by Beth Cato
“Everything started with the explosion at the Cordilleran. That day, your husband . . .” Ingrid struggled to find words. Warden Kealoha had been one of her mentor Mr. Sakaguchi’s dearest friends, and she had come to love him, too. “I think I poured him five cups of coffee during the meeting that morning. I’d made his favorite shortbread cookies, too. He had a handful for his breakfast. I had to tell him he had crumbs on his suit jacket.”
Mrs. K’s face crumpled, the sheen of tears in her eyes. “Good. I’m glad you were looking after him. I’ve made your mother’s shortbread recipe for the men here as well, but I never had the chance to make it for my husband.” She paused a moment to control a sob. “I have missed him so much.”
Ingrid had to look away in an effort to check her own emotions. Mr. Kealoha hadn’t been approved for a visit to the Vassal States in over five years. He had reached the high status of warden due to his geomantic prowess, but as a native Hawaiian, he was looked down upon, judged to be primitive and untrustworthy. He had not been allowed to travel beyond San Francisco without proper paperwork and an approved adept as escort. The kermanite that he filled was even priced lower than that of more esteemed white and Japanese wardens.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Kealoha had been refused annual passes to visit the mainland to see her husband, even as she continued to manage household functions for the Hawaiian Auxiliary.
“I talked to Mr. Sakaguchi right after the Cordilleran explosion, when he called regarding the urgent need for geomancers in San Francisco,” Mrs. K said, her voice hoarse. “I was so relieved that you two had survived. What a miracle that was. Then the earthquake occurred days later, and since then the news from the city has been confusing at best.”
“It’s been confusing for us, too.” Ingrid took a deep breath. Cy wouldn’t approve of her next words, so she avoided looking at him. “I . . . I have something to confess. I’m a geomancer.” She felt strange saying the words aloud. “A powerful one. That’s how we survived the explosion. I used my power to shield myself and Mr. Sakaguchi.” She paused, briefly overcome by despair at the thought that she might have saved Mr. Kealoha, too, if he had been close by. “After that . . . I tried to hide what I could do, but the Unified Pacific became suspicious of us.” She thought of the horrid, arrogant Captain Sutcliff with a shudder. “And then an ambassador became involved, and—”
“Roosevelt?” Mrs. K cut in sharply.
“No.” Not at that point, and she would not implicate him in this telling. Nor would she speak Ambassador Blum’s name aloud and risk attracting her attention from afar. Ingrid had recently learned a great deal about the magical potency of names.
Her hand formed a fist on her thigh right above where she’d burned the kanji character for “earth” into her own flesh. Ingrid had almost died from the effort of infusing that magical ward against Blum; the life force she’d expended in that act was likely what had damaged her legs.
However, the ward should prevent Blum from tracking Ingrid. Should it fail, the distance between Hawaii and the continent would strain even Blum’s mighty powers. And surely Blum was bound to stay in America right now, with her Gaia Project ready to go public.
Ingrid continued, “Amid all of this, I discovered my father wasn’t dead. He lived in hiding until late last year. He somehow ended up in the custody of Thuggees—”
“The Indian rebels are involved in this?” Disbelief rang in Mrs. K’s voice.
“Yes, ma’am. The papers blamed the Chinese from the start, and that’s exactly what the Thuggees wanted everyone to believe,” said Cy. “I assume you knew Warden Thornton at the Cordilleran?”
“Thornton? Of course. He even came through Honolulu a time or two. You’re telling me that pompous windbag was a Thuggee?” She barked out a small laugh. “The dime novels certainly don’t depict that right.”
No, the cheap paperbacks preferred to romanticize an insulting cliché—dark-skinned pagans with swooning white women in the backdrop.
“The Thuggees had stolen an unusually large piece of kermanite,” Cy continued. “They needed energy to fill it.”
“Therefore they needed the guardian geomancers gone, leaving San Francisco vulnerable to an earthquake.” Mrs. K accepted the logic behind her husband’s death with a stoic expression. “There were stories about your father, Ingrid. He was . . . said to be profoundly gifted. I take it the Thuggees knew this and used him to channel energy?”
