Ocean: The Awakening

by Brian Herbert

  “I have had failures,” Kimo said. “My record of healing is not perfect. I remember a beached dolphin that was still alive, lying on the sand at low tide. It was too heavy for me to drag back into the water, so I stood over the creature and laid my hands on it. The dolphin was breathing fitfully and looked at me. Then, sadly, it just gave up and died.”

  “My record is not perfect, either, and yet, you cannot deny that we also have notable successes.”

  Nodding, Kimo had mused in response, “So we’re both healers, living in the same household as mother and son—but we are not genetically related.”

  “Ah, but we are related, young man. All creatures of this planet are related, and mankind needs to understand that. The horses and wild boars of the land, like the people of the land, are related to the creatures of the sea.”

  Kimo had nodded, having heard that millions of years ago the ancestors of mankind may have originated in the sea—primitive life forms that eventually crawled up on the land and began to live out of the water, where they evolved into humans. The proof was not only in the remnants of gills in the human embryo or in the shape of that embryo that resembled that of a fish, or even in the chemical makeup of amniotic fluid that closely approximated seawater. The real proof lay in man’s own subconscious, the way so many people knew deep in their souls that they were like creatures who had swum in the sea long ago.

  And Kimo believed it was no accident that he had been netted from the sea by Tiny Pohaku and welcomed into this family. Some greater purpose had placed him in this remarkable household, at a particular moment in history….

  When Kimo was small, Ealani used to sing ancient Polynesian chants for him, and his favorite was one that told how everything on the planet—all life, land, and water—came from a primordial formation of coral. The sacred story had left indelible images in his young mind, as he envisioned the piece of coral giving birth to all water, life, and matter. It was one of the things that gave him a strong appreciation for the ocean and its creatures, because the ocean was still favored with coral in many places, while the land was not. Some of the kahunas said that the land was jealous of the sea over its beautiful coral reefs, so the creatures of the land—humans—were trying to destroy the exquisite colonies of coral by ripping pieces of them loose for souvenirs, breaking the reefs carelessly with boats and boat anchors, and contributing to the global warming that was bleaching coral colonies, killing their delicate ecosystems.

  Sometimes Ealani spoke to Kimo of gods and goddesses in a very broad sense, going beyond Polynesian traditions, and told him that he must have been watched over by a great and powerful deity when he was born in the sea and raised by swimming creatures. He believed she was right, because he remembered seeing a warm glow deep in the water right after he was born, and a sense that someone was there—or something was there—a benevolent entity that protected him and allowed him to swim without limitation in the sea, even though he was born of a human mother. As time passed, he grew closer to the entity, and visited it often.

  Now, at the kitchen counter Kimo cut the fresh limes into quarters, so that the family could squeeze juice on the papayas that Ealani had already sliced and put on a serving plate. “How is he this morning?” he asked in Hawaiian, referring to Tiny Pohaku, the man who was the only real father he’d ever known. The young Hawaiian kept his voice down, so as not to be heard in the other room.

  Sadness crept over the kindly features of the woman’s face, and she looked down at the dirt floor of the kitchen. Her voice was coarse and earthy. “Worse, I’m afraid. Day by day my wonderful husband slips farther away from us.”

  Kimo rapped on the door of his parents’ bedroom, and entered after hearing his father’s deep-throated invitation.

  The old fisherman was sitting up in bed. A large man with facial pockmarks from a childhood illness and wisps of gray hair on his head, he had trouble getting around now, because the insidious cancer had metastasized into his organs and bones. When he did walk it was always with a cane, while someone stayed close to make certain he didn’t fall.

  A weathered fishing-tackle basket, woven from lauhala leaves, sat in one corner of the room. It was one of his most prized possessions, made for him by his wife. She had also woven Tiny’s sleeping mat, and beneath that she had laid ki leaves to protect him in his time of sickness.

  “Would you like me to help you shave?” Kimo asked.

