“Well, I’m gonna get some sleep.” Rudy yawned. “Be talkin’ at ya laters.”
“Laters, brah.” I nodded; another quick bruddah-shake of the hands and he stumbled off, looking like a grizzly bear searching for his winter den.
* * *
After he left I got to thinking about how he and I had met and become friends.
We’d first seen each other out surfin’ at Kawas, a locals-only surf spot. I knew better than to barge in on another surfer’s turf, but I missed the ocean so bad, since Dad had moved us from Cali to Ocean View, Hawaii.
He’d used mom’s insurance money settlement to do it. What we got from the traffic accident that had taken her away from us.
Mace was still in Afghanistan chasing down bad guys at the time.
Rudy had been the only other guy out surfing on that day. After giving me a quick eye he ignored me and just relaxed on his longboard.
The waves had been small kine and the sets around twenty minutes’ apart. I made sure that he got the first wave every time they rolled through and took the smaller ones. He didn’t say anything to me all day.
At school a couple of weeks later he pushed me up against a locker outside my sophomore English class at Ka’u High School.
“You know about ‘Beat up a haole day,’ right?”
I nodded. How could I not. Hawaii’s schoolkids’ most infamous reverse-discriminatory bullying act. It’d been about the only thing the kids at school had been talking gleefully about for the last week.
“After school at Kawas,” Rudy said.
I nodded again. An unavoidable rite of passage, like Freshman Rush day. I’d spent the whole week getting stink-eye from the local guys. My pale skin, blond hair, and blue eyes shouted California. And locals universally hate Californians.
I heard Rudy tell the others to back off. That my ass was his and his alone, to kick. I felt fortunate, actually. I knew I could take him. Even if he outweighed me by eighty pounds and was three inches taller.
I’d been in boxing classes since I was about seven. I could see that I had both the reach and speed over Rudy. Thing was, I realized it wouldn’t be smart of me to do it. Stories circulated around school about mobs of locals messing up guys’ faces. I had to lose the fight narrowly but hurt Rudy enough to gain his respect.
I expected a whole gang of guys to watch us fight at Kawas, but it was just him and his board. He turned to me as he pulled it off his car rack.
“Where’s your board?” he asked.
“Whatcha mean?” I said. “I thought this was my ass-kickin’ session.”
“True dat. But we can still surf aftas.” He grinned at me, showing his two front missing teeth. He had a reputation for being a pugilist.
“Well, I’m sorry. I can go get it aftas if I’m not beat up too bad.”
He grinned again, reached out his hands and cracked his knuckles. I could read “pain” tattooed on the knuckles of one hand and “ouch” on the other. I gulped.
“You ready?” he said, all polite-like.
I nodded. He charged me like a bull.
I’d like to say I won the fight, but I didn’t. I let him bust my lip and black an eye and returned the favor. Then we danced around till the near-ninety-degree temperature wore him out, and he leaned back against his car in exhaustion. “I’m tired now,” he said.
I nodded, stepped back. He shambled over to his car and put his board back on the rack. “You want grinds?” he asked.
I nodded again, not sure where this was going. He’d just asked me if I was hungry.
“I always gets hungry aftas one fight. Let me cool down and we can go to L&L.”
I knew about L&L, the Hawaiian barbecue place. They had them in Oceanside back in Cali and I liked to eat there.
I still had on my board shorts from school. In Hawaii they’re okay for dress code, so I slipped into the water and cooled off too. Afterward, he followed me to my house in Ocean View and we rode in his car down to the town center and had teriyaki beef and chicken katsu.
After we let the food settle we went back and got my board and had a great surf session.
No one messed with me at school after that. Rudy and I hung out together all the time, though he couldn’t get me to join the football team with him. But we became best buds.
Not long after that, Sybille threw me, and the world had its little nuclear pissing contest. Mace made up a travois and pulled me up to Kahuku Camp where I became the chief pot stirrer and de facto camp guard. I really couldn’t tag along with the hunters until my leg fully healed. That, of course, bummed me out severely.
