by Beth Cato
“I was jesting back then. I didn’t know . . . I couldn’t know. I read Twain’s personal account of this place years ago, and I dismissed much of it as hyperbole.”
“Can any words do this place justice?”
Ingrid didn’t need to answer that. Cy wrapped an arm around her back, his hand a perfect fit above the curve of her hip. Exhausted and emotional as she was, the sheer comfort of his presence and touch in this exquisite place almost made her weep. They worked their way down the incline. People had been rendered into silhouettes against the bright lake.
The oppressive heat increased, as did the sulfurous and almost industrial stench. A coughing man hurried past them, clearly retreating from the fumes. Ingrid felt a harsh tickle in her throat.
Just ahead, the two tour guides tossed small branches into the lava and backed away. Ingrid experienced a surge of envy and a yearning to understand this place as deeply as they did. Even though she now knew she was of Hawaiian blood, she also knew she could never be Hawaiian. That thought left her feeling bereft.
Where did she belong now? The San Francisco she knew and loved was lost to the earthquake and conflagration. Her definition of home had shifted to an airship and the people she loved, but when all was said and done, she wanted permanent roots. She wanted to be like the hardscrabble bushes of Kilauea and find a place to grow and bloom, even if it was amid desolation.
Ingrid and Cy stopped walking about thirty feet from the lava. Lines of red, like veins, illuminated cracks along the lakeshore. Two women squatted near one of these fissures and held pieces of paper close to the ground. Ingrid realized they were searing the edges of postcards; cards like that had been mailed to the Cordilleran Auxiliary over the years.
Not far away, a group of men had skewered sausages on sticks and dangled the meat over the lava. They roared with laughter as one man lost his sausage to a molten sputter.
“They are cooking frankfurters?” Ingrid became angrier with every word. “Don’t they feel the holiness of this place? Would they cook sausages in the middle of a church? The lava itself is Madam Pele’s body!”
Cy swung his pack off and rummaged inside. “Pardon me for playing the devil’s advocate, but by that logic, we’ve tread across her body for some distance.”
“We walked with a light tread and treated the area with respect as we passed through.” She shook her head in disgust as a few other men tossed coins into the lava to see how fast they melted.
A chorus of cries caused Ingrid’s gaze to focus far out in the lake. Lava spouted in a brief, violent fountain that sent glowing tephra high in the air. Some men scampered back from the edge as the hot rocks arced their way.
“Here’s the meat,” Cy said. “I found the cigarette papers, but the tobacco’s slipped further down in the bag.”
“The pork will be enough of an offering to start, I think.” She braced her legs, the umbrella leaning on her torso as she unwrapped the large green ti leaves that had been knotted to hold the salted meat.
Cy cleared his throat and gazed past her. She turned to see the guide from the back of the group.
“Hey!” His smile revealed gaps between his teeth. “You could get closer if you want. Lava not sputtering too bad over here.”
“Beg your pardon, but I don’t believe I caught your name?” Cy asked as he extended his hand.
The tour guide gripped him with both hands and they vigorously shook in greeting. “Call me Sam. Hey, that pork there? You leaving that for Madam Pele?” He regarded Ingrid with more scrutiny.
She glanced at Cy, debating how best to answer. “My father was from the islands. I never knew him. I’m trying to connect with my past. Silly, I know . . .” She tried to sound flippant, though she meant every word.
“Nah, nah. We see lot of that. Maybe Madam Pele will like.” He nodded toward the lake, where a veritable geyser of lava had erupted out in the middle. “It been quiet here recently. Tonight, well, something different.”
“I’m glad,” she said with a renewed sense of excitement and relief.
Sam tipped his hat to them both and continued on his way. Ingrid set the meat on a tablelike rock a few steps away and laughed.
“What?” asked Cy.
