Flames of Mana

by Matt Larkin

  “Hi‘iaka?” she managed.

  “Kapo is with her.”

  “I … I was dead.”

  He didn’t look at her, just kept pushing forward. “We want to believe all things may be quantified and categorized in clearly defined labels. That something is either one thing or another, dead or alive. Reality does not always conform to our desires. It’s messy, like life itself, resistant to comprehensive classification. Now save your strength for the pyromancy. There are things you must understand.”

  In the crater of Mount Kīlauea, a bubble of lava burst, spraying its deadly shower onto the nearby rocks. Deadly to most people, at least. Pele paid it no mind from where she sat far above it, keeping her focus on the campfire burning between herself and Lonomakua. The kahuna appeared to have endless patience. It was not something they had in common.

  “I don’t see anything except fire.”

  “You will,” he said. “Keep looking. You have rarified your Sight, and you will see what you need to, now. Don’t look so hard with your eyes. Let your mind relax, the flames draw you in. Patterns of light and darkness, weaving in an infinitely complex dance that reflects the strands of the universe. All patterns are one pattern, a great system connecting all creation in a logic beyond human imagining. You don’t have to see it all—you couldn’t even if you wanted to—but a mere glimpse of true reality might prove beneficial, even if sometimes horrifying.”

  He meant she might finally learn where to find the Waters of Life.

  She sighed, not allowing herself to look away. She had asked for this, asked to begin to understand the things kāhuna understood. Recent events had forced her to realize just how little she knew about either the real world or the Otherworlds. “Why does fire show this pattern?”

  “You know the answer to that. Fire is pure and you are connected to it. It makes an ideal medium, but any sufficiently intricate system might serve to spark the Sight in those prone to it. Some watch the tides, some the stars, others see patterns in the flights of birds. We look into fire.”

  He’d been teaching her pyromancy since she was a child. But this was different. Deeper. She focused on the flame, not letting herself blink.

  “You’re trying too hard,” Lonomakua said a moment later. “Your conscious mind is refusing to let go. Remember the meditative state you use to draw strength from fire? To achieve that you need to let go, let yourself fall into eternity.”

  Still, she hated meditating.

  But if she wasn’t going to try, then this whole lesson was a waste of time. Slowly, one breath at a time, she let her thoughts fade into the background. She gave over not blinking or even thinking about blinking. And through the flicker and spark of the campfire she fell. At such a profound sense of vertigo she had to fight the instinct to pull back, to right herself. No, she had to let the weightless, timeless sensation consume her.

  Images flashed in the fire, broken pictures that made so little sense she … no.

  That was … Lonomakua …

  He moved through dark places, tunnels carved by the menehune, ever deeper into the bowels beneath Vai‘i, his hand a burning torch, scattering the shadows. The path continued onward, until, at last, he climbed an obsidian shaft up, into a vast, darkened chamber.

  A flicker, a shift of shadows, her vision caught in flux. Then fire within the fire, the cavern lit by it, and a figure moving in there, a silhouette of night seeming to drift out of Pō, intruding upon the Mortal Realm.

  Lonomakua spread his stance, hands raised, as his foe approached, revealed himself at last.

  Kū-Waha-Ilo.

  The man spoke, but Pele could make out no words. Muted, still the sense of loathing permeated the air, a wrath directed at the kahuna who had never been a mere kahuna. An ire, more personal than Pele could have ever expected.

  Kū-Waha-Ilo lunged forward, hands becoming claws, eyes glowing incandescent.

  A flicker again, and Lonomakua lay upon the cavern floor, bleeding. Blood pouring from so many wounds, in fact, spiraling up in savage arcs around Kū-Waha-Ilo, as her father killed her mentor.

  Pele fell backward, smacking her head on the ground. Her chest had seized up and she couldn’t suck down a breath. Her mind reeled like she tumbled end over end. She opened her mouth over and over, trying to breathe, but her eyesight began to turn red, then fade from view.

  A gasp.