Kahuku Camp was a new part of Volcanoes National Park, though I suppose such distinctions didn’t matter anymore. We certainly wouldn’t be down at the gate trying to take admission fees from any roving tribal bands.
I finished feeding the pup-dogs and got myself some rack time.
* * *
When I woke up the stew was ready. I joined a short line and got my portion dumped into a tin can. Rudy waved me over.
“Sit, brah. Take a load off that leg,” he said. I stretched my stiff leg out and joined him under a massive ohia tree, one loaded with bright, salmon-colored lehua blossoms.
“How’s the stew today?” I asked, knowing in advance the answer I’d get. Rudy had contributed the lion’s part of the stew, after all.
“Not bad. You tell me wha’cha t’ink,” he said, talking all pidgin.
I tilted my can back, took a small sip, picked out some meat carefully, and chewed it while I considered my answer. It was pretty decent, and it didn’t seem like anyone had added rat to it this time. I nodded. “Yep, pretty good.” I couldn’t resist pulling his leg a bit. “Taste’s a bit like mac nuts. You guys huntin’ near Mauna Loa?”
Rudy knew I was talking about the Mauna Loa Macadamia Nut Farm, not the mountain. Mauna Loa Volcano was most of the south end of the island. The Mac farms, though, were on the other side of Manuka State Park, a few miles away. I meant my comment in a good way, too. Pig that tasted like mac nuts was about as good as it got.
“Yep. Our edge.”
I sighed at that. The Honomalino tribe controlled most of the mac nut orchard near us. They let us harvest a few trees from time to time along the edge closest to us, and take a few pigs, but they were adamant that they considered the orchard their domain. Mace kept the peace with pakalolo offerings and coffee trading.
“Mace shouldn’t push our welcome with those guys,” I said without thinking.
“Brah, he knows what he’s doing,” hint of anger in his voice. “Besides, Manuka’s all pau.” Rudy had just told me Manuka was finished—all hunted out.
“We might have to move back to South Point for a while then,” I said. Rudy nodded. He’d like that. He missed the ocean and loved to throw net. Good provider with it too.
Each of the three tribes on the south end of the island had their own fishing grounds. Ours, I already mentioned, was South Point. Honomalino’s was Milolii and Papa Bay. Naalehu used the old beach access at Punalu’u Black Sands beach park.
We probably had the richest fishing grounds for boat fishing, but the most difficult access. There was a forty-foot cliff where boats put in from rickety old hoists. We slapped more lumber to what was already there and lowered our small homemade canoes into the choppy waves when the weather wasn’t too rough. When it was too rough, we fished from shore, mainly kite fishing.
Kite fishing was just what it sounds like, tying a fishing line to a kite and letting the kite take one’s line out to the deeper waters off shore where the big ulua and ahi savaged the schools of bait fish. There was a strong wind off the cliffs at South Point nearly year round. We caught some pretty big fish there. Eighty pounds or more at times.
Rudy looked up at the sky, gauged the sun’s position. “Be dark in an hour. Mace wants me on point again with the pup-dogs.”
I nodded. “He knows you da man wit’ the strong spear arm.”
Rudy grinned at that; silv
er caps now replaced his lost teeth gaps. “D’at fo’ shuh.” His smile slowly faded.
“What?” I said.
“Papa had a strong arm, too.”
I reached over, put a hand on his shoulder, gripped it hard. Rudy’s dad had died from the killer, flesh-eating bacteria that had got into a small cut on his weathered hand while he’d been filleting fish the year before. Really a tragic loss, not only for Rudy, but for everyone in the tribe, because he’d been our most knowledgeable fisherman. “Man, I’m sorry, brah.”
Rudy sniffed, eyes all red, gentle giant with a lot of heart. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hands. “T’anks.”
I patted him on the back. “I bet your papa is lookin’ down on you somethin’ proud today.” Hint of a wistful smile on Rudy’s face.
“Ya t’ink?”
“Yeah, brah. Sure of it. You as good a providah as he ever was. Fo’ reals.”
“Ah, now you got me all ‘bare-assed,’” Rudy laughed.
