“You can’t stop him?”
“Nothing can stop the spell. Not now.” Hau brooded over the fire. “Kanaloaiki began last week. Once begun, it can only be countered after it has started.”
“What about your local kahunas? Do they all support Kanaloaiki?”
Hau looked up. “No. Most are against what he is trying to do. But they are all afraid of him. His power is very great. But you are not afraid of him, haole kahuna.”
Malone shrugged. “Haven’t met the old boy. Don’t see offhand what I kin do, though. How d’you counter a spell that can’t be countered until after it’s begun?”
“I have been told there is a way. There is a tool. A special tool. The wisest kahunas say it still exists, but none believe them.”
“Except you.”
Hau nodded. “I would use it if I could to stop what Kanaloaiki intends. But while I am ali’i, I am not a kahuna. I do not have the power to use such a thing. If it exists. But another, one not afraid of Kanaloaiki or under his sway, might do so.” He looked searchingly at Malone.
“Whoa, now. I’m just here t’ look over the cattle-raisin’ prospects fer a friend o’ mine. Course, I don’t much like the idea o’ standing by while a few thousand innocent folk get burned and buried alive. Never much did. I just ain’t sure I kin do anything about it.”
Hau considered. “If I show you the best land for cattle, will you consider helping?”
“It’s sure enough a good cause. All right, I’ll see what I kin do. Now, where’s this here good grazin’ land you’re talking about?”
“It’s very interesting, but the place you are talking about and the place I am talking about are in fact the same place.”
Malone grunted. “Don’t say? And whut place might thet be?”
Hau turned and nodded to his right. “You will see tomorrow, Amos Malone. Tonight it sleeps beneath the blanket of night. Tomorrow I will take you to the House of the Sun.”
The House of the Sun, or Haleakala, as the natives called it, rose to a height of more than ten thousand feet, completely dominating the entire island. It wasn’t its height that impressed Malone, who had seen far taller mountains elsewhere. It wasn’t even its breadth, which allowed for a slope so gradual as to be almost imperceptible.
No, it was the weight of the mountain, which plunged another twenty-seven thousand feet to the ocean floor. Composed almost entirely of cementlike solidified aa, the mountain was massive enough to dimple the earth’s crust beneath it. Unlike many mountains, which were simply magnificently decorative, this one had a presence you could feel. Malone sensed it as the light broke over the distant summit, and commented on it to Hau.
“It is the House of the Sun,” the native replied simply. “No one may go there save ali’i, and none may live upon its upper reaches but kahuna. You can go there. I cannot.”
Malone reined in Worthless. Hau had been walking alongside the entire way, refusing to ride behind Malone or even alternate in the saddle with him. He was, he assured Malone, quite comfortable walking.
As they ascended, villagers came to gawk at the huge haole and his companion ali’i. The two travelers were offered food and deference in equal quantities, and the locals marveled at Malone’s appetite. A few of the children, grinning and giggling, tried to play with Worthless. The great black steed generally ignored them, even when they swung from his tail or tugged on his mane. He munched fruit in quantity and reacted only once to the juvenile attention.
One of the older youngsters stood directly in front of the stallion and reached for the patch on its forehead, intending to pull it loose and see what it concealed. The next moment he was running and crying for his mother, who was unable to determine exactly how he had been struck in the eye by a flying mango pit.
As the two men climbed, the air grew steadily cooler. About three degrees for every thousand feet, Malone reckoned. More than adequately protected in his buckskins and boots, he marveled at the nearly naked Hau’s ability to withstand the increasing chill.
At four thousand feet Hau pointed out excellent high grassland suitable for grazing cattle. At six thousand they entered and passed through a solid layer of cloud. At ten thousand they encountered isolated patches of icy snow.
Then Malone found himself gazing down into a black-streaked, rust-brown crater big enough to hold all of Manhattan Island.
Hau pointed to a distant cinder cone within the crater. “Down there, my friend, there is said to be a cave. In the depths of the cave is a tool. Only the truest of kahuna can recover it. Others have tried; none have succeeded. Whether anyone can even make use of it I do not know. I know only what the kahunas here tell me: that it is the only tool with which Kanaloaiki’s terrible plan can be foiled.”
Malone nodded. “Maybe it’s a big hammer that I kin whack him on the head with.” So saying, he flicked Worthless’s reins, and together man and unicorn started down into the barren, nearly lifeless crater.
Silversword grew in isolated bunches, thrusting their highly specialized leaves into a pristine pale blue sky. Exotic carmine, yellow, and emerald-hued birds fluttered in and out of the crater on air currents that rose from the volcano’s rain-forested eastern slopes, each exotic flyer more brilliantly colored than the next. They reminded Malone of a rainbow’s tears. Occasionally a pueo, the native owl, would dart low as Worthless’s hooves disturbed a mouse.
The browns and blacks and russets and rusts of the crater seemed endless, but eventually Malone found himself approaching the cinder cone that had been singled out by Hau. Trotting around its base, he skirted the edge of an undistinguished depression in the crater floor. According to what Hau had been told, the cave was to be found on the far side of the cone.
A few cinders slid away beneath Worthless’s hooves, tumbling toward the center of the depression. Each step sent a few more skittering downward. Before long the slide had become continuous. Just to be on the safe side, Malone urged his mount higher up the slope they were traversing.
But instead of ascending, Worthless, too, began to slide.
As steed and rider fought for stability, Malone saw that the sliding cinders were flowing rapidly toward the center of the depression, and not just from beneath Worthless’s feet but from all sides. It reminded him of something he’d seen before.
Despite the unicorn’s heroic efforts, they continued to slip. Finally Malone saw something else, something that at last brought back to him the memory of what they had encountered previously. This was very much identical, only on a larger scale.
A much larger scale.
Two projecting, curving, sharp-edged, sicklelike hooks, each taller than a man, clashed and clacked together expectantly in the exact center of the depression. The owner of those jaws would have been instantly familiar to anyone who had ever run across them in sandy, dry soils. They belonged to an ant lion.
An ant lion that, to judge by the size of the depression and its now-visible jaws, must be as big as an elephant.
What it subsisted on here in this barren crater Malone couldn’t imagine, but he understood now why courageous but foolhardy travelers who defied the old kapu to visit this sacred place never returned to their homes, and why even kahunas avoided the crater floor.
His first thought was to unlimber the Sharps, but even its fifty-caliber bullets would not be likely to have much of an effect on the slow-paced nervous system of the gigantic insect. Instead, as Worthless continued to slip and slide toward those expectant, waiting jaws, Malone began undoing one of his saddlebags. Fingering various vials and containers within, he sought hurriedly for the right one.
Those jaws, large and powerful enough to crack the bones of a man’s skeleton like twigs, were much too near when he finally found the vial he’d been searching for. Unscrewing the lid, he tossed the entire open container into the center of the depression, only to see it swallowed imme
diately.
For a few moments nothing happened, and they continued to slide lower and lower. Then the descent ceased. With Malone whispering in his ear, Worthless kicked and scrambled frantically to gain height.
The ground behind them began to tremble. It was an eruption, but not of Haleakala. With a violent, concussive roar the cinders and air behind them vomited skyward, forming a temporary but spectacular fountain. Malone held on to his wolf’s-head cap, his saddle, and his dignity as best he could as the wild rush sent man and mount flying out of the depression.
It had been, he reflected as he and Worthless picked themselves up and continued on their way, one hell of a sneeze. But then, the open vial that he had thrown into the pit and that had found its way into the ant lion’s mouth had contained absolute essence of cayenne, a substance useful in numerous spells and Tex-Mex cooking and not ineffective when employed strictly in its purest form.