“Madam Pele’s favorite things include some of my own, like pork and strawberries. Mama couldn’t stand either. I wonder if Papa favored them, too.” There was so much she wished she knew about Papa. He hadn’t been a good man—he had done terrible things—but she knew she’d probably always feel wistful about his absence in her life.
“Should we maybe throw the pork into the lava like they did those branches?” Cy asked.
“Goodness. As if I know!” She glanced at the burbling lava and frowned. “Since I hope for her to show up as a human, let’s leave her offering in a palatable form. I should try to formally evoke her, too.”
“Should I grant you some privacy?”
“No. Please, stay with me.” She gripped his hand. His fingers were sweat-slick against her leather glove. She bowed her head.
“Madam Pele. My name is Ingrid Carmichael. I know there is power in names, and I give you my name because it’s my understanding that you’ve given me a great deal already.” She paused, chagrined at her clumsy words. “My father went by the name Abram Carmichael. Like him, I channel the earth’s power in a way that sets us apart from other geomancers. I’ve come here, knowing the dangers of this place, because I seek answers about my body and my blood. I’d be honored if you would speak to me.”
After the words emerged, she realized they sounded much like her appeal to the qilin. She could only hope for much different results.
She raised her head to search the lava, seeking another fountain, or a human figure emerging from the molten pool. Something. Anything. “I am leaving this pork as an offering for you. I hope it meets your liking. Thank you.”
They remained quiet for a few minutes. Cy’s thumb stroked the back of her glove. “It’s a precious thing, to hold your hand in public like this.”
“Public being a remote two-thousand-degree-Fahrenheit lava lake.”
“We’ll enjoy whatever romantic moments we can find.” He nodded toward the lava. “Do you see any blue miasma?”
“No. Those fumes, though . . .” The lava lapped at the thin gray haze. The fog itself seemed to stretch downward at a multitude of points, as if with arms, fingers skimming the red flow and flicking away spatter. Ingrid shuddered as she recalled a geomancy textbook that described ghost-gods residing in Halema’uma’u with Pele, though she couldn’t recall all of the details. “I don’t know. I may be seeing things out of desperation.” If there were any other minor fantastics nearby, she couldn’t sense them within the heady geomantic energy.
“Or maybe you’re weary enough to hallucinate after the exertion of that hike. Let’s retreat a ways and you can rest before the long trip back.”
“Cy, if I sit, it’ll be awfully hard to rise again.” Though sitting sounded nice, especially if she had time to slip off her left boot.
“Do you realize the longer you stand, the more you’re bent over that cane umbrella? You’d end up on the ground soon anyway.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze and guided her farther away, where rocks stood at about chair height.
With her legs angled away from the group, she removed her boot. Pain dappled her vision for a moment.
“We need to come up with something better,” Cy muttered. Sorrow glistened in his eyes. “It breaks my heart to see you hurting like this. Where’s the pain the worst?”
“The arch of my foot, which is different than usual. The top of the boot is so tight it’s almost like a corset, and that’s helping the muscles there.”
“We could try wrapping your foot with bandages back on the ship.” He gnawed on his lip.
“That might work as a temporary solution.”
“Temporary. Yes.” Frustration twisted his face. “We’ll figure this out, Ingrid. I promise.”
“I know you will.” She
tilted forward to stroke his jaw. He leaned into her touch. “I wouldn’t have made it this far without you. Quite literally.”
“I’m here with you, every step of the way. Never forget that.”
She nodded, wordless with emotion, conscious again of the strange presence of the ring on her finger and all the wonderful things that meant.
Shoes crunched on rocks as people came closer, and she sighed as Cy drew back. She leaned down to tug the boot back on. Once that was done, Cy pulled a simple supper from his pack: rolls, a jar of honey, and dried meat. The food settled some of her shakiness from the hike, but her anxiety escalated as the minutes passed with no sign of Pele.
“I’m holding some power now,” she murmured. “Should I try to reach out to her?”
“Is it wise, to directly call on a deity in such a way?”