“I’m not de onlies one den.” I looked over to where Ku’uipo, a cute local girl, was sitting near the fire watching Rudy.
“You should go talk to her,” I continued.
Rudy actually blushed beneath his brown skin.
“Uh, I, um,” he floundered.
Part of me really wanted to tease him, but another part of me knew that Rudy was deathly shy when it came to girls, especially cuties like Ku’uipo.
I smiled at him. “Dude, she’s so into you. Just go talk to her.” I couldn’t resist a little dig to his pride. “Don’t tell me you’ll stare down a three-hundred-pound wild boar with a spear, but are too shy to speak to a girl that weighs less than half what you do. Go on.” I gave his shoulder a friendly push.
Rudy gulped, smiled tentatively at the staring girl. He looked back at me for reassurance. I nodded. “Go on.”
He pushed himself to his feet. Walked slowly over to where Ku’uipo stirred the pot. Sat down beside her. They were too far away for me to hear what they were saying but both were smiling. That made me smile too. I suddenly felt more optimistic about the tribe’s future.
* * *
I sat beside the campfire alone in the dark, sipping the strong Ka’u coffee from the pot I had on the coals at the edge of the fire. Jenny hadn’t felt good, so she’d turned in early.
Mace had insisted on taking Sheba along with the pups this hunt. I decided not to argue with him, even though I felt she was still too worn out from nursing a litter. If he was changing to be more kindly inclined toward the dogs, all the better.
A storm front had passed through in late afternoon, strong winds heralding an approaching cane toad-choker, and now the air felt heavy, the skies darkened, without stars, and the winds had died down to nothing.
I could hear the baying of all three dogs nearby. That was good. I suspected they’d jumped some mouflon, Kahuku’s imported sheep from back in the old days when the ranch was a private hunting club for tourists, before it became a unit of Volcanoes National Park.
If it had been daytime, the sheep would have just bolted off in all directions and left the dogs in the dust. At night, they were more reluctant to leave their familiar grazing areas and the safety of their herd, so they continued to circle in their group. In time, the dogs would wear them down and run them into the hunters’ spears.
The hunters might get something and have it back in camp before the rains came. I grinned.
I didn’t immediately push myself to my feet when the two new guys, Mitch and Kaipo entered the light of the campfire.
“Ho, looky here, brah,” Mitch said to Kaipo, pointing at me. “Camp boy is all by his lonesome.”
“Shame, dat,” Kaipo replied. “Mebbee he needs to find him some new friends.”
“Yeah, brah. I was t’inkin’ de same t’ing.”
I started to push myself to my feet. Mitch slammed me upside the head with his war club.
Lights out.
* * *
I woke up puking all over myself, upside down and totally disoriented. It took me several seconds to realize that the two Honomalino misfits had me tied wrist and ankles over a carry pole, like the kind we used to transport pigs and other large game. I was looking upward at a gently falling mist of rain, fog all around us.
They had shown me one small kindness, however. They had my knees tied together and another strand of rope tied to the pole, so my game leg was supported somewhat.
“Hey, let’s put ’em down. Noah will shoot our asses if homeboy chokes to death,” Kaipo said.
They lowered me, none too gently, to the smooth pahoehoe lava. I rolled to the side and finished puking my guts out.
“I t’ink you hit ’em too hard, Mitch,” Kaipo said.
“Nah, he just one buggah wit’ a softa’ head den I t’aught.”
It was really dark and foggy, visibility not more than twenty yards. I had no idea where I was, but sort of remembered that there were some pahoehoe lava fields up high in the old Ocean View subdivision.
Pahoehoe lava is formed when lava runs fast like a river. It cools all smooth. Most of the lava in Ocean View and the surrounding countryside from the old 1858 flows was ‘a’a though—that’s the rough stuff.
I was lying on my side facing downslope. The foggy air surrounding me cleared a bit and I could see a bit of old tarmac. I could see a road sign and an intersection, struggled to read the letters. Marlin. Now I sort of knew where we were. Still high up in the subdivision. That meant I probably hadn’t been out all that long.