  Tiny grinned. “No, I’ve decided to grow a beard. It will be thin and scraggly, I’m sure, but I’ve always wanted to grow one, and this is my chance.“ He rubbed his chin, where a few short, dark hairs were visible.

  “That sounds fine, Father. How are you feeling this morning?”

  “Better and better. Soon I will be out of here, running my fishing boat again and cursing at the engine. You are giving your fruit-stand income to Mother until I get back to work?”

  “Of course, and she provides me with an allowance. The stand is bringing in more money than ever.”

  “Is that so? Did you raise your prices?”

  “A little,” Kimo admitted. “The tourists are willing to pay, so why not?”

  “Yes, why not? Well, I’ll soon be out on the water to show you how to really make money.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Father. Your fishing buddies stop by to ask about you almost every day.” And this was true. They all missed Tiny’s ebullient personality, and the grand stories he liked to tell about his adventures in small boats.

  Weakly, Tiny swung his legs over the side of the bed, and with Kimo’s help he walked with the cane to the outhouse, which was connected to the little house by a short, tin-roofed breezeway. Presently he came out, moving slowly, and Kimo helped him to the small screened porch on the other side of the kitchen, where he liked to sit each morning and listen to the birds. Despite the old man’s size, he seemed frail and weak to Kimo.

  “I hear the birds singing for me already,” Tiny said, as he slipped into a wicker chair that afforded him a view of the garden, with its tall coconut palms, hibiscus trees thick with pink, yellow, or orange flowers, and the deep-green jungle beyond.

  The small house had walls made of black-lava rock and scrap wood, and louvers in the glassless window openings that could be opened and closed for ventilation, depending upon the strength of the trade winds. The roof was metal, with numerous patches. Little more than a shack, the place was rented from one of the old Hawaiian families, and stood in a clearing on the slopes of the volcano, with a partial view of the ocean. This was a sad state for the Pohakus in comparison with the thirty acre tract the family used to own at a lower elevation—but Tiny’s grandfather had lost it more than a hundred years ago to the thieving, deceitful ways of the haoles—the white people who had taken over the islands.

  Kimo had heard the disgraceful details recounted many times. Tiny was the last of the local Hawaiians who refused to give up his native-land claim against the greedy whites—over property that had originally been given to the Pohakus under the mahale law, in which King Kamehameha granted one-third of all Hawaiian lands to the indigenous people in 1848. Kimo’s ancestors had filed the proper paperwork to secure their real estate title and had paid the taxes for years, until they were wrongfully accused of not making their payments, and were cheated out of the land by a dishonest haole, Preston Ellsworth I.

  Kimo was ambivalent about the issue. He was angry and outraged at the terrible injustice, to be certain, but he was also realistic in realizing that his family did not have the resources to continue the fight. His mother thought that the ongoing conflict kept her husband alive and feisty, but Kimo wasn’t so certain, fearing that the stresses had taken their toll. There was no way to prove it one way or the other, because Tiny was seventy-six now, and had lived a full life. For decades he’d been a fisherman, going out to sea in small boats and bringing back his catch to the fish markets in Wanaao Town. But he had not worked for more than two years, not since the cancer began to take its toll on him and sap hi
m of energy.

  Yet, even in his weakened state, Kimo’s father was not a man to give up a grudge easily, especially one that was so deep-rooted, and which had affected his family so adversely. For the proud old Hawaiian man, it was a matter of restoring family honor.

  A light rain began to fall, and the birds grew quiet. Then, suddenly, a powerful wind bent the banana fronds and trees over, and a heavy rain poured down, creating a torrent of loud, roaring noise on the metal roof.

  In only a few minutes, by the time Ealani brought out the food and set it on a small table by her husband, the rain slacked off, and the birds began to sing again.

  Kimo caught a glance from her, just a quick look that his father did not notice as he took a plate of fruit and placed it on the old man’s lap. They knew that Tiny Pohaku would never go out to sea again, and he must know that himself, as well. Still, his optimism was contagious, causing Kimo to hold out a sliver of hope.

  ***

  Chapter 5

  Alicia thought the eastern shore of Loa’kai island was the most lovely place she’d ever seen, a paradise like no other on Earth. Having grown up near San Luis Obispo on the California coast, she had seen stunning coastal vistas, but this island in the Hawaiian archipelago was beyond anything imaginable; it was breathtaking. She had heard that the ancient Hawaiian kings used to vacation here before the Wanaao region became a town, and it was not difficult to understand why. There were flowers everywhere. It was as if God had selected the very best colors from his paint palette and spread them here in the most artful manner possible, on the land and in the water.

  Even her grandfather’s ranch-resort complex, despite its touristic aspects, captivated her, with its lush green pastures and black lava stretching to the aquamarine sea. Now, as she walked through one of the pastures with her grandfather and older brother, she watched waves crash against the coastline, shooting sprays of water high in the air and creating white, frothing foam that churned offshore. The air smelled fresh and clean, and she felt very much alive.

  The three of them wore oversized hats to protect against the intensity of the tropical sun, and as she looked up at her tall, elegant grandfather she saw the stern, creased face, the square jaw, and the military sunglasses he favored. He had blotchy, mottled red skin on his forehead, stark evidence of the numerous times he had gone outside without sun cream or a hat, often to work alongside laborers on the ranch. Such lapses of skin care had ceased in the last couple of years, because doctors had removed cancerous patches of skin from his face, neck, and arms, and warned him about the danger of the sun.

  The thought of cancer in a vibrant paradise such as Wanaao Town and its surrounding countryside seemed out of place to Alicia, and yet, it was a reality. It wasn’t the only danger in this heavenly place, either. Anyone walking out in the open faced the risk of a wild boar attack, though the beasts seemed to prefer jungle thickets instead of venturing onto pasturelands. To counter the peril, her grandfather had taught her and Jeff to always carry a heavy walking stick on long walks, though she doubted if that would be enough to ward off a snorting, charging animal that had sharp tusks and weighed half a ton.

  Preston Ellsworth III paused on top of a grassy mound where Portuguese ovens had been long-abandoned, a site where earlier inhabitants used to cook the bounty of fishing harvests. Constructed of blocks of black lava, the old ovens were beautiful to Alicia; even in their disrepair, they had a weathered, charming look. It was that way all over the Wanaao area, where nature had a way of making the detritus of human civilization melt back into the landscape and not detract from it—even old fences, shacks, rusted tractors, and plows. Maybe it was the strength and power of the weather that helped soften such objects and give them an aged grace and patina, the effect of the unrelenting sunshine and hard rains.

  “This will all be yours someday,” the old man said, waving an arm expansively to indicate the ranchland that extended from the slopes of the dormant volcano to the sea. He removed his sunglasses, revealing intense blue eyes, with which he looked first at Alicia and then at Jeff. Presently he said, with a small smile, “You’ll get all of my other business operations, too. I can’t live forever, no matter how much I’d like to.”

  “Don’t talk that way, Grandfather,” Alicia said. “You need to think about living, not dying.”

  “That’s right,” Jeff said. “Think about life, Grandfather.”

  Alicia’s older brother was stocky, with short blond hair, cut stylishly. He wore a blue and white Hawaiian shirt with a designer label, and favored expensive jewelry, such as the gold watch he had on now, and the gold chain around his neck.

  As a helicopter tour pilot for the hotel, Jeff took guests out over the lovely waterfalls, jungle valleys, and other vistas of the island, and provided them with information about the area. The craft was amphibious, and could be landed on the water for combination air and scuba-diving excursions. Having learned his flying skills in the military, he was a good pilot and the quality of his work seemed passable to Alicia—except for his tendency to strut around the hotel grounds and give commands to the help with his feisty, officious personality, which did not endear them to him.

  Jeff’s comment had been disingenuous, and this was obvious to her, because she knew her brother well, having heard him complain to her that he wished he had his inheritance now, so that he could sell the land and businesses, get his share of the money, and leave Hawaii forever. She wondered if her grandfather knew how Jeff really felt about him or Hawaii, but she did not consider it her place to inform him. The old man was sharp, and probably knew anyway. There had been indications that he did know, and now he scowled at Jeff.

  As Alicia looked inside one of the Portuguese ovens, she noticed a piece of rusted, badly deteriorated metal on the ground. It was difficult to say what the object had once been, but she thought it might have been left there fairly recently, in the past ten years or so. Metal objects were particularly susceptible to weathering in the Wanaao area; they rusted quickly in the salty air, so that anyone trying to operate machinery had to take extra precautions to protect it and keep it running.

  In this regard it was much worse outside, but even inside houses and other buildings, care had to be taken to preserve metal objects, lest they decay in the corrosive air and become useless. Wealthy people had atmospheric-controlled rooms for such purposes, and constantly maintained and garaged their machines. Poor people did the best they could, avoiding the use of metal as much as possible and doing things in the old fashioned ways of their ancestors.

  Ideally, machines should not even be allowed in this paradise. It was a place for natural things, for enhancing life and making it more meaningful. She felt the strong presence of spirits on this side of the island, but not in a bad way.

  Finally she met the gaze of her grandfather and said, “It is incredibly beautiful here, isn’t it?”

  ***

  Chapter 6

  Emerging from a light sleep, Kimo heard strange sounds, spread across his awareness without a discernible source. He assumed they were the remnants of a dream, and as if confirming this, the sounds began to fade away whenever he focused on them. He turned over on his bed mat. Something troubled him, and he found himself unable to return to sleep, no matter how tired he was from a busy day at the roadside fruit stand.

  Now as he lay awake, Kimo smelled mustiness in the air. Sometimes the drainage ditch around the little house failed and rainwater ran onto the dirt interior floors. The ditch might have leaves or other debris plugging it up, inhibiting the flow of water into a nearby gully. He would deal with it in the morning.

  But something else had his attention, and would not go away. Gradually the strange sounds returned, growing louder until they were an unpleasant wailing in his ears. He thought it was a combined noise, a blend from many sources. It reached a crescendo just as he sat up and swung his feet onto a palm fiber carpet. He slipped on his sandals and a pair of shorts.

  The sea, he thought. Sea creat
ures are calling to me!

  This had never happened to him in this way, but he realized that the sounds were very similar to those he’d heard from injured fish and other marine animals, though he’d only noticed such noises previously when he’d been in the water.

  For days, Kimo had not been swimming because he’d been busy at the fruit stand, completing repairs after a palm tree fell and damaged half of the original open-wall structure. With only a young native man, Billie Hama, to help, he’d been rebuilding the stand while keeping the business open, selling fruit and locally-produced bottles of juice to tourists.

  Now he slipped outside into the coolness of the moonlit night, closing the door softly behind him. Still hearing the disturbing sounds, he hurried along a jungle trail that sloped downward and makai—toward the ocean. Visibility was good with a full moon, as if God was shining a light on the jungle path to show him the way. The closer Kimo got to the water, the louder and more disquieting the sounds became.

  He traversed a short, rocky path down to the sandy beach. There, the sounds were quite loud, and the illuminated water looked stormy, with waves slapping the beach and the water roiling, though he felt no wind.

  Just offshore, Kimo saw the forms of marine creatures poking above the waves—the heads and backs of fish, seals, and turtles, as well as the fins of sharks, and huge manta rays that looked like stealth aircraft, along with numerous small, glowing fish that had come up from the depths, where they used their illumination to lure prey. The creatures were thick in the water—some iridescent, others sparkling colors in the moonlight, and all in turmoil. He sensed their pain, heard it in their distress cries—plaintive beeps, vibrations, groans, and croaking signals. Worried, Kimo waded into the water and dove in. The tropical sea was warmer than the night air.