She thought of the qilin with a jab of guilt. “I don’t know. I suppose it depends on the being involved. I’m feeling desperate, though.”
Terror flashed across his face. “You’re not thinking to harm yourself, are you?”
“No! That’d be akin to stabbing a dragon with a dinner fork. I want to evoke her, not provoke her.” Besides, if Ingrid’s pain could irritate Pele into showing herself, Pele would have appeared by now.
“Thank goodness for that.”
The tour leader blew his whistle. “We going to start back in ten minutes. Last chance to do whatever you want to do!”
“We risked so much in coming here,” Ingrid whispered. “It can’t all be for nothing, it just can’t.”
“Ingrid.” He leaned close to whisper her true name. “This wasn’t for nothing. The flight served a good purpose. Remember, T.R. advised us to travel far in case the fox could still track you. Hawaii worked out well for that. Plus, you had the chance to meet Mrs. K at long last—”
She pressed her lips to hold back petulant words. She had known her hopes for a miracle cure were silly and ill-placed, but . . .
Hope is a form of gangrene. She shivered at the memory of Blum’s words.
“Maybe we can lurk on the island for a while,” Ingrid croaked out. “She’s most likely to be around the lava lake, but she could show up anywhere.”
“For your sake, we can’t stay,” Cy said gently. “Think of all the soldiers. We already know someone in Honolulu was on the lookout for the Bug. That could happen here, too. We can’t forget about Excalibur either, and that we need to find Sakaguchi-sama and Lee.”
The thought of Excalibur only deepened her despair. How was she going to help stop the citadel when she could scarcely walk on her own?
“Inu, dog, inu, dog!” The little boy in the tour group bounded past them excitedly, vivacious as a pixie despite the late hour.
“Come back, Thomas!” His nanny panted heavily as she pursued him across the uneven ground.
“I have him, ma’am.” Cy snared the boy with an arm and gave him a spin for good measure. The child squealed, and Cy grinned. The whole scene made Ingrid’s heart ache. She really didn’t need to think about Blum’s revelation about why she couldn’t have children, not when she was already feeling as low as a grub.
Thomas pointed over Cy’s shoulder. “Dog! Inu!”
“Smart boy, speaking both English and Japanese so well when so young,” Cy said, setting him down.
“It’s the best time to learn, his teachers say.” The nanny cast Cy a grateful smile. The boy continued to point at the lake. “Come, Thomas, leave it be. We need to walk back to the horses.”
“Nooooo!” he wailed, stomping on the hard lava as she dragged him away.
“How’s a dog surviving out here?” Cy asked. Like the boy, he pointed out toward the lake. A small white dog was picking its way along the edge of the lava. That close to Halema’uma’u, the poor animal should have been yelping as its paws burned.
“I’ll be damned. There is a dog.” One of the other men joined them, a few others following close behind. “Where did it come from?”
“Hey!” Another man jostled Sam the guide. “Don’t you people eat dogs? That one’s a mite skinny, though.”
Ingrid noted the tightness and twitch in the guide’s smile at the man’s ignorant words. “This dog’s been seen many times here. No one would eat him. He belongs to Madam Pele.”
The dog bounded away from the lake and toward them. Sheer power billowed over Ingrid like a fifty-mile-per-hour gale. She reeled in place, and would have fallen if not for Cy’s hand on her shoulder. She couldn’t manage words. She could only stare.
Cy brushed her side with his elbow, concern in his eyes. “Dear?”
The dog paused to eat the pork offering left on the rock a short distance away. One of the men laughed. “Well, now we know how the mongrel stays alive out here, thieving from that goddess of yours. Reminds me of when I was a hungry lad, slipping Communion wafers from the bowl during Sunday service.”
“We’re going!” The tour leader called down from the crest. The other men turned away, leaving only Sam beside Ingrid and Cy.
