flaring with incandescence, fingers crunching the stone wall behind him.
All at once, he surged forward, caught her round the throat—heedless of the flames melting his flesh—and heaved, sending her flying backward through the air. Pele landed hard on the pebble-strewn ground, the impact knocking out her fires. She coughed, groaned. Forced herself to regain her feet.
Makua stalked closer, seeming torn between retreat and attack. His skin had taken on a scale-like texture, tinged with mottled green, eyes gleaming brighter than ever. Yes, a mo‘o.
This thing had been serving her father. He’d shown up right as she reached Vai‘i, begged to be taken aboard and watched her ever since. He’d reported everything she’d done to her father.
“Banish the lapu,” Pele ordered, reigniting her fires, though it hurt to even stand.
“Banish her yourself. Show us your strength.”
A traitor. A spy. And Pele had no use for either. Snarling, she lunged forward, lashing out with a whip of flame.
Makua leapt into the air, clearing over the tendril with shocking speed and agility, to land a foot away from her. His hand—fingers ending in claws!—snapped up to catch her in the face. Those claws gouged her cheek and sent her screaming back down to the ground.
A foot caught her in the abdomen, hefted her off the ground, and sent her flying back three feet. All air exploded from her lungs. Her stomach heaved. Her vision blurred in a white haze.
The flames wouldn’t answer her summons.
Pele wheezed, desperate for breath, hardly able to move.
‘Aumākua, he was strong.
“Pathetic,” Makua said. “He was wrong about you. Maybe the others will turn out better.”
Gasping, Pele managed to flare flames back into one hand.
Makua had already turned and was stalking away.
No.
No, she wouldn’t let him beat her.
This servant of Kū-Waha-Ilo, who had himself once treated her like this.
No!
Pele managed her knees and cracked her wrist, the lash of flame slapping over Makua’s back. It ignited his kihei and hair, split and roasted flesh, and had him spinning, shrieking in agony. He lunged for her and she whipped her arm again, flames leaping over his face.
The mo‘o fell, screaming, clutching a skull where half his skin had melted off.
Growling, Pele climbed to her feet and struggled to his side.
Makua collapsed, convulsing on the ground for a moment before falling still.
The man didn’t stir at all. In the darkness, the ki‘i masks seemed to be glaring at her. The gods above and below judging her for failures and ineptitudes.
A deafening silence had settled over the temple, such that the only sound she could hear was the crackle of the flame. Even the wind and rain had stopped, ushering in a stillness that stole away her breath as she trod, one halting step at a time, toward the body.
Barely able to breathe, she turned him over. His eyes were wide in a mask of pain. His nose had melted, along with most of his jaw, leaving a not-quite-human skull with fangs. The sickly-sweet stench of his roasted flesh churned her stomach. If anyone saw this, they would have too many questions.
With trembling fingers, she shut his eyes, then slowly pulled him away from the brazier. He was heavy—exceptionally heavy—so she certainly couldn’t lift him. Her breath came in ragged pants by the time she’d managed to move the kahuna even a few feet. This wasn’t going to work.
She’d need help to move the body.
Upoho could easily do so, but the wererat avoided Pele, for good reason. She winced even considering what she’d done to him. No, she’d have to call on Lonomakua. She could count on his discretion, too.
Pele headed down from the temple.
Halfway down the hill, she felt a fuming presence behind her. Chest tight, she spun. A silhouette passed in and out of a fog bank, flanking the temple. Perhaps it could not enter here. And where had that fog come from? Moments ago, the night had been clear.
Then, all at once, the fog congealed and began to flow through the gate, into the heiau.
What? So, it could come into the sacred place.
Her stomach falling, Pele lit torches in both hands and ran toward the temple as fast as her legs co
uld carry her. But she was racing the wind. Already, the fog had settled around the spot she had left the fallen mo‘o. All at once, the supposedly dead kahuna wailed, a sustained scream of torturous agony that sent Pele stumbling to her knees.
A profound sense of desolation seized her. What had she done? Thanks to her, the kahuna had fallen, lost to the world.
The ghost haunting this place would soon have companions.
There was a story Kamalo had told her a while back, about some forgotten village. It had been overtaken by lapu, the entire population slain and transformed into more ghosts. An army of kāhuna had stood against them, many losing their lives in a final attempt to turn the tide. They failed. According to the story, that was why no one lived on the Lost Island. It was barren, barely fit for plant life, and certainly not for mankind.
The fog had not dissipated, instead settling upon the temple. And a silhouette moved through it, stalking toward her.
“Damn you.”
Was this the ghost who had brought them to such a pass? She would not allow Vai‘i to fall. Would do whatever it took to stop that from happening. The figure continued to edge ever closer toward her, and Pele, despite her clenching stomach, stood her ground. As it emerged from the fog, though, she realized it was not the lapu.
It was the kahuna.
“Y-you’re alive?”
He no longer seemed pained by the burns on his face. Indeed, he moved with a strength that should have been impossible in his condition. And his eyes seemed wrong, hollow, like they didn’t quite recognize her. A primal, soul-rending fear seized her, and she fell back despite her determination to face this.
Makua was not alive at all. That ghost had lodged inside his corpse. Defiling it, denying it rest, and sending it on for further violence. It must have grown stronger.
She flared her flames in her hands, and the prophet—or his body—drew up short, finally given pause.
She shook her head. None of this should have happened. She’d wanted to help people. “I’m sorry … I’m so, so sorry.”
It might have been her imagination, but the corpse almost seemed to sneer at her. If she could do nothing for the mo‘o’s soul, at least she could deny the ghost use of his body. Pele flung both flames forward so their arcs intersected over the corpse. As they did so, she poured mana into them, igniting a detonation like a tiny volcano. The wave engulfed the corpse and hurled Pele from her feet, sending her tumbling several paces away.