  And her lungs began to function again, sucking in salvation. She coughed, choking for a long time before she could open her eyes. She was on her back and Lonomakua had a hand on her forehead, though he didn’t seem concerned so much as intent on reassuring her.

  She did not sit up. “Could I have died from that?”

  “It has been known to happen.”

  “That might have been nice to know beforehand.”

  “Would it have changed anything, save made you more afraid to let go?”

  She snorted and allowed him to pull her back up into a sitting position.

  Shaking her head, she gaped at him. Was it possible? Could she have truly been so blind for so many years? Oh, how many tales of the Firebringer had she asked this man for? And how he knew so many details for each mo‘olelo?

  They said Kanaloa had killed him … but mo‘olelo were not always literal truth, were they?

  “I don’t understand how, but you’re Maui, aren’t you?”

  Lonomakua nodded slowly, holding her with that too intense gaze of his. “I’ve had many names over the years. A great many. Sometimes it becomes necessary to reinvent oneself in order create distance from a persona that has taken on a life of its own.”

  “You know where to find the Waters of Life. You’ve always known, haven’t you?”

  “You were not ready.”

  Pele growled at that. “And if Hi‘iaka had been lost while you withheld this information? What then, Maui? Would you have let her soul drift away? Would you have let my sister die?”

  “She’s already dead and I had nothing to do with that. But now, Namaka closes in upon the Place of Darkness. You must act, or stand to lose another sister to Pō.”

  Everywhere Namaka went, she brought chaos. But Namaka was as determined to save Hi‘iaka as Pele was.

  “I have to go after her.”

  “Of course, you do,” Lonomakua said.

  Pele frowned. Was it possible he had known what she would see? Had he been waiting, all along, for her to uncover his identity on her own? She pushed the thought from her mind. It didn’t matter, not really. “There are so many questions I would ask you.”

  The kupua offered her a wry smile. “Even had I the answer to every question, and even were I able to offer them all to you, you cannot expect those answers would truly clarify your situation. At least no more than what you already apprehend, or soon will.”

  Of course. She had no time. Hi‘iaka was fading, and Namaka might well fail.

  Because now, Pele knew what lurked in the Place of Darkness. What danger her elder sister passed into in her desperation to save Hi‘iaka. What danger had, in fact, stopped Maui from claiming the Waters and restoring his family … and seven hundred years later, he’d insinuated himself into the life of the daughter of the very abomination who had so wronged him.

  Was this then, all of it, a drama of twisted ‘ohana, played out over the centuries?

  “I should be furious with you for withholding such things from me.” She shook her head. “Or maybe I should be furious with myself for not seeing any of this sooner.”

  “Or maybe,” he said, “you should let fury go entirely and, instead, live.”

  She climbed to her feet, then began the long trek down the volcano.

  The flames had shown her where to go, but it was a long walk, and she pushed on, all night, never stopping. Kīlauea had suffused her with mana, allowing her to continue long past the limits of mortal endurance. That, and desperation, pushed her forward.

  Some part of her still relished the thought of Kū-Waha-Ilo killing Namaka. Pele’s eld
er sister had hunted her across the Worldsea, destroyed islands, all refusing to grant Pele peace or forgiveness.

  But it was forgiveness Pele had never had the strength to ask for.

  Maybe she hated Namaka most because of Pu‘u-hele.

  Either way, if Namaka fell, would Pele then mourn her, despair for her, as she did for Hi‘iaka? Besides, Pele needed her elder sister’s power in order to overcome Kū-Waha-Ilo and save Hi‘iaka.

  Though nothing abrogated her own responsibility for what had happened … still, she might lay some of the blame at Kū-Waha-Ilo’s feet. That creature had set his own offspring into this vast struggle, and Pele was only beginning to grasp the scope of his battle. On the periphery she could almost spot the ephemeral connections she knew must be there. A certainty that, if she looked long and deep enough into the flames, she could trace back the strands and find them woven into a picture grander than any had imagined, save Lonomakua.

  So, on and on she walked, deeper into the heart of Vai‘i.