The dog scarfed down the meat in mere seconds—too fast even for a starving animal. It trotted toward Ingrid, tail wagging. Power buffeted her, leaving her nauseous and terrified.
“That’s no dog,” she whispered.
Chapter 6
Ingrid could picture this dingy white dog in any San Francisco alley, rummaging in trash. The breed was indiscernible—maybe a terrier or a bichon cross, perhaps with a poodle. Tight, curly fur covered its body, with the hair slightly longer along the muzzle and around its tufted ears.
She had encountered diverse and powerful creatures of sea, air, heaven, and earth over the past month. Each had been distinct in its ambient power. This animal’s presence radiated heat and smelled of hot rocks.
That thought jolted her. Ambassador Blum once mentioned that Ingrid stank of hot rocks, like her father.
This dog wasn’t simply property of Pele. It was Pele, in some aspect.
Ingrid felt the profound need to humble herself as she had before the celestial glory of the qilin, but there were still other people nearby. Pele herself was acting with subterfuge in her appearance, so Ingrid could only hope that the goddess wouldn’t take offense if she likewise played nonchalant.
“Hello,” she softly said as the dog trotted within five feet of her. Ingrid could scarcely breathe; she felt as though she’d stuck her head into an industrial kiln, though the power didn’t physically pain her like the mental and physical touch of the thunderbird and selkies. The dog radiated the magic of earth and fire, after all, the same elements that Ingrid evoked. The dog just embodied so much.
“What can I do?” Cy asked, a hand close to his Tesla rod.
“Don’t hurt that dog,” said Sam, his tone sober.
“I assure you, we’ll do nothing to hurt her,” she said.
Sam stepped closer. The man could have passed for her brother. “You recognize her.”
What was she supposed to say to that, to this stranger who could harm her, turn her in to the UP, do any number of terrible things? Cy sidled closer and pulled out his rod, but subtly so, angling it where only she and Sam could see.
The dog sat and panted, pink tongue dangling. Ingrid had the impression she was amused.
“Yes.” Ingrid decided to keep it simple.
Sam cocked his head and waved them all forward. “Come on. It’s a long trek back to the horses.” He walked away.
Ingrid stared after him. “That’s it?”
“This is Madam Pele’s business. Not mine.” He vigorously shook his head as he kept on walking.
“Huh.” Ingrid looked between Cy and the dog. “That went differently than I expected.”
Cy sheathed his rod again. “Indeed. Still wouldn’t trust him, though. If he gossips, we’re in a heap of trouble. We can’t dally here, that’s for certain.”
“Madam Pele? Are we supposed to follow you?” Ingrid asked. The dog remained sitting. “Or are you coming with us?” The dog stood and barked.
“Are you getting any words or images along with that?” Cy asked, keeping his eyes respectfully averted from the animal.
“No. The dog speaks like a dog.”
Cy shook his head, wonder etched on his face. “Walks with you always end up interesting, Ingrid. Shall we?”
He helped her trudge up the crest. The dog followed close behind.
She felt Cy stiffen, and followed his gaze to the two tour guides, who were speaking together apart from the group. As if in response, the guides looked their way, expressions unreadable in the dark. They then split up to conduct their duties.
The group started out across the ebony wasteland, the cliff oppressive in the distance. Ingrid and Cy dragged toward the back, with Sam and a few older gentlemen lurking farther behind.
Ingrid checked to see if the dog reacted to their concern about the guides. The white mutt simply plodded along, paws unharmed, as if out on a normal, midnight stroll across a desolate caldera. “If both the guides respect the dog’s presence, I can’t imagine they’ll be a problem,” she whispered.
“Perhaps.” Cy looked thoughtful. “But being followed by a white dog makes us memorable to our other tour companions. They’re bound to tell tales about this adventure.”
The oppressive heat of Halema’uma’u faded, but the night’s full chill did not return. To Ingrid, the dog was like an ambulatory furnace. She became more accustