Fires of Eden

by Dan Simmons

  “Including a dog?” asked Cordie, licking her spoon.

  Paul Kukali hesitated a visible second. “Sometimes. In fact, quite specifically as a dog. Are you thinking of the one we saw today?” He smiled to show the irony in his question.

  “Sure,” said Cordie. She did not return the smile.

  “Then I’m afraid I have to disappoint you,” he said. “Ku…or at least his canine incarnation…was killed by the high chief Polihale centuries ago. Ku’s body was cut into two pieces and then turned into stones…they can be seen on Oahu to this day.”

  “You can kill a dog but you can’t kill a god, can you?” said Cordie. She had finished the sundae. There was the faintest trace of ice cream on her upper lip.

  Paul looked at Eleanor. “Voltaire and Rousseau would disagree, I think.”

  Eleanor did not respond to the quip. Instead, she said, “Would the Ku dog be sent to the Milu Underworld when it died?”

  The curator hesitated a longer moment this time. “Some kahuna, priests, would say yes. Some would say no.”

  “But Milu is where ghosts of humans go?”

  “Yes.”

  “And where some of the kapuas and mo-os were contained?”

  Paul rubbed his nose. “I mentioned kapuas earlier, but I don’t remember talking about mo-os.”

  “What’s that?” said Cordie.

  Paul answered, “Mo-os or mokos are serious demons. They can control nature as well as take various forms. And yes, the kapuas and mo-os were banished in the Milu Underworld after a fiery battle with Pele.” As if to punctuate the words, lightning flashed nearby and thunder rolled through the open windows. The three smiled at one another.

  “Enough of this,” said Paul, looking around at the empty lanai. “We seem to have closed down the place. But at least the electricity is back on.” He looked at Cordie. “Did you still want to see the catacombs tonight?” His tone suggested that it was late.

  “Yeah,” Cordie said at once.

  Paul nodded. “Eleanor, would you like to see them?”

  “I think not. I’m a bit sleepy. I think I’ll head back to my hale.”

  Paul gestured toward the rain, now coming down harder than before. “You said that you’re in one of the hales on the south side of the resort, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, beyond the Shipwreck Bar and the little pool.” Eleanor looked at the curator, curious as to what he was about to suggest.

  “It’s a long walk in the rain,” he said. “They have complimentary umbrellas here, but the service tunnels…the catacombs…have an exit just a few yards from your hale.”

  “I don’t mind…” began Eleanor.

  “Oh, come along, Nell,” said Cordie.

  Eleanor hesitated only a second. “All right, if it’s a shortcut.”

  The three stood. “It will be,” said Paul. “We can see you to your door and then I’ll walk back to the Big Hale with Mrs. Stumpf. And we’ll see the underground complex along the way.”

  They left the restaurant, nodding to Lovey and the maitre d’ as they went. The rain was pounding on tropical vegetation beyond the open walls of the empty lobby. Paul took them to the elevator and they got off in the basement. He led them down a long ramp to a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, inserted a security card in a scanner until the light on the box blinked green, and they continued down the ramp into the catacombs.

  “What’s this shit about evacuating the Pele?” Trumbo roared into the phone at the venerable Dr. Hastings.

  The scientist sounded tired. “I merely suggested to Mr. Carter and Mr. Bryant that you be apprised of the situation and consider the alternative. The civil authorities have already warned the residents of Ocean View Estates and Kahuku Ranch…”

  “Those are south of here,” said Trumbo.

  “Yes,” said Dr. Hastings, “but several lateral fissures have opened, some of which may divert the secondary lava flow as far north as Keananuionana Point.”

  “That’s still south of here,” said Trumbo.

  “Yes, but with each secondary flow comes the possibility of further lateral activity. I should remind you that in April of 1868, the entire area upon which you have built your resort was the focus of tsunami, lava flow, and a catastrophic slump along the Hilina Pali fault system…”

  “I should remind you,” said Byron Trumbo, “that I don’t give a good shit what happened in 18-fucking-68. I want to know what’s happening now.”

