As much income as Jeff made, he never seemed to have enough. But one day all such concerns would be gone, when his grandfather was out of the way. The old man was filthy rich, and Jeff could only imagine what his balance sheet must look like.
He sighed. If he thought he could get away with it, he would take his grandfather up in the air and dump him into the ocean—but every scenario he’d come up with had so many flaws that he was too nervous to try one.
Now the ‘copter flew over the seashore at the end of the valley, the muliwai where the creek flowed into the sea, and then headed out over the sparkling ocean. In the distance Jeff saw the fishing boat that he was going to rendezvous with, waiting for him just far enough offshore that no one on the land would see what they were doing.
Presently he was hovering above the boat (though he could have landed on the pontoons), and he saw two crewmen waving to him from the deck. Touching a toggle, Jeff lowered the basket on its winch-line, and watched while the men tossed a bundle of marijuana into it. This was supposed to be an especially high-grade of weed grown in northern California—on marijuana farms hidden in the deep woods. Whenever the feds found one operation there, ten more popped up to take its place, and anyone captured running the operation was only an underling who didn’t know who his superiors were up the distribution chain.
Jeff watched as a second, smaller parcel was loaded into the basket, and everything was secured. This parcel was supposed to be pure cocaine.
He brought the load up and dumped the basket onto the floor beside him. Keeping the aircraft controls on an automatic setting, he used a knife to slit open both parcels, and tasted the contents. It was all high-quality stuff; he had not expected otherwise, and had never had any problems with this supplier.
He tossed a waterproof bag of cash down on the boat’s deck, watched one of the crewmen catch it and wave.
Jeff kept the aircraft in place for a couple of minutes more, while he used strong tape to re-seal the bags, so that he could drop them in the jungle and retrieve them later from the ground.
With another purchase completed, Jeff banked the helicopter and headed back for the island of Loa’kai.
At dinner that evening in the hotel cafeteria, Alicia heard that ranch hands had just discovered the bodies of eighteen baby porpoises at Ha’ini Beach, one of the smaller beaches on the Ellsworth Ranch, and near the bodies were large chunks of dead coral.
She wondered what possible connection there could be between these grim discoveries and the poisonous fish attacks at Olamai Beach. She mentioned this to Johnny Lisboa, who sat at an adjacent table, eating a bowl of Portuguese soup, a thick, rich broth of wild boar meat, beans, and vegetables.
One of the handlers who worked with dolphins and porpoises at the aquatic park, the slender man said, “The most ominous, perhaps, is the dead coral, because of all the organisms that live in coral reef ecosystems. Entire food chains depend on those ecosystems, ultimately affecting many creatures of the sea, including jellyfish and porpoises. In one way of looking at it, the ocean is a single life form.”
Another handler joined the conversation, a brunette woman that Alicia didn’t know well. The woman mentioned what Alicia had already seen, that the handlers were having trouble with dolphins and porpoises at the aquatic park, who were resistant to performing their customary tricks in front of audiences.
“I think it’s all related,” Lisboa said, “and the common factor is the sea. The aquatic-park pools are seawater. It’s as if a sickness is affecting this region. Maybe a lethal virus in the food chain or even in the water itself, I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Nor have I,” the woman said.
Alicia ate the rest of her meal slowly, listening to the conversation, the confusion, and the lack of answers. The strange events seemed to be tied together; everyone agreed on that. But no one knew why they were happening.
***
Chapter 10
The morning after the jellyfish and stonefish attacks, Kimo negotiated a narrow cliffside trail, walking on red and black cinders that had tumbled down from the hill above. Ferns and scrubby Norfolk pine trees clung to the slopes, on small ledges and in cracks. As cliffs went, this one was not that high, but he’d heard of people being seriously injured here, and even killed, when they fell.
In his youth he used to run barefoot on the trail as part of a training regimen, but he’d found that he was not that much of a land creature, and preferred to get most of his exercise in the water. Now, he saw a small reddish beach and blue-water swimming area that the locals called Crimson Cove. Most tourists did not know about the hideaway, so it was a favorite place for Kimo to swim and meditate.
Long ago, so many years back that the events had slipped into the mists of mythology, local warriors had mounted a gallant defense on this hill against elite royal troops sent by the Hawaiian king, in his military campaign to unite the islands. Ultimately the king prevailed, but many died here. It was said that the red sand was from the blood of the warriors, blood that kept running down the hill every time it rained. In reality the beach consisted of red lava cinders that had fallen from the hill and been pulverized by wave action.
Before reaching the beach he took a side trail that was even narrower than the other one, and eventually dead-ended on the steep hillside. Beyond the trail he scrambled laterally, using his hands to hold on where necessary, as he had done many times before.
Arriving at a small cave on the slope, he poked his head inside and said, “You home, Jiddy?”
A voice came from above. “I was just having my coffee. Would you like to join me?”
