by Dan Simmons
Oh God! It was awful.
We then took a drink.
Few visitors will ever achieve the happiness of two such experiences as the above in succession.
While we lay there, a puff of gas came along, and we jumped up and galloped over the lava in the most ridiculous manner, leaving our blankets behind. We did it because it is fashionable, and because it makes one appear to have had a thrilling adventure.
We then took another drink.
After which we returned and camped a little closer to the lake.
I mused and said, ‘How the stupendous grandeur of this magnificently terrible and sublime manifestation of celestial power doth fill the poetic soul with grand thoughts and grander images; and how the overpowering solemnity.’
(Here the gin gave out. In the careless hands of my esteemed clerical companion and amateur guide, who had broken through the lava crust in diligent search of the Fiery Pit of Sulfur and Brimstone of which he had so often and so fondly preached, the bottle broke. Dismissing our dangling guide from further service on the grounds of his being careless with our provisions, Miss Stewart from Ohio and I both decided that I should terminate all further philosophical musings.)
Reverend Haymark laughed loudly at this vain attempt at “wit,” but I record it here merely to show the disposition of my traveling companion even at this most serious hour.
None of the natives would accompany us to the leeward coast, although Mr. Clemens offered them an impressive bribe. All of them were terrified, including Hananui. In the end, we set off with a hastily drawn map provided by the innkeeper, our horses laboring under several days’ worth of provisions garnered from the Volcano House stores.
The first part of our ride down the volcano was uneventful, although fantastical enough with the geysering lava behind us and the long trailings of sulphurous vapors hanging above us like foul-smelling clouds. Mauna Loa loomed to our right, its summit at almost 14,000 feet some ten thousand feet above her smaller sister of Kilauea. We could see no lava from it, but a cloud rose from the caldera and plumed westward as if in ill omen to our task.
The land here on the leeward side of the island is almost unutterably boring, with lava field following lava field, the cooled pahoehoe lava molded in a thousand ungainly attitudes, the basalt buttresses and silent cinder cones creating a landscape comprised of equal parts Dante and Pittsburgh coalfield. The trail—part of an ancient Hawaiian path the locals called Ainapo—wound southwestward between the massif of Mauna Loa and the sea cliffs to the south. For the first few hours there was almost nothing to be seen but the black lava except for a few scruffy-looking scrub trees which the Hawaiians call ohi’a, and some hardy ferns—ama’u—which Reverend Haymark says grow on lava fields which are less than a year old.
Because this section of trail was less traveled and more rugged than the path between Hilo and Kilauea, we covered fewer than twenty miles by the time tropical darkness fell. I should take a moment to describe that sunset: we had traveled far enough west that the leeward coast of the Big Island had come into view far below, the vista north along its shoreline obstructed only by the lower limb of Mauna Loa’s southwest ridge; from our vantage point still two thousand or more feet above sea level, we could see the southernmost point of the island and the great expanse of ocean to the south and west. The afternoon had been clear, the wind turning about from the west and blowing the volcanic clouds away from us, and now nothing but azure sky separated us from the straight horizon so far to the west of us.
We paused in the process of making camp and tethering our tired horses to watch the sunset, the sun a perfect red orb hesitating along the horizon like a suitor loathe to bid a loved one good-night. Finally it disappeared, slowly devoured by a ragged line of dark cloud just above the horizon. I had been watching the departure of the sun with a lyrical eye, but Mr. Clemens must have been observing with the trained gaze of a former riverboat pilot, for he said drily, “If the wind holds, that bit of cloud may bring us problems before morning.”
His warning hardly seemed likely as we ate our dried beef, performed our evening ablutions as best we could among the a’a boulders, and prepared to sleep, the horses tied to a lone lauhala tree by their long tethers, our saddles inverted for pillows, and the sky a canopy of blazing stars above us. While washing my face where rainwater had accumulated behind a weathered boulder, I overheard the men discussing the merits of standing watch that night. Reverend Haymark was not in favor of the idea due to fear that it might alarm “the lady.” Mr. Clemens barked his laugh and said, “I rather think that there are very few things on this planet that would spook this particular lady.” I admit that I was not sure how to take this comment, although I know that I resented his facetious tone when he used the word “lady.”
At any rate, neither stood guard, although I got the impression that they were trusting the horses to that task. I believe that my horse would have stood sleeping through an attack by whooping Red Indians, so sluggish was the beast.
In the morning, Mr. Clemens’s prediction was confirmed, as we were awakened before first light by a steady downpour. With nowhere except the single lauhala tree to shelter, we gave up trying to make coffee over the tiny fire the correspondent had started, and loaded our bedrolls and saddle-bags for the day’s descent. Already I was having second thoughts about the wisdom of my self-inclusion on this odd trip. As the horses picked their way south and west over slippery lava fields, the sound of their hooves echoing amongst the a’a boulders, I remained all too aware that had I accompanied the others, I would already be basking in the comforts of Hilo.
Little did I know then how unimportant mere comforts would seem a few hours hence.
All that day—yesterday—we picked our way lower, traversing the southernmost ridge of Mauna Loa and coming out onto the highlands above the Kona Coast. From our vantage point a thousand feet above the sea, we could see the patches of brilliant green where the coconut palms marked the fertile band of soil near the ocean cliffs. I say cliffs, because even from this distance we could see the maddened toss of surf where the angry Pacific encountered the steep and rocky shoreline. Only a few beaches and bays were visible up the ten or so miles of coastline we could see, the vast majority of the coast being given over to cliffs where no ship or longboat could put in. It was somewhere down there that the Whisters and the Stantons and the other families had met their doom. These glimpses were made through rising clouds that boiled in from the west, their edges curling against the great mass of volcano behind us.
“I thought this was the dry side,” Mr. Clemens remarked laconically.
“It is,” said Reverend Haymark, water dripping from his short-brimmed hat. “This is most unusual for June.”
“Odd how weather always chooses the unusual for its commonplace,” muttered the correspondent. We picked our way lower and the clouds seemed to descend with us, the day growing gloomy and dusky hours before its late-evening sunset.
Reaching a sort of wooded shelf some half mile in from the sea cliffs, we struck a foot path winding through the trees and thicker shrubbery at this elevation. “This is the main trail between Kona and the missions at Kau and South Point,” said Reverend Haymark, turning the nose of his horse north.
“Are we almost there?” I asked, alarmed to hear myself ask the whining entreaty of all undisciplined travelers.
“Another eight to ten miles,” said the cleric, shifting in his saddle. “I am afraid that with the horses being so tired and the weather so inclement, we shall not make the mission village by nightfall.”
“Perhaps that is for the best,” remarked Mr. Clemens, and it took me only a moment to see his point. We did not know what awaited us there. If the villagers were still up in arms, if they had indeed slaughtered the mission families, it would hardly be wise to arrive on their doorstep a few minutes before nightfall.
Reverend Haymark nodded. “There is a place only a mile or two north of here, I believe. A site of pagan ritual. I belie
ve we can find shelter there.”
And thus we arrived that evening at the great heiau where the terrible events of that night would take place.
Our entry into the heiau was foreboding enough: we had to follow the trail between two high stone walls, down the very passageway—Reverend Haymark observed in sad tones—where the heathen priests had dragged their sacrificial victims to slaughter on the steps of that huge pile of stones which awaited us.
“Kamehameha the Great built this before going on to conquer Oahu,” said the cleric as our horses paused at the base of the terrible structure.
“I dreamed about Kamehameha last night,” said Mr. Clemens in a tone that was far from jesting. “I dreamed that a gaunt muffled figure appeared at our campsite and led me back into the crater at Kilauea. There, in this underground chamber, my spectral guide pointed to a great boulder and cried, ‘Behold the grave of the last Kamehameha!’ I remember setting my shoulder to the stone, the great boulder shifted, and there were the mummified remains of the great king.”
“A disturbing dream,” said Reverend Haymark, mopping his florid face with a handkerchief and glancing my way.
“More disturbing yet,” said the correspondent, his voice serious in a way I had not yet heard, “the dead king set a bony hand upon my shoulder and tried to speak, his voice attempting to escape withered lips that had been sewn together. The sound was more a terrible human groan, but I was sure that he was trying to warn me of something.”
“It seems a poor time for ghost stories,” I said, glancing up at the wall upon wall of sacrificial stones rising above us.
Mr. Clemens seemed to shake himself out of reverie. “Yes,” he said absently. “I am sorry.”
Surprised by his apology—the first of the trip—I distracted myself by estimating the size of this heiau. It lay in the shape of an irregular parallelogram more than 200 feet long, and the walls, built of lava stones situated without mortar, were some 12 feet wide at the bottom and 20 feet high, tapering to a width of 6 feet at the top. This was on the mauka or landward side; on the sea side, the walls had tumbled in places, and were only 7 or 8 feet high, flat on top to facilitate the chiefs and priests in their ceremonies here. There was an inner court on the south end, and Reverend Haymark commented that here was where the principal idol stood—Tairi, fierce in aspect, helmeted and festooned with red feathers, Kamehameha’s chosen war god. It was here that the people were sacrificed by the hundreds—perhaps thousands—to facilitate the king’s goals.
The rain was falling more heavily now and I confess that my spirits were as dampened as my clothes and body. Everything was gray and dripping. The place seemed worse than devoid of life—it was draining of life, if that makes any sense.
There were three long-abandoned grass shacks set fifty yards or so north of the foreboding heiau, and it was here, in the least dilapidated hut, that we decided to tether the horses and spend the night. Out of the rain, Mr. Clemens managed to use the drier bits of the decaying shack to start a small fire on the dirt floor, and we managed to boil coffee to have with our salted meat and mangoes. I would have preferred tea, but the hot liquid did serve to revive all of our spirits, and as the darkness fell we discussed what we might find during the coming day. Reverend Haymark was of the opinion that the local hakuna had conspired to terrify the missionaries, but that it was quite possible that Reverend Whistler and the others were still alive.
“What about the monsters?” asked Mr. Clemens. “Hananui’s reptile man and dog man and all the rest?”
Reverend Haymark showed his scorn of such superstition.
“It would certainly make a better story than surly natives,” suggested the correspondent.
I sniffed at this. “Why must journalism always concern itself with the grotesque and unsettling?”
Mr. Clemens smiled. “Miss Stewart,” he said, “death and dismemberment, madness and cannibalism, these are the good Christian topics that make illiterates learn to read newspapers. The more bizarre the event, the better the breakfast reading.”
“But surely,” I said, “this is a sign of our sensationalist age.”
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Clemens, “and of all ages before us and all ages to come. Nations grow and die, machines are invented and fall to obsolescence, fashions bloom and wither like last summer’s flowers…but a good murder before breakfast, Miss Stewart, this is the stuff of eternity. If this story is half as sensational as the tale of the Hornet, I would be able to sell it to any paper, be it 1866, 1966, or the year 2066.”
I shook my head at this nonsense. At that moment the horses began to cry and whinny in the unmistakable expression of pure equine panic.
FOURTEEN
Pana-ewa is a great lehua island;
A forest of ohias inland.
Fallen are the red flowers of the lehua,
Spoiled are the red apples of the ohia,
Bald is the head of Pana-ewa;
Smoke is over the land;
The fire is burning.
—Pele’s sister’s chant to Pana-ewa
Byron Trumbo lay naked and exhausted, flat on his back with the covers kicked aside, watching the wooden blades of the fan turn overhead while Maya dozed in the crook of his arm. Both were covered with a thin film of sweat. Trumbo was breathing through his mouth, still trying to catch his breath. He had forgotten how tiring these reunions with Maya Richardson could be.
The woman lying with her head on his chest was tall, thin, young, beautiful, famous, rich, and passionate beyond Trumbo’s imaginings. He had been sleeping with her for a little more than two years, promising to marry her almost as long as that, and staring at her picture next to his in the gossip columns and tabloids for as long as he could remember. Trumbo was not sure when he had grown tired of Maya, only that he had: tired of her relentless beauty, tired of her model’s professional narcissism, tired of her clipped British dialect and wicked British wit, tired of her undaunted passion and indefatigable sexual technique. Bicki had been the answer—the black, teenaged rock singer somehow balanced Caitlin’s lovely bitchiness and Maya’s mannered beauty. Bicki’s selfish, awkward sexual tendencies somehow made Caitlin’s frigidity and Maya’s wild abandon more tolerable, even interesting. It was odd how it took the combination of the three women in Byron Trumbo’s life to make one satisfying relationship for him, but it did, and he accepted it. The hard part was to maintain it.
He had no illusions that Maya would ever accept Bicki’s existence if it came to light, so Trumbo had made damned sure that it would not come to light. Only recently had the tabloids been hissing and whispering about a new Trumbo relationship, and it was lucky that Maya was too much the lady to read the tabloids.
“Mmmmmm,” moaned the supermodel, stirring from her doze. She ran elegant fingers through the hairs on Trumbo’s chest.
“Mmmmm yourself,” said Trumbo, and patted her on her perfect butt. “Move your head, kid. I’ve got to get dressed.”
“Nooo,” whined Maya. She rested on her elbow as Trumbo sat on the edge of the bed. “You have to stay the night.”
“Sorry, kiddo. Will and Bobby Tanaka and the others are waiting. We’ve got hours of work to do before tomorrow morning’s session with Sato.”
“Mmmmm,” said Maya. “Don’t you like my little surprise?”
Trumbo had pulled on his pants. Now he looked over his shoulder at her. Her breasts were small but perfect, the nipples pink and perfect. She did not pull the sheet up.
“Coming here to surprise you, I mean,” she said, each syllable emphasized with her precise British accent. Maya’s press kit said that she had been raised and had gone to school in England, but Trumbo knew that she had grown up in New Jersey. The dialect came from six months of intensive tutoring when she was seventeen and had just gone professional as a model.
“Yeah,” said Trumbo. “I like it. Only I’m busy as hell. You know how important this sale is.” He stood to find his shirt. The fan turned slowly overhead.
“I
won’t get in the way,” she said with only a hint of a pout.
“I know you won’t, kid.” He pulled on the loose Hawaiian shirt and began buttoning it. “You’re out of here in the morning.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“You’ve promised me a vacation at the Mauna Pele for two years.”
“Jesus, Maya, your timing stinks. You know I’m trying to unload this place.”
She pulled the sheet up. “That’s why I wanted to see it before you sold it.”
Trumbo shook his head and looked for his sandals. “You need to get out of here in the morning.”
“Why? Is someone else here?”
Trumbo stopped and turned slowly. “What do you mean by that?”
Maya leaned out of the bed, pulled something from her straw bag, and laid it on the sheet with long fingers.
Trumbo picked up the tabloid, glanced at the front page, and tossed the paper aside. “This is bullshit. You know it is.”
“I know you told that to Cait when the papers started talking about us two years ago.”
Trumbo laughed. “You can’t be serious. I don’t even listen to that kind of music. I’ve never even seen this woman on MTV.”
“No?” said Maya, and there was something strange and brittle in her tone.
“No,” said Trumbo.
“Good. Because if I found out that there was something to that story, I’d give the tabloids something to write about.” Maya leaned out of bed again, one perfect breast coming free of the sheet, and pulled something else from her bag.
“Christ,” said Trumbo, staring at the nickel-plated little automatic in her perfect hand. The pistol was small, probably a .32-caliber, but Trumbo had respect for all calibers of automatics. “Are you shitting me, kid?”
“I shit you not,” said Maya in her crisp British tones. “I really have no intention of being made a fool of, Byron. Trust me.”