In contrast to the encounter with the crater dweller, the cave in the cinder cone was very much an anticlimax, starkly unimpressive. Within, Malone found a few handfuls of bone tools, some old pots and desiccated baskets, and a frayed sleeping mat. Nothing more. Certainly nothing that on the face of it was potent enough to use against a formidable sorcerer.
Nevertheless, he knew from long experience that even the simplest object could be imbued with considerable power. Gathering up everything he saw, he secured it to one saddlebag and started back toward the crater’s rim, this time employing a different route. Being completely out of essence of cayenne, he had no wish to tempt the gargantuan ant lion’s energy and appetite a second time.
What was worse, he mused as he rode, was that now he was going to have to have his evening meal inadequately seasoned.
Hau could hardly believe it when Malone rejoined him just below and outside the crater rim. “You have survived!” the ali’i exclaimed. “No one has been to that place in living memory and returned to tell of it.”
“I reckon I know why.” Slipping down out of the saddle, Malone unpacked the artifacts he had accumulated. “Now, this ’ere basket, what’s it fer?” He passed a finely woven container to the ali’i.
Hau’s demeanor was less than reverent as he turned the object over in his hands. “Gathering fruit, I would imagine. It is a simple basket. What did you think it was?”
Malone grunted. “Never mind. How about this?” They went through every item in the mountain man’s perilously acquired inventory, Hau discarding one after another with nary a word. Malone was growing not just discouraged but angry, wondering if he’d risked his life only to recover some long-dead kahuna’s household goods.
So it was that when Hau’s eyes grew wide and his hands began to shake as he held up an ordinary-looking fishhook, Malone hardly knew what to make of it.
“You must have much mana, Amos Malone, to bring this out of the House of the Sun.”
“So I’ve been told in other ways.” Malone squinted dubiously at the hook, unable to discern anything remarkable about it. “What do we do now? Go fishin’?”
Hau cradled the object piously in both upturned palms. “Of course you cannot know what this is. But by its shape, which I recognize, and its design, which I well remember from the old tales, and by the picture writing on both sides, I know it for what it is.”
Malone was hungry. Behind him, Worthless whinnied impatiently. “A means fer catchin’ our lunch?” he asked hopefully.
Hau handed the artifact to his haole friend. “This, Amos Malone, is the Manai ikalani, the sacred fishhook which one of the god Maui’s ancestresses fashioned at his request from her own jawbone. Using it, Maui raised from the depths of the sea all the land that became the islands of my people and those of their ancestors. When Maui caught the sun here atop Haleakala, the fishhook fell from where it was tied at his waist. It has lain here ever since.” Without waiting to see if Malone would follow, he turned and started down the mountain.
“Come, my friend. With this even we may be able to stop Kanaloaiki from destroying Lahaina.”
Malone swung himself up into the saddle and followed. “How? By bribing him with fish?”
Hau looked up and smiled. “You do not fool me, kahuna. I know that when the time comes, you will know what to do. Now that we have a hook, we must find a line to attach to it. The strongest line imaginable. There is good rope in Lahaina, fashioned to sell to the whalers. We will find the toughest there is and buy, borrow, or steal what is needed.”
Malone considered. “That may not be necessary. You say we need a sturdy line?”
“The strongest that can be woven.”
“Will that little hook hold a big line?”
Hau looked back and said in all sincerity, “It once raised from the bottom of the sea all the islands of Polynesia.”
“Okay, I take your meaning. But I think I know where I kin find us an even stronger line than you have in mind.”
“Excellent. But we must hurry, Amos Malone. See that light on the far slope of Pu’u Kukui?” In the distance, on the upper slopes of the West Maui Mountains, Malone could just make out a fitful, flashing light. “Kanaloaiki has begun his evil work. We have little time.”
Malone sighed heavily. “In the wizardry business it seems like a man hardly ever does.”
* * *
—
“What on earth d’you plan t’ do with this ashore, Malone?” George Wilfong indicated the length of material Malone had sought to buy.