“Yes. He died soon after the quake.” Putting it so simply felt like a lie. “The Unified Pacific now knows that I’m a . . . profoundly gifted geomancer, too. They want to use me in their war against China. I want no role in that. I fled. They’ve chased me.”
Mrs. K would assume that the Unified Pacific wanted Ingrid for her ability to channel energy, which was fine with Ingrid. There was truth in it. But most of all, they wanted to use her as they had Papa: as a weapon to level whole cities.
“You, a geomancer.” Mrs. K studied her. “It’s never set right with me that only men are supposed to have that skill, that training. But I wouldn’t have wished that burden on you, Ingrid. Women like us, women who think . . . we’re seen more as tools than people.” She shook her head, her gaze resting on Ingrid’s legs. “You haven’t mentioned the whereabouts of Lee and Warden Sakaguchi amid all this.”
“They are both missing right now,” Cy said in his gentle way. Again, a statement so simple and misleading it felt like a lie. The last time Ingrid had seen Lee, he had been on the verge of death, evacuating Seattle via submarines with other Chinese refugees—and a captive Mr. Sakaguchi.
“I’m sorry, keiki.” Mrs. Kealoha stooped to hug Ingrid in her chair. “We are steeped in grief right now.” Ingrid braced her head against Mrs. K’s soft shoulder. “Now. You took the risk of telling me all of this for a reason. How can I help you?”
“The best place for me to hide is where no geomancer is expected to be, on the Big Island.” She paused, taking in Mrs. K’s aghast expression. “While we’re there, though, I want to do something more. You know my father’s origins have always been a mystery to me and everyone who knew him. I think . . . I have reason to believe that his mother might’ve been Pele.”
At that, Mrs. K physically recoiled, her face darkening like a storm cloud. “Ingrid. You’re in the islands now, not reading some geomancy textbook. You call her Madam Pele.”
“I—I’m sorry. I meant no disrespect, to Madam Pele or to you. I’m ignorant.” She ducked her head in chagrin. “That’s why I came to you for advice, Mrs. K, because when we go to Hawaii Island, I—”
“Oh no. Oh no. Only Hatsumi is foolish enough to go there and he’s paid well for it, and no one goes near Kilauea. The energy always flows there. Leg extensions aren’t enough of a buffer. Geomancers in hovering airships can absorb power. And you think you can waltz in there for an audience with Madam Pele?” Mrs. K rolled her eyes and looked toward heaven. “I won’t help you commit suicide. I won’t.”
“That sounds like a familiar argument,” murmured Cy.
Ingrid shot him a glare. “I’m aware of the danger, Mrs. K. I’ve been . . . injured through the use of my power. That’s why I’m in a wheelchair.”
“You were in San Francisco, when the earthquake . . . ?”
“Yes.” Ingrid let that answer suffice.
Mrs. K shook her head, her lips slightly parted in awe. “Surely some grace was upon you, for you to survive that cataclysm. You can’t test that kind of blessing by trying to confront Madam Pele. The books in there”—she dismissively waved toward the main building—“like to classify her as a Hidden One, but she’s not one to hide. She is lava, whether it’s boiling red or cooled black. She is sulfurous air. She changes forms the way normal people change clothes.”
The way she said it made Ingrid think of Ambassador Blum and her many skins. She shivered.
“Most of our old gods are fluid in form,” Mrs. K said as she absently tapped the cross at her chest. “The Japanese here have come to regard
her as one of their kami, those nature spirits they like to see in every stream or significant rock. My people, most of us are Christian these days, but we still regard her with respect. We must. Parts of her past bodies are still strewn across the islands as rocks and other landforms.”
Mrs. K clicked her tongue against her teeth as she looked to the counter, where partially cut biscuit dough waited. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but years ago, Mr. Sakaguchi had me research to see if there was evidence of your father coming from here. I found no proof. But I told him, Abram Carmichael looked like one of us. So do you.” She cast a fond smile at Ingrid. “You wouldn’t be the only family of Madam Pele either. The districts near Kilauea look to her as a goddess and as an ancestor.”
Ingrid leaned forward in her chair. “Are there women there who—”
Mrs. K held out a hand as she shook her head. “If men or women there are geomancers, they keep it secret. As well they should.” Grief rippled across her face again. “People like us aren’t supposed to be blessed in such a way.” Her voice shook with barely repressed rage.
“Well, my secret is out,” Ingrid said quietly. “Ambassadors know. Common soldiers know. I only hope I can avoid the UP’s intentions.”
“You have to hope. You can’t lose that.” Mrs. K moved to the counter and began to press her biscuit cutter into the dough with savage speed. “I need to get these in. The bells will toll for pau hana soon.”
“Pau hana,” Ingrid repeated. “You never used Hawaiian words like that on the telephone.”
“Of course not. The telephone is for business. An operator or official is likely listening in.” With practiced hands, Mrs. K re-formed the remaining dough and stamped out more biscuits. “My husband told you that speaking or writing in Hawaiian is illegal?”
Ingrid nodded, somewhat bewildered at the change of topic, but sensing Mrs. K’s need to vent.
Mrs. K moved the loaded baking sheet near the stove with the chicken. “Here in Hawaii, you’ll hear haoles, that means ‘foreigners,’ white or Japanese, using select Hawaiian words—like pau hana. That means the end of the workday, a chance to relax. A very Hawaiian thing. Pilikia is popular, too. Haoles think it’s a fun word to say, so we are graciously allowed to still use it.”
“Mr. Sakaguchi used to say that language can be used like shackles,” Ingrid murmured.
“Yes. We use the words we’re permitted to use. We take the jobs we’re supposed to take. We try to stay alive.” Mrs. K stared down at her flour-whitened hands. “You’re going to go to Kilauea no matter what I say, aren’t you?”
“We’ve come this far,” said Ingrid.
Resignation weighed on Mrs. K’s face. “You know about the declaration of martial law?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Cy. “Something to do with strikers on sugarcane plantations?”
“Yes, and there are even more plantations on Hawaii Island, especially around Kona and Hilo, so you can expect more soldiers, more scrutiny. The landowners brought in a lot of Filipinos and Koreans to work the land in recent years, thinking these people beaten by Japan and the UP would be easy to control. That they’d be grateful to work under contracts that essentially made them slaves. Well, the workers found out that newly arrived Portuguese make a third more than they do, and they get family housing and more . . .” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m rambling. But all this means that you need proper papers and a solid reason to travel interisland. Especially you, Ingrid.” Her look was severe. “You’re most likely to find Madam Pele at her home of Halema’uma’u, and that chair of yours won’t make the journey.”
“Cy has almost completed walking aids for me. I’ll get where I need to go.” Ingrid rubbed her left calf in an attempt to ease a cramp, and pushed away worries at how a prolonged hike might affect her. Cy’s rig for her shoes had to work. It had to.
“I had a thought,” Cy said in his mild way, “that it might help our mission if we posed as a married couple. I’ve heard that such relationships are allowed here.”
For once, Ingrid was speechless. She gaped at Cy, trying to gauge if his suggestion was purely intended to be an act on their parts or perhaps something more.
Mrs. K regarded him with wariness. “Mixed relationships aren’t uncommon, but that doesn’t mean they’re accepted or welcome. You’ll hear haoles and Hawaiians alike talk up racial purity. The children that result from such unions can be treated with special cruelty, but I don’t need to explain that to Ingrid.” Ingrid acknowledged this with a wry smile. “But you are going to attract attention. Saying you’re married would make your proximity more proper.”
“We’ve survived a lot over these past few weeks, including the earthquake,” Ingrid said, feeling the need to provide some context for their relationship. “We’ve become close.” She managed to get this out without blushing, though Cy’s cheeks flushed slightly.
“Close.” Mrs. K’s eyebrows rose. “Well. When you both book your passenger craft—”
“Beg your pardon, ma’am, but we have our own airship,” said Cy.
She perked up. “That changes everything! Do you have room for freight?”
“Our ship’s Sprite class, so it depends on the freight. What have you in mind, ma’am?”
“I was thinking that a feigned honeymoon trip might be adequate to allow you to book a ticket, but it depends on the ticket agent and the inspector at the dock. Any man could judge your marriage as illegitimate and prevent you from taking the trip. But if you have your own airship . . . well, that presents a different option.”