  Twisted as they were, they were all ‘ohana. Her, Hi‘iaka, Namaka, Kapo, all of them. And despite his decades of deception, Lonomakua too. He was part of her ‘ohana, far more than Kū-Waha-Ilo or Haumea had ever been.

  Maybe Pele resented his lesson, his forcing her to reach this point on her own, but he had gotten her here, and had guided her in a way he thought consistent with love. Did that obviate his responsibility to be forthright with her? Did his good intentions mitigate the lie of omission?

  ‘Aumākua, maybe there wasn’t even an answer to that.

  Huffing, Pele continued up the mountain slope. Her feet hurt, chafed raw by hour after hour of walking. But there could be no rest. She would not allow herself to fail, not now.

  Not like Maui.

  Maui had failed to get the Waters of Life. But why, if he lived after all, had he never tried again to claim them? The only answer that came to Pele was that … it had been too late. By the time he had recovered from his wounds, it was too late to save Hina and his children. He had come to bring them back from the dark of Pō and he had failed.

  And in that despair had given over any desire to bring immortality to the rest of mankind.

  But because of him, now, she had more time to save Hi‘iaka. A little bit more.

  Oh, Pele had failed her ‘ohana more than enough. She had failed Pu‘u-hele so long ago, and maybe that had led to all the other failings. She never should have lain with Aukele and, in the end having done so, she should have submitted to Namaka and asked her forgiveness.

  Swallowing a thought like that left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth.

  Bowing down before her sister?

  It was a knife digging between her ribs.

  But how many people would be alive now, how much suffering avoided, had she taken that step? Had she but knelt and begged forgiveness for transgressions wrought then, and long before then …

  Well, no step would be beyond her now. Pele would do whatever it took to save Hi‘iaka.

  And despite her older sister’s nature, she’d save Namaka, too.

  29

  Days Gone

  Sometimes, when the pressures of ruling the kingdom grew tedious, Pele climbed up to the crater, then down, where she could luxuriate by the lava, dipping her toes into the delicious heat from the Earth. So hot her clothes would have burst into flame, had she not left them well outside. So hot it would have killed anyone else before they even reached the lava, perhaps even Lonomakua himself, who never came in this far.

  Pele was different, though. Had always been different, and Lonomakua had helped her embrace that difference. She could walk on the surface of lava, even settle herself into it without harm if she so chose.

  There was a peace here, away from the bustle of the court down below, at the volcano’s base. A quiet, peaceful loneliness.

  Decades as queen, and still she missed the days of wandering the wilds alone with Lonomakua. The lessons about this world and the worlds beyond. The talk of ancient philosophers and fallen empires, of ages lost and eras nearly forgotten. She missed the tales of Maui the Firebringer—though Lonomakua had assured her she’d heard every mo‘olelo he knew a half dozen times or more—struggling as benefactor of mankind.

  A flawed benefactor, in fact. While others spoke of the Firebringer as a kupua, near to the gods, Lonomakua stressed that Maui was, in the end, a man. One who lived in pain and ultimately failed in his final mission to attain the Waters of Life and give mankind immortality.

  “He lost his wife to the taniwha, you see,” Lonomakua had told her. “He lost his children. Maybe he deluded himself into thinking he sought the Waters for the good of all men, so that humanity might forever deny death and no one else would lose their loved ones. Maybe he told himself that, but deep down, I think we must imagine his heart longed to restore his own lost loved ones. It wasn’t altruism.”

  Pele, however, didn’t think the fact that immortality for others would have benefited Maui obviated the meaning of his effort for the rest of mankind. “You told me there was a substantial gulf between self-interest and selfishness. That to deny altruism exists, to deny that people do some things for the benefit of others—just because their benefit in turn pleases the doer—is it to render the conception of selfishness so broad as to lack meaning. Selfishness, you said, is when one pursues one’s interests without regard for negative consequences on others. If that’s the case, the fact that some of the people Maui wanted to help were his own family doesn’t preclude an altruistic motive.”

  Lonomakua smiled sadly, but nodded. “Maybe you’re right. Or maybe you are blinded by your devotion to an idol in the distant past. I wonder if he would live up to your expectations, were you to have the opportunity to meet him.”