  There was a long enough silence that Trumbo and Will Bryant listening in thought that the elderly vulcanologist had hung up. Then Hastings continued, as if he had never been interrupted. “The 1868 event, consisting as it did of simultaneous fountainings of both Mauna Loa and Kilauea, is perhaps most analogous to the current situation along the southwest rift zone. Missionary families living almost exactly where your resort is now situated, Mr.

  Trumbo, recorded that the earth rolled under their feet like an ocean swell for long minutes and that every man-made structure along the South Kona Coast was toppled. Following that, a mud slide traveled three miles in less than three minutes and carried away every village along the coast. Minutes after that, the ensuing tsunami crashed in, bringing waves sixty feet high, and washed the muddied ruins out to sea. Five days later, the epicenter spread from Kilauea to Mauna Loa, the larger volcano erupted in full force, and lava suddenly poured from a new fissure just above where Kahuku Ranch now stands.”

  “So?” said Byron Trumbo. “What’s your point?”

  The volcano expert sighed. “You had better consider evacuating your resort if this activity continues.”

  “The governor hasn’t said anything to me,” said Trumbo.

  “Nor will he, Mr. Trumbo. The governor is—as is everyone else on this island—afraid of you. He does not wish to give you news you do not want to hear.”

  Trumbo snorted. “But you aren’t afraid, Dr. Hastings.”

  “I am a scientist. It is my job to acquire the most reliable data and pass on our assessments based upon that data. It is your job to vouchsafe the lives and safety of your guests and staff.”

  “Yeah, it is my job, Dr. Hastings,” agreed Trumbo. “I appreciate you remembering who is responsible for what.”

  The vulcanologist cleared his throat. “But having said that, I should add that I will go to the media as soon as the data says clearly that there is a threat to life and property along your section of the Kona Coast, Mr. Trumbo.”

  The billionaire put his hand over the mouthpiece and cursed vehemently. Then he lifted the phone again. “I understand, Dr. Hastings. And I know you were scheduled to visit us here at the Mauna Pele tomorrow, but I see now that your duties will prevent that.”

  “On the contrary,” said the scientist. “I look forward to briefing your guests on the…”

  “Never mind,” said Trumbo, his voice flat. “You just keep carrying on up there. We’ll carry on down here. And call me first if the lava heads this way, OK?” Trumbo thumbed the hang-up button before Hastings could reply. “OK, Will, I’m taking the golf cart out to see Maya on the peninsula…”

  “It’s raining,” began the assistant.

  “I don’t give a shit if it’s raining. I’ll take the radio, you keep yours so we can stay in touch. I want you to go down and see what the fuck’s keeping Briggs and Dillon in the service tunnels.”

  Will Bryant nodded.

  “When I’m finished with Maya, I’m going to head out to the construction shack and see what Bicki wants. I’ll talk her into leaving tomorrow, so make sure her plane is ready to take off after breakfast. Then tell Bobby Tanaka to meet me up in the suite…we’re going to burn some midnight oil getting this deal ready to close tomorrow. I want Sato and his buddies to have signed and flown off into the sunset within thirty-six hours. Any questions?”

  Will Bryant shook his head.

  “Good. See you in an hour or so.” Trumbo headed for his golf cart and the peninsula.

  “Most of the offices down here are
closed at this hour,” Paul Kukali was saying, “but the laundry is going strong and the bakery will get busier after midnight.”

  The three strolled through the warren of tunnels. Only one golf cart had passed them, the two women in it greeting the art curator by name.

  “The staff seems to get along all right,” Cordie said.

  “I know most of the people here outside of work,” said Paul. “Molly and Theresa were students of mine briefly in Hilo. It’s a big island but a relatively small community.”

  “How many people?” asked Eleanor.

  “Around a hundred thousand, but a third of those live in Hilo. In terms of population density, this is the emptiest island in the chain.”

  They turned left down a different tunnel, pausing for a moment outside the busy laundry. Eleanor smelled bleach and heated linen. Ions from the driers tickled her sinuses.

  “Does Mr. Trumbo have difficulty finding workers?” asked Cordie.