“You needn’t know, George. Better you don’t.” Seated next to the whaler, Malone pulled hard on his oar. Around them lights flickered from murderous ships riding innocently at anchor.
“That’s all well and good, I suppose. All I knows is that you’d better give me payment enough to satisfy the captain, as you promised, or there’ll be hell to pay.”
“There’ll be hell to pay this night anyway. Rest assured the captain will be satisfied with the trade I have in mind.”
Wilfong frowned. “He had better be, or he’ll have me keelhauled right here in the Roads. Malone, I don’t know what you’re up to this night, but one thing I am sure of: you owe me as well as the captain for this.”
“Fair enough, George.” Malone considered the looming bulk of the island and the tiny but intense light that was now clearly visible just below the shaft of the highest crag. “I hear tell you’re thinking of giving up whaling.”
“How’d you know that?” Wilfong looked startled.
“Sometimes a man thinks loudly, and I reckon myself a good listener. This is a sweet favor you’re doin’ me, so I expect it’s only just and fair that I slip you a sweet notion in return. The far side o’ this island is wet as any in the world, and the soil there is rich. Right now there’s a hunger for all kinds o’ seasonings in California and gold to pay fer them. Myself, I’m here to see to the possibilities o’ raising more cattle in this country, beef cattle t’ feed hungry miners. Someone’s needed t’ see to other items. It’s a known fact that prospectors are most all afflicted with the sweet tooth.”
“What are you saying, Malone?” Wilfong pulled steadily on his oar.
“Sugarcane, George. I’ve a thought that it would do well here. Why not try some on the well-watered side o’ the island?”
“Sugarcane?” Wilfong’s brows drew together in thought. “I’ve seen how it’s done in the Caribbean. But what would I use here to boil the juice? There’s no manufacturing in these islands, and I couldn’t afford to bring heavy gear over from the mainland.”
“Use some of the big blubber pots off any whaler,” Malone suggested.
Wilfong brightened. “Blubber pots. Now, that’s a fine idea, Mr. Malone, a fine idea. It just might work, and Lord knows I’ve experience enough boiling things down. Sugarcane; yes, by God. I’ll give it a try, I think, and thankee.”
“Welcome.”
“But there’s st
ill the matter of the captain’s payment.”
They were very close to shore now. Easing off on his oar while Wilfong did the same, Malone dug deep in a pocket and handed his companion a triangular-shaped object that seemed to glow from within with a supernal whiteness. On both sides were etched in black finely wrought scenes of whales, whalers, and whaling men.
“ ’Tis the biggest sperm whale tooth I’ve ever seen,” Wilfong admitted, “and the scrimshaw is excellent, but scrimshaw to a whaling man is like ice to an Esquimau. I’m not sure the captain will account it a fair trade.”
Malone’s tone was somber. “Tell him that so long as this sleeps in his sea chest, he need never fear that any ship he commands will come to harm. This ’ere were given to me by a fella name of Herman after I rescued him from the natives down in the Marquesas.” The mountain man chuckled. “Been writin’ about it ever since, he has.
“The scrimshaw on this tooth was done by a Maori fella called Quehquoag, who pried it from the hull of a capsized lugger out o’ the Fijis. Came from a white whale, he told my friend. Last I heard, Herman was still workin’ on a book about thet.” Malone turned thoughtful. “Ought to be out in a year or two, I reckon.”
Wilfong was still doubtful but willing to be convinced. “All seamen are superstitious, captains no less so than common sailors. The size of it…” He hefted the enormous white tooth in both bands. “It’s warm to the touch, as if still connected to the lower jaw of its owner.” He nodded to himself. “I think the captain will accept it. You must be badly in need of this”—he gestured at the cargo they towed behind them—“to part with so powerful a talisman.”
Once more Malone’s gaze turned to the mountain. “The world’s full of talismans, George, but short on good people and shorter still on good schools.”
Mad Amos Malone Page 20