Looking up, Kimo saw a balding man in ragged clothing, perched on a promontory. In his late forties, Jidhat Rahim was a Christian minister from Lebanon who had come to Hawaii to escape the turmoil and violence of the middle east. This was by far the larger of two caves in which he lived, and where he usually slept. He called the smaller one at Olamai Beach his “second home”, and from both he liked to watch swimmers and other activities on the beaches and in the water. At Olamai, he had rescued five people from drowning in recent years; tourists who were caught in dangerous undertows.
“I didn’t know you drank coffee,” Kimo said, as he climbed up and sat next to his friend. “Where is it?”
“Don’t have any. I’m just having a fantasy about one of the things I miss most about my homeland, the rich, dark Arabic coffee I used to drink.”
“Perhaps we should share a cup one day in Wanaao Town.”
“I have no money; you know that.” Jidhat Rahim was one of many people who lived off the land in the Hawaiian islands, finding a simple method of sheltering himself from the weather, and subsisting on the fruits that grew in abundance, and on fish from the sea. In remote areas on the slopes of the volcano there were numerous squatters who had built shacks and other primitive structures, either without the knowledge of the landowners, or with their tacit permission.
Kimo smiled. “We can work something out, I’m sure.”
“If you’re offering me a job at your fruit stand, you know I can’t remember the last time I maintained regular hours.”
“Jiddy, you rescue people from the surf and dispense philosophical wisdom to me. The least I can do is to buy you a cup of coffee.”
“Thanks.”
“I assume you heard what happened at Olamai yesterday morning.”
Jiddy nodded. “From what I hear, no one was badly hurt. I went there in the afternoon, and the lifeguards told me there were a few bumps and scrapes but no broken bones, and no serious stings. Box jellyfish and stonefish! Amazing that no one was killed. One sting from those jellyfish can cause respiratory problems and death, and hardly anyone survives after coming into contact with a poisonous stonefish.”
“Fortunate, indeed, and most mysterious.”
“You have a special way with sea life,” Jiddy said. “I’ve seen them gather around you, and follow you.” Jiddy did not know much more than th
at, and did not know about Kimo’s physical advantage of being able to breath underwater, or any of the other unusual physical attributes he had.
“But I don’t know why they did what they did at Olamai.”
“Some people think you and I are completely mad, you know,” Jiddy said. “You in one way, and me in another.”
“Perhaps we are the most sane people in the islands. I like to think that is so.”
“But our sanity is supported by the pillars of our own perception, with our minds filtering out things that do not support our particular worldviews.” The man nodded. “As you know, I have a great deal of time to consider such matters.”
“I have my own diversions.” Kimo gazed longingly toward the sea, where he saw the fins and heads of sharks, schools of reef fish, and green turtles, evidence that his aquatic friends were waiting for him out there.
“So I see.” Jiddy nodded toward the marine animals gathering in the water. “They always seem to know where you are, don’t they?”
“Yes, they do.” Somehow they sensed where he was, even when he was on land, and now they were gathering at the nearest place to him in the water. It had always been that way for Kimo, but he wished he knew what was the matter with them now. He could see them churning and circling in the water, trying to get his attention more than usual. When added to the strange behavior at Olamai and the other disturbing local events, he felt that something was very, very wrong around here.
For several minutes the pair sat silently, listening to the chirping of birds in the trees, and the rustling of branches and leaves in gusts of wind.
Finally, Jiddy asked, “Shall we pray for your father?”
“That is why I came to see you, my good friend.”
Reaching over, the Middle Eastern man took Kimo’s hands in his own large, calloused hands, as if sheltering the younger man and his family with his holiness. And, although Jidhat Rahim referred to himself as a Christian minister and believed in the Gospel of Jesus Christ, he was tolerant of other faiths and belief systems, and knew that Kimo preferred to worship the Polynesian gods of his own ancestry.
“To the gods of the sky and all things of nature,” Jiddy said, “we pray for our beloved Tiny Pohaku. Please ease his pain and comfort his family.”
After several moments of silence, Jiddy added a Christian prayer, in which he called upon the name of Jesus, and then fell silent.
Kimo didn’t mind the additional appeal. If his friend was more in touch with the Christian God than with any other, perhaps he could summon up more power from that source. Kimo could only hope.
With his eyes misting over, he looked gratefully at Jiddy, then withdrew and made his way down to the red-sand beach, and waded into the water.
***
Chapter 11
Gwyneth McDevitt wanted to escape from Chelsea Hospital, this asylum, in the worst way. She was always looking for opportunities, and frequently ran through possibilities in her hyperactive brain, ways to free her body of these institutional shackles. So far she did not see any way out, but vowed to keep trying.
In a very real sense she was not a prisoner at all, not as long as she could access the wondrous realm inside her mind. If that avenue ever became blocked, she didn’t know what she would do. This meant, of course, that she was fully embracing the autism that others said was a disability. She heard the doctors and nurses talking about her all the time, apparently not knowing, or not concerned, that they were within her earshot. Maybe they didn’t think she could understand or focus on their medical terminology, but if so, they were wrong.