In between the yakking and the wheezing, I tried to listen for the dogs but couldn’t hear them. I couldn’t wipe my mouth off because of being tied up, but I could talk.
“Water?”
Mitch looked over at Kaipo who shrugged. Mitch stepped forward and took an old plastic army-style canteen from his belt. “Don’ drink much, haole. We got some ways to go.”
I nodded, instantly regretting the motion as everything started spinning. Mitch opened the canteen lid and supported the back of my head, dribbled a little of the plastic-tasting tepidness into my open mouth. I felt a bit like a baby bird getting fed by his mama. He stopped pouring and closed the lid.
“You done yakkin’?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“We gots ta carry you some ways more, den you can be untied and walk on ya own when we meet da uddas.”
They stooped down and picked me up when I didn’t say anything. I tried to bring my scrambled egg thoughts into focus. I’m being kidnapped. Why?
* * *
I didn’t have long to wait for that answer.
Swinging back and forth on the carry pole, dry-heaving occasionally, I started to hear the sound of voices carrying in the mist.
Kaipo let out a loud “Oi!” It was quickly answered by the same. Sounded like their people were less than a block away. We rendezvoused with them in a couple of minutes.
They lowered me to the ground. The group circling me included some familiar faces. Of course, the one I recognized first was Shayna Murphy, beautiful hapa-haole daughter of Noah Murphy, Honomalino tribe’s leader. She was my age—her mother had been a local, and Shayna made my heart beat in double-time whenever I got anywhere near her. Had it been daylight her eyes would have flashed emerald-green at me.
She held a MAC-10 machine pistol pointed loosely at my midsection. Noah stepped up to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. He carried a sawed-off, twelve-gauge double-barrel shotgun cradled in the crook of his other arm.
“Easy there, Shayna. He won’t make a very good hostage if he’s dead.” He gently pushed the muzzle of her weapon to one side.
Light suddenly sprang forth when a couple of kerosene lanterns were lit, making it easier to see one another’s faces.
Noah Murphy had a sordid history. Everyone in the drug culture of the Big Island knew him for a gun-runner, supplying the heroin and ice gangs with weapons. He stayed away from dealing drugs himself, making more than his fair share of money as an arms
dealer.
Shayna’s mother, unfortunately, hadn’t stayed far enough away from drugs and had died from a heroin overdose when Shayna was younger.
There were about a dozen other Honomalino tribe members there, most also packing. A few had spears. I recognized a guy named Derrick that used to run a fruit stand near the old Milolii turnoff, selling avocadoes, papaya, citrus, and mac nuts.
He and his wife, Linda, who also worked the stand, gave me slight nods.
There were another couple of local guys about my age named Jimmy and Akela, both surfers I knew from school and Kawas. They were okay guys at school and surfing, but they gave me hard looks now. I bet they were both sweet on Shayna and didn’t want another possible competitor around. Watching the thoughtful way Shayna regarded me, I couldn’t discount that possibility.
The rest of the group I recognized from pre-burning times, though I didn’t know their names. In small communities like the Ka’u district, you see the same faces a lot, even if you don’t actually get to know one another by name.
“Why didn’t you get the girl?” Noah said.
“We were gonna ’cept she turned in early and slept with the whole tribe of keikis and tutus tonight,” Mitch said. “But ya know he’s Mace’s little bro, yeah? Mace won’t want anything to happen to him.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” I said without thinking. Noah turned to me.
“Oh, doesn’t he like his little brother?”
“Well, he doesn’t hate me, if that’s what you’re asking. But if you think you’re going to get much leverage over him with me, I’d reconsider. He’ll put our tribe before me.”
Noah looked at me thoughtfully for several seconds. Finally, he spoke. “That could be unfortunate—for you.”
* * *
Mitch was true to his word. He quickly untied me and allowed me to walk on my own, though with my bum leg, I wasn’t much faster than when he and Kaipo schlepped me around, hog-tied to the carry pole, but much more comfortable, however. And the view of Shayna walking before me in form-fitting rip-stop camouflage pants had much to recommend it.
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