Mrs. K motioned Cy to the chair beside Ingrid. “Take a seat, young sir. I’m going to get these biscuits in the oven and make a telephone call or two. I think I can get your airship all of the right paperwork to travel interisland, and earn you extra yen for your pocket, too.” She paused and looked over the two of them, her gaze finally lingering on Ingrid as if to memorize her face forevermore. Once again, Ingrid saw the sheen of tears in her eyes. “Oh, Ingrid. I want to help you. I will help you. But God forgive me, I hope I’m not helping you along to your death.”
Chapter 2
Cy wheeled Ingrid away from the auxiliary an hour later. “How does it feel to be a married man?” she airily asked as she held out her left hand, now adorned with a simple gold band. Mrs. K had insisted that she take the ring—a family piece that she had never been able to wear—saying that the gift was surely meant to be since it fit Ingrid perfectly.
Cy came around to stand in front of her, his handsome face troubled. “I . . . well . . . I thought to ask you about that before we disembarked, but Fenris was everywhere at once, and I never had the chance. I hope you’re not offended that I introduced it as a—”
“Offended?” Ingrid laughed, a deep belly laugh, one that caused Cy to grin in relief. “Oh, Cy. I certainly planned to spend my remaining time with you, one way or another. So this is perfect. And brilliant.”
He crouched down beside her. His heart shone in his eyes, and he glanced around before leaning forward to press a quick kiss to her lips. “I’d be honored to be your husband, in all truth, Ingrid.” He looked at his empty hand on the armrest. “I’d like to find a ring of my own.”
Ingrid leaned back, her face warm from his words and his touch. “I’m glad to hear it,” she said matter-of-factly. In truth, the idea of Cy wearing a ring that matched hers caused an almost frighteningly intense feeling of joy to well up inside her. “Now, as much as I’d like to draw out this moment, you had better move my wheelchair or we’ll be run down.” A veritable parade of well-dressed white women with parasols was approaching. Cy hurried to take the handles again in time to roll the chair onto the grass. He greeted the women politely, but received no acknowledgment for his efforts.
“If I were to take offense to anything, it’d be these narrow sidewalks and uppity people,” Ingrid muttered, bracing herself for the lurch up to the sidewalk again and a subsequent rough patch of root-uplifted cement. Her teeth jarred together.
“I’m chagrined to say I never noticed how cities are so poorly accommodated to wheelchairs,” said Cy.
“I hope I won’t have to use one again, though this one has served its purpose well enough. Please thank the officers at the dock for the loan.” She gave the wooden armrest a grateful pat.
Down along Nuuanu Avenue, the business district overflowed with an evening crush of people, autocars, rickshaws, and bicycles, with sporadic horses and wagons in the mix. Bells tolled from some unseen church.
“Every place must be closing up soon,” she said. “They take their pau hana quite seriously here. I’m glad we bought our supplies earlier.”
Cy chuckled. “The one thing I can say is that our previous experiences have trained me to buy whatever we need right prompt when we land. Now let’s just pray that Fenris didn’t decide to refit the Bug while we were out this afternoon.”
Mrs. Kealoha’s contact needed their shipment on its way first thing the next morning and was paying well for their speediness. They couldn’t let such an opportunity pass by. In truth, Ingrid was relieved that they were leaving Oahu so quickly. Beautiful as downtown Honolulu was—and as nice as it was to be off the airship after a week aloft—soldiers and sailors swarmed the streets like ants on spilled ice cream.
“We will still need to buy those gifts Mrs. K recommended for my grandmother.” Ingrid chose her words carefully, mindful of the crowds.
“That shouldn’t be too difficult. There was a shop by the dock that ought to be open late. They’re bound to sell cigarettes and maybe salt pork, too.” He thoughtfully hummed. “I daresay, it’s been some years since I bought tobacco. Fenris used to smoke.”
“Really?” Ingrid tried to imagine Fenris smoking while at work on machinery, as many engineers did, and she couldn’t quite picture it.
“Yes. From about age eight, he said, and all through our academy years.” He bent close to Ingrid’s ear to murmur, “He did it to give himself a deeper, raspier voice. Once he had that, he quit. Without a quiver or craving after.” Cy straightened again in time to angle the chair around a light pole. A woman squatted at its base, weaving unidentifiable blooms into a delicate lei.