  Unfortunately, though, Maui failed, and Kanaloa killed him. Mankind lost their benefactor, and Pele would never be granted that chance. What tales Maui might tell of the days long gone!

  For such things, now, Pele had only the kāhuna, chief among them Lonomakua.

  That he had aged no more than her in the decades of her rule confirmed him as kupua, perhaps one that had lived a century already. Perhaps well more, considering Pele herself was rapidly closing in on her first century of life. It would explain how his wealth of knowledge and experience surpassed that of any other kahuna. Lonomakua had told her that, sustained by mana, she might manage well over two centuries, perhaps even approach three.

  “But my parents have lived much longer than that,” she had said, still young and foolish.

  “Where do you think they get extra mana to maintain and enhance their potency?”

  Mana could be shared through sex, true. Or it could be consumed by devouring the flesh of man. And long had the rumors persisted that both Pele’s parents had oft feasted on man flesh. Well, Pele had since seen the evidence of her father’s habits on her own.

  “Cannibalism will change you,” Lonomakua had told her.

  Perhaps that was how Kū-Waha-Ilo got the way he’d become. Power, at any price, until power itself became an addiction more powerful than the call of awa.

  With a sigh, Pele rose from the lava bed and flicked the molten rock from her toes. She could not hide here forever, dwelling in her thoughts and letting them wander half in a trance, tempting as that sounded. No, she was queen, and people needed her.

  When she returned to the village, the people were all astir, despite the hour approaching midnight. Torch poles lit the night, and a great bonfire sat on the edge of town, surrounded by a gathered throng.

  What was going on here?

  Pele threaded her way between common folk and ali‘i who suddenly balked and prostrated themselves on recognizing her. Still, most eyes were locked closer to the bonfire, watching someone who …

  Haumea. Mother.

  Pele faltered, half stumbling, then pushed forward to cover the blunder, hoping no one had seen that disgrace. She hadn’t seen Mother since Kapo had gone to Sawaiki forty years ago.

  Her
and Kū-Waha-Ilo, both, everyone that had left Uluka‘a forever. The old ruling king and queen, gone, leaving the island to their daughters to rule. Pele had wondered, from time to time, whether their mother had in fact gone with Kapo on her sojourn to Sawaiki. Back then, part of Pele had been jealous, not of Kapo’s time with Haumea—which meant nothing, the woman had never truly cared for Pele—but of Kapo following in the footsteps of Maui, taking the voyage Pele never could.

  Duty would forever bind her to Uluka‘a, much as she might have desired to see the islands the Firebringer found across the Worldsea.

  Pele made her way to her mother’s side.

  The woman stood with her hand on the head of a supplicant, perhaps one asking for some blessing or other. Lines creased Mother’s face, a hint of her age, and yet, she remained beautiful, radiant in the night, with silky black hair and rich skin. And eyes that held a depth of mystery. Of a very old power.

  Of the noble lines of Old Mu, Lonomakua had said. Sorcerous bloodlines, touching the Otherworlds.

  “Mother.”

  Haumea whispered something into the supplicant’s ear, then the woman rose and departed, bowing twice as she backed away. Haumea next looked to Pele, her smile odd and unnerving, eyes bright in the firelight, almost luminous. Like amber. She couldn’t remember her mother holding her gaze like that—not since she was a tiny child. It was like the woman was trying to look inside her mind. Or inside her soul. Did she have the Sight?

  “Come with me,” Haumea said, then led Pele off, into the forest beyond the village.

  Pele said nothing, following behind her mother. Though they had barely pushed into the jungle, it felt more like crawling through some narrow cavern, deep into the Earth, like a warren of the legendary menehune. Oppressive and sticky and closing in around her, ready to swallow her whole.

  Finally, Haumea knelt and brushed aside a cluster of ferns and hibiscus to reveal a small hollow, within which lay a brownish egg. Too large to have come from any birds native to Uluka‘a, or any other animal Pele was familiar except for maybe …