by Grant Allen
“Pélé’s uneasy again, my niece,” the old man would murmur often as he entered. “I never knew the crater more disturbed. Pélé is angry. She will flood Hawaii. She will drown the people. We must try to quiet her.”
Kea looked down always when he spoke like that with a guilty look upon her poor young face. I understood that look. I knew she considered she had cheated the goddess by rescuing me from the flames, and I grieved to think that I should cause her unhappiness.
“Kea,” I said to her one day, as she sat still sewing away at a pure white dress in the room by my side, “do you know anything of your English relations — your father’s people?”
Kea burst suddenly into a flood of tears. “I wish I did!” she cried earnestly. “I wish I could go to them. I wish I could get away from Hawaii for ever. I’m tired of this terrible, terrible island. It wears my heart out.” And she flung away the dress from her in an agony of horror, and fled from the room, still crying bitterly.
“I see what it is,” I said to myself pityingly. “They want to marry that helpless young girl to somebody or other she doesn’t like. Probably a fat old native with a good thing in cocoa-nuts and sugar-plantations. Poor child! I can easily understand her feelings. She, an English girl almost, in blood and sentiment, to be tied to some wretched old Hawaiian ex-cannibal — some creature incapable of appreciating or sympathizing with her! I don’t wonder she shrinks from the horrid prospect. She’s a great deal too good and too sweet for any of them.”
I may mention however, to prevent misconception, that I was not myself the least little bit in the world in love with Kea. I merely regarded her from a brotherly point of view, with friendship and gratitude. The fact is, a certain young lady in a remote English country rectory, who received a letter from me by every Honolulu mail regularly, might have had just ground of complaint against me had I harboured any trace of such a feeling in my heart towards the gentle little Hawaiian maiden. It was the thought of that particular English lady that caused me so much agony as I lay on the floor of Mauna Loa that awful morning. Nothing else could have made me cling to the last chance of life with so fierce a clinging. For my own part, as a man of science, I have rather a contempt for any fellow who will not willingly risk his own neck, under ordinary circumstances, for any great or noble cause on which he may be occupied: and among such great and noble causes I venture to hold the pursuit of truth and natural knowledge by no means inferior to the pursuit of liberty or of material welfare. But when there’s a lady in the case — why, then, of course, the case is altered. A man must then, to some extent, consult his own personal safety. His life is not entirely his own to lose: he has mortgaged it as it were on behalf of another. This however is a pure digression, for which I must apologize, on the ground that it is needful to prevent misapprehension of the relation in which I stood to Kea. Forgive me for thus for a moment dragging in my own private and domestic feelings.
In a few minutes Kea returned again. She had an envelope with a name and address on it in her hand. She gave it to me simply. Her eyes were still red with crying. “That’s where my father’s people live,” she said quietly. “I wish I was with them. My father wanted me to return to them when he died. But I was afraid to go, because — because, though they asked me after his death, they never wrote to me while he was alive — they never wrote to him either — They were angry with him for marrying my mother.”
She said it with infinite tenderness and regret. I glanced at the address Kea had given me, and saw to my surprise the name of her father’s brother, he was a clergyman in Kent, well known, as it happened, to my own family in England.
“I wish you could go to them, Kea,” I cried earnestly. “Whatever they think and feel now, they couldn’t help liking you and loving you when they saw you. I wish you could get away from this dreadful Hawaii!”
“I wish I could,” Kea answered in a hopeless voice. “But—” she paused for a moment. “I must stop here now; I must stop here — till my marriage!”
She pointed to the white dress that lay huddled upon the floor; and, with the tears welling up into her eyes once more, rushed madly and desperately out of the room like one distracted.
I couldn’t help contrasting the life of that peaceful Kentish rectory with the awful surroundings of the priest of Pélé, and wishing I could rescue that gentle girl from so terrible a place, as she herself had rescued me from the floor of Mauna Loa.
And I wondered to myself to whom on earth they could ever mean against her will to marry her.
Meanwhile, in spite of my broken leg, the volcano itself attracted no little share of my distinguished attention. I couldn’t go out to call on it in person, to be sure; but I had in Frank an acute and well-trained assistant, who could be trusted to keep a steady eye upon its daily proceedings, and who knew exactly what traits in its character I wished him to report to me. In order that I might the more fully be kept informed from time to time of the state of the crater, and the momentary changes taking place in its temper and the lava level, I taught Frank in his leisure moments how to work a heliograph. For that purpose I fastened a slanting piece of looking-glass to my own bed-head, and stationed my brother with a second mirror on the summit of the mountain, in a good position for observing the lake of fire and the smoke-stacks in its centre. On this simple form of telegraphic arrangement Frank flashed me news by the Morse code; so many long and short flashes in certain fixed and regular orders standing each for a certain letter: and I flashed him back by the same method my directions and remarks on his own despatches. In this way we constantly kept up quite a brisk conversation by means of the mirrors. “Lava now rising in the main basin;” Frank would flash over to me. “Any fissures?” I would ask. In a minute the answer came promptly back, “Yes, two, in the black basalt.” “Steam issuing from them?” “None at present, but clouds of dense smoke forming slowly in the second cavern.” “All right: then note its volume and direction.” And so forth for an hour at a time together. It relieved the monotony of my existence on my sick bed thus to carry on by proxy my accustomed avocations: and I was glad to feel I wasn’t quite useless, even with my broken leg to weigh me down, but was honestly earning my bread (or at least my taro-paste) from the subscribers to the British Association Seismological Committee Fund.
One evening, towards the end of my convalescence, Frank came in in very high spirits (for Mauna Loa had been smoking like a German student that day) and found Kea busy as usual at her endless task of making her own very extensive trousseau. She was at work now on a long white satin train, which certainly seemed to me far more expensive and handsome in texture and quality than I should ever have expected a Hawaiian half caste girl to wear for her wedding.
“What a swell you are, Kea!” Frank cried, half chaffingly. “I wonder what sort of a match you expect to make, that you’re getting yourself up so smart for the occasion?”
Kea glanced back at him with a painfully sad and serious face. “I’m going to marry a very important personage indeed,” she said solemnly.
“A chief, perhaps?” Frank suggested laughing, and peeling a banana.
The tears stood in poor Kea’s eyes, though Frank did not notice them. “Higher than a chief,” she answered slowly, with a deep-drawn sigh.
“A prince of the blood-royal of Hawaii, then,” Frank went on, boy-like, without observing how serious and painful the conversation seemed to the poor little half-caste.
“Higher than a prince,” Kea replied once more almost reverently.
“What! Not the King!” Frank exclaimed in astonishment.
“The King is married already,” Kea replied with dignity, the tears trickling one by one down her cheeks, unseen by Frank, who, busy with his banana, couldn’t observe her downcast face as well as I could from my place on the pillow.
“Higher than a chief! Higher than a prince! Higher than the King!” Frank cried incredulously. “Hang it all, Kea; why, then, you must be going to marry the captain of an American whaler!”
I laughed in spite of myself. Hawaiian royalty, to say the truth, when you see it on the spot (as we had done at Honolulu) is such a very cheap sort of imitation kingship! But Kea, instead of laughing, burst suddenly into tears, and flung down her work on the floor in an agony of despondency. “Frank,” I cried, “how on earth can you tease her so? Don’t you see poor Kea’s dreadfully distressed? It’s downright cruelty to chaff on such a subject.”
Kea turned her big brown eyes full upon me, all tearful as they were. “If you knew all,” she answered, “you would say so indeed. You would pity me, both of you — oh, how you would pity me!”
And without another word, she rose like a queen and glided from the room, muttering to herself some inaudible sentence in Hawaiian as she retreated.
When she had left us alone, Frank turned to me, abashed, with unusual earnestness and wonder in his voice. “Tom,” said he impressively, “does it ever strike you there’s something very mysterious indeed about this marriage of Kea’s?”
“How so?” I asked; though in fact I felt it quite as much as he did, but I wanted to hear Frank’s own unadulterated idea about the matter.
“Why, you see,” he answered, “they’re getting ready for a wedding: but where’s the bridegroom? A marriage is never quite complete without a man in the proceedings. Now, we’ve never seen any young man come courting around; especially not any one so very important as Kea makes her future husband out to be. A bridegroom, I take it, is an indispensable sort of accompaniment to every respectable civilized wedding. You can’t very well get on without him. But he’s not forthcoming here. It seems to me there’s something awfully uncanny about it all.”
“I often hear them speak among themselves,” I said, “about somebody called Maloka. I wonder who on earth this Maloka is? I expect it’s Maloka she’s going to marry.”
“I’ll make inquiries,” Frank answered decisively. “We must get to the bottom of it. For my part, Tom I don’t half like the look of it.”
CHAPTER IX.
That night I hardly closed my eyes in sleep. My leg, which for several days had scarcely pained me, became troublesome once more with a sort of violent twitching neuralgic rheumatism. Never before had I felt anything so curiously spasmodic. I had tossed about during the evening indeed a great deal more than usual, and Kalaua, who noted my discomfort with his keen and observant Hawaiian glance, asked me more than once how I felt, with apparent kindliness. I told him my symptoms in perfect frankness. “Aha,” he cried grimly, looking back at me with a smile. “That settles the matter. We shall have an eruption then. The old-time folk in heathen days always noticed that all neuralgic and rheumatic pains became far more severe when an eruption was brewing.”
“Did they?” I answered languidly; “that was no doubt a mere heathen superstition on their part.”
“Oh, no,” he retorted with flashing eyes: “it was no superstition. It was solemn fact. Wounds would never heal at such times, and broken limbs would set with difficulty. You see, in the old clays, we knew a good deal about wounds, of course — far more than nowadays. We were all warriors then. We fought and hacked each other. We were often liable to get severely injured. Stone hatchets cut a man up so awkwardly.”
“Why,” I cried, “now you come to mention it, I remember the year I was working at Etna, the Sicilians at Catania all declared that sprains and cuts and rheumatic affections would never get well before or during eruptive periods. I hardly believed them at the time, I confess; but if two people so widely apart in race and space as you and the Sicilians both say so, I dare say there may really be something in it.”
“There is something in it,” Kalaua echoed gravely. “I know it by experience.”
“An atmospheric or electric condition, no doubt,” I said, lighting a cigarette.
“Our fathers used to think,” Kalaua corrected slowly, “that Pélé’s daughter was the goddess of disease; and when Pélé was angrily searching for a victim, or when Pélé’s son, the humpbacked god, who lives with his mother among the ashes of the crater, was in search of a fresh wife among the daughters of men, then, our heathen forefathers used to say, the goddess of disease went forth through the land to prick the people with the goads and thorns that she pushed into their flesh and their veins and their marrow. Pélé had many sons and daughters; all of them worked the will of their mother. The goddess of disease was the eldest and noblest — she searched everywhere for a victim for her mother.”
“And did she ever get one?” I asked with curdling blood.
“Yes,” Kalaua answered. “The Hawaiians are brave. Sometimes the people would suffer so much from Pélé’s daughter that some one among them, a noble-minded youth, would willingly offer himself up as a propitiation to Pélé. Then Pélé’s wrath would be appeased for the time, and the eruptions would cease, and the land would have slumber. But those, we know, were only foolish old heathen ideas. Nowadays of course the Hawaiians are wiser.
“Yes,” I replied, smiling and withdrawing my cigarette. “The Hawaiians nowadays are nominally Christian.”
The phrase seemed to excite Kalaua’s suspicions. “We know now,” he went on more quietly, with a searching look, “that eruptions are due to purely natural causes.”
“I hope,” I said, “if an eruption’s coming, I shall be well enough anyhow to get out and watch it. The doctor promised soon to let me have a pair of crutches.”
Kalaua smiled. “If an eruption comes at all,” he answered, with the air of a man who speaks of what he knows, “it’ll come, I take it, on Saturday next, and you won’t be well enough to get out by then. The moon will be full on Saturday at midnight. Eruptions come oftenest at the full moon. Our fathers had a foolish old reason for that, they said that Pélé and her son had a grudge against the moon, and strove always to put it out with their belching fire, for eclipses, they thought in their ignorance and folly, were caused by Pélé’s humpbacked son trying to strangle the moon in its cradle.”
“Why,” I said, “that’s likely enough, when one comes to think of it.”
Kalaua gazed at me in speechless amazement. “That Pélé’s son is the cause of eclipses!” he cried, astonished.
“No, no,” I answered. “No such nonsense as that. But the connection may be real between phases of the moon and volcanic phenomena. The moon’s attraction must be just as powerful on the lava in a volcano as on the water in the sea. There may be a sort of spring-tide tendency towards eruptions so to speak. And curiously enough, since you mention eclipses, there’s going to be an eclipse of the moon on Saturday.”
Kalaua’s face changed suddenly at the word. “An eclipse!” he cried, with intense solemnity. “An eclipse of the moon! On Saturday! — impossible!”
“No, not impossible,” I said. “I see it by the almanac.”
“Not total?” Kalaua asked excitedly.
“Yes, total.” I answered, amused at his excitement. “You think that will bring an eruption in its train?”
“Eclipses always bring eruptions,” Kalaua said solemnly. “Our fathers told us so, and we ourselves have proved it.”
“Well, you may be right:” I replied smiling; “we really know so little about these things as yet that it’s impossible to dogmatize in any particular instance. But for my own part, I believe there’s no counting upon eruptions. Sometimes they come and sometimes they don’t! They’re like the weather — exactly like the weather — products of pure law, yet wholly unaccountable.”
Kalaua rose width great resolution. “An eclipse of the moon!” he repeated to himself aloud in Hawaiian. “Kea, Kea, come here and listen! An eclipse on Saturday! How very strange, Kea! That’s earlier than any of us at all expected. How lucky we made our arrangements so well beforehand, or else this thing might have taken us all quite unprepared. There’ll be an eruption. We must look out for that! I must go at once and tell Maloka!”
Maloka, then, the mysterious bridegroom, lived quite near! Kalaua could go out at a minute’s notice,
and speak to him easily. I longed to ask him who Maloka was, where he lived, and what he did, but a certain sense of shame and propriety restrained me. After all, Kalaua was my host. I had no business to go prying into the private affairs of a native family who had been kind enough to extend to me their friendly hospitality.
Kalaua left the room and went out hurriedly. I turned on my bed and tried to sleep. But try as I would, my leg still kept me persistently awake. Frank was soon snoring soundly in his own room next door. I envied him his rest, and gave myself up to a sleepless night with what resignation I could manage to summon.
Gradually, as the night wore on I began to doze. A numb drowsiness stole slowly over me. I almost slept, I fancy; at any rate, I closed my eyes and ceased to think about anything in particular. For half an hour I was practically unconscious. Then on a sudden, as I lay there dozing, a slight noise attracted my attention. I opened my eyes and stared out silently. The door of my bedroom was pushed gently open. A hand held it gingerly ajar for a while. A brown head was thrust in at the slit, and then another. “Softly!” a voice murmured low in Hawaiian. I lay still, and never moved a thread or muscle of my face, but gazing across dimly through my closed eyelids I could see that one of the men was Kalaua; the other, I imagined, was a perfect stranger. My heart beat fast. Strange thoughts thronged me. “Surely,” I said to myself, “this must be Maloka.”
I was dying with curiosity to learn something more about that unknown bridegroom. But I dared not move. I dared not speak. A solemn awe seemed to thrill and overcome me.
“Is he asleep?” the stranger asked in a low voice.
“Yes, fast asleep,” Kalaua replied in Hawaiian. “Can he understand if he hears?” the stranger said again.
“Not much, if anything,” Kalaua answered. “He has only been such a short time in Hawaii.”