Before arriving at the hospital, she’d spoken often to her family and to others, and with patience most of them had been able understand her, despite her social awkwardness. Now, since her attempt to swim out to sea and her confinement here, all that was gone. She’d been living inside her mind for the most part, receiving the strange, incredible flow of data and processing it, drawing her important conclusions about the sickness of the world’s vast, interconnected ocean.
And a mysterious word had been coming into her mind, across a soft, murmuring awareness, a word that repeated itself without explanation: moanna … moanna…. What did it mean?
Venturing outside her internal realm was limited. She could listen to others and comprehend them, but much of the time she was unable to form coherent words with which to express herself. In this sense, she was almost like a mute, but not a deaf person, and not blind. Her senses were available to her, even heightened.
It occurred to her now, as she sat in afternoon sunlight by the window, that she rather liked the fact that she was having so much trouble speaking, because if she ever formed words to tell others exactly what she was thinking, they would be taking a portion of her precious self, her most private thoughts—and she preferred to keep such things to herself. Outsiders had no right to plunder the treasures of her marvelous mind! The thoughts and images were hers to share, or not share, as she pleased. She hated having her actions and thoughts analyzed through a magnifying glass in this asylum, and she wanted to limit the intrusions as much as possible, until that glorious day when she finally found a way to get out of this place….
Dr. Halberton entered the room, not bothering to knock this time, as he did on occasion. The heavyset black man had no prurient motive in this, she had decided. It was just that he was often focused on something he wanted to do for her as his patient. He tended to be absent-minded.
“It’s time to continue your lessons,” the doctor said, setting a briefcase down on the central table. “Did you have a nice lunch?”
She just stared at the magazine photograph of the humpback whale on the wall, without replying. She loved that picture, could stare at it for hours and imagine herself with the amazing animal, in the water. It would be the most wonderful experience she could imagine.
“I know you understand me,” the doctor said. “I know you’re smart.”
Slowly, the elfin girl turned to look at him, then struggled to produce words. This time she managed to succeed, though she had trouble with the letter “s”. “S-oup was bad.”
“The chowder? What didn’t you like about it?”
“Eat no clam, eat no fish.”
“Why not?”
“Eat no clam, eat no fish.” She’d never told him this much before about her dietary preferences. In the past, she had always refused to consume any form of seafood, and would continue to take that stance, though she did eat red meat and chicken—most anything that came from the land, but not from the sea.
“All right, Gwyneth. I’ll see what I can do about that. No more clam chowder for you. The kitchen will give you different soups. Would you like that?”
“Eat no fish.”
“Right, no fish, either.”
She nodded.
“We’re going to do multiple choice today,” he said, flipping on a laptop computer. “These are complex mathematical problems, and I want you to select the correct answer to each question. All right?”
Another nod, and she sat at the table in front of the screen, as she had done before.
An advanced calculus question appeared, written in numbers and mathematical symbols, along with seven possible answers. With only a moment’s hesitation, she touched the screen with her answer, and a gold star appeared next to it, indicating the choice was correct. This took her to another question, which she again answered correctly, and to another, and another, and another, until she had completed fifty and answered every one of them perfectly.
After this, another fifty questions appeared, similar to the standard fare she had seen before, multiplying or dividing large numbers. They were quite easy for her, and she moved quickly through them, without missing one.
“Very good,” he said. “Now I’d like you to write your own mathematical equation or question. Anything you’d like, just use the signal pen and touch the screen to write with it.”
She hesitated. The doctor was probing her mind again, trying to find
out what she was thinking. When he asked her to do this previously, she arranged blue pegs in a circle, representing the ocean encircling the world, while making no effort to explain to him what the arrangement meant. Before that, she had responded to numerous other inquiries, taking care not to reveal any details of the intense thinking she’d been doing about the ocean, and instead listing a series of generic algebraic problems, or high prime numbers—anything to throw him off track.
“I only want to help you, Gwyneth,” he assured her now. His voice was reassuring and soft, and his dark eyes were sensitive. She had been resisting most impulses to let him in, but he had such a kind face and gentle, considerate manner. So far, she was not sure how to express the important calculations to anyone in a way that would be taken seriously, or to whom she might make the attempt. The calculations, and resultant predictions, worried her a great deal, so perhaps she should reveal a little more to this nice man….
Taking the marker, Gwyneth wrote a common formula on the screen:
H2O
“Water?” he said. “With all the complex numbers and formulas filling your mind, you have written something that simple?”
She made a circle around the formula, again representing the ocean encircling the Earth, and again not attempting to explain anything further to him. These clues were as much as she wanted to pass on so far. Maybe she would reveal more to him in the future, but if so, only in tiny increments to see how he handled the information, and to determine if he really was a good person, and was not trying to deceive her. She had to be extremely careful, walking a fine line that did not divulge too much, while not behaving in a manner that would cause anyone to sedate her, inhibiting the mental clarity she needed.
A higher power had provided her with the valuable information for her calculations, infusing raw data into her mind in a mysterious manner, and she needed to be careful. She was a caretaker of the information, and a refiner of it. Perhaps one day she would learn the identity of her benefactor, though she already suspected the purpose of the sacred trust.
Ocean: The Awakening Page 6