  “Yes and no,” said Paul. “No, there’s no shortage of people who want the relatively high hotel wages…the island’s been in a serious recession for decades. Unfortunately, with the loss of the pineapple and sugar industries and with little or no indigenous business to replace them, working-class residents have to go into the service trade. But yes, Mr. Trumbo has trouble finding people because of the relative isolation of the resort and…” He paused.

  Cordie ended the sentence. “And because of the reputation of the Mauna Pele being dangerous?”

  “Yes.” Paul smiled slightly. “Here’s my office…nothing of interest to see in it, I’m afraid. And here’s the astronomy director’s office…strange, Mr. Wills’s door is open…”

  At that moment the lights went off.

  Eleanor had once been in a cave in France where they had shut the lights off for several minutes to show people the effect of total darkness. She still had nightmares about those moments. Now she found herself holding her breath, her chest hurting with the pressure of the blackness around her.

  “Damn,” said Paul. Then: “Just stay put. There are emergency generators for the lights down here. They should be on in a second or two.”

  It stayed pitch-black.

  “I don’t understand,” said Paul. “The emergency lights are self-contained. They should be on…”

  “Hush!” came Cordie’s voice in the darkness. “Listen.”

  Eleanor strained to listen. The sounds that had filled the corridor a few minutes ago…ventilation whispers, the rumble of the industrial washing machines and driers in the laundry section, the slight hum of the fluorescent strips in the ceiling, the snatch of conversation from the bakery…everything was gone. The silence seemed as absolute as the darkness. It was as if the few people they had seen had vanished with the light.

  “I don’t…” came Paul Kukali’s voice.

  “Hush up,” Cordie said.

  Eleanor heard it then, to their left, although she had thought only the wall and a few locked offices were to their left. It was a strange sound, part shuffle, part wheezing, part oily sliding along stone. Eleanor felt her hands ball into fists even as her eyes strained to see in the heavy darkness.

  There came the sound of keys being shuffled. “Stay here,” said Paul in the darkness. “I’ll feel along the wall until I find my office. There’s a flashlight in the drawer there. I’ll…”

  “Don’t move,” came Cordie’s voice and there was something flat and authoritative enough in her tone to keep the other two frozen in place. Suddenly a light flared and Eleanor swiveled to see Cordie Stumpf crouching on one knee, a flaring cigarette lighter in her raised left hand. Eleanor was so relieved to see the light…to see…that she did not react for a second when Cordie reached into her straw shoulder bag and lifted out a revolver. The pistol looked absurdly heavy and long-barreled as Cordie, still on one knee, raised it and pointed it in the direction of the sliding, shuffling sound. Whatever was making the noise stayed just beyond the circle of light. Now Eleanor could hear voices from around the bend in the tunnel, back toward the laundry complex.

  “Move the light this way,” said Paul, a shadow to their left, “and we’ll find my office.”

  “No,” said Cordie, and again the tone would brook no argument. “Don’t move.” She came up off her knee, her ugly dress billowing around her, the lighter held high, her right arm rigid with the pistol rock-steady. The short woman walked quickly toward the source of the shuffling sound. Eleanor followed just to stay within the blessed circle of light.

  Eleanor saw the eyes gleaming first. Cordie did not pause in her advance.

  “Holy shit,” said Cordie Stumpf.

  It took a moment for Eleanor to recognize the bearded man slumped against the tunnel wall as the security director who had interviewed them hours earlier… Dillon. Now the short man stared at them dully, as if he were in shock. Eleanor saw the reason as Cordie stepped even closer. It looked as if the security director had been in an automobile accident: his clothes were torn almost to rags—the right sleeve of his blazer was missing and the white shirt beneath it torn into strips—and there was blood on his face, hands, chest, and matted in his wild hair. Saliva drooled from the man’s open mouth into his beard.

  Paul rushed over and cradled him as Dillon slumped even lower along the wall, his polished shoes sliding out across the floor. “We’ve got to get him to a doctor,” said the art curator.

  Cordie suddenly wheeled and lifted the lighter and pistol in the direction from which they had come. Footsteps were advancing rapidly toward them in the dark.

  June 17, 1866, Along the Kona Coast—

  I have not made entries during the past two days because the conscious hours have been too unrelentingly filled with events, the events themselves too extraordinary to put into any sort of perspective, including the private perspective of this journal. Even now, as I set pen to paper in this wretched hovel within earshot of the booming surf, straining to hear the night sounds of the unbelievable horror begin again above the background noises of ocean and wind-tossed coconut palm, knowing full well that these night sounds may presage our terrible death, I can scarcely credit my own senses or memory.

  It seems an age ago that I impulsively insisted upon accompanying the correspondent and the cleric on their mission of mercy and curiosity to the Kona Coast. Amazingly, their protests were neither lengthy nor vehement. Perhaps our adventure of the night before had made them see me as a capable companion in any adventure they might devise.

  I almost wish now that this had not been the case.

  At any rate, we departed late that morning from Volcano House, Hananui, McGuire, Smith, the innkeeper, and the Christian guides escorting the fleeing missionaries back to Hilo. Half a dozen horses and a comparable number of mules had been kept at the volcano hotel so at least all of the whites were able to ride on the last leg of their flight eastward. Both the hotelkeeper and his primary servant had muskets, which they loaded before departing.

  There was some discussion about arming our little party. The Reverend Haymark waved off the innkeeper’s suggestion of keeping one of the muskets, but Mr. Clemens obviously thought that it was not a bad idea. In the end, the correspondent accepted the loan of a revolver.

  “You’ve fired a weapon?” the innkeeper asked, obviously dubious of the correspondent’s abilities. “Were you in the war?”

  Mr. Clemens looked up from inspecting the ancient revolver. “Sir,” he said, his Missouri accent deepening, “I had the honor of joining the irregular militia to serve the Confederacy.”

  “Ah,” said the innkeeper, nodding in understanding.

  “I deserted after three weeks,” added Mr. Clemens.

  “Mmmm?” said the innkeeper, his eyebrows rising.

  Mr. Clemens set the pistol in the pocket of his coat and raised one long finger. “And the South fell.”

  I might mention here, before depicting the terrible images of the next few days, that while Mr. Clemens’s humor might be trying, it was rarely ab
sent. One instance might be the “Volcano Book” which we were asked to sign despite our hasty departure. While some of the comments written therein were valuable in their observation of the particulars of the eruption, most were rubbish. Examples include—“Not much of a fizz” or “Madam Pele in the dumps” or “a grand splutter.” These usually had English signatures. The American contributions tended to be more breathless—“9 June, 1865… Descended the crater and paid a visit to Madame Pele. Found the small lake in great action, it put me in mind of the sea in a troubled state. The sight is awful as well as grand and sublime…” Or this, dated 4 August, 1865: “Professor William T. Brigham, together with Mr. Charles Wolcott Brooks, went down into the crater and passed the night within ten feet of the boiling cauldron. The scene was truly grand. Professor Brigham and Mr. Brooks were startled out of a sound sleep in the morning by a violent puff of sulfurous vapor, from which they left in a remarkable hasty manner, leaving blankets etc. behind them.”

  I copied these verbatim to give a context for Mr. Clemens’s entry:

  Volcano House

  Friday, June 15, 1866

  Like others who came before me I arrived here. I travelled the same way I came, most of the way. But I knew that there was a protecting Providence over us all, and I felt no fear. We have had a good deal of weather. Some of it was only so-so (and to be candid, the remainder was similar).

  My traveling companions Reverend Haymark and Miss Stewart from Ohio—But, however, details of one’s trifling experiences during one’s journey thither may not always be in good taste in a book designed as a record of volcanic phenomena, even if one such subject of observation smokes and the other is given to an outpouring of fiery temperament; therefore let us change to our proper subject.

  Visited the crater, intending to stay all night, but the bottle containing the provisions broke and we were obliged to return. But while standing near the South Lake—say 250 yards distant—we saw a hump of dirt about the size of a piece of chalk. I said in a moment, ‘There is something unusual going to happen.’ But soon afterwards we observed another clod of about the same size; it hesitated—shook—and then let go and fell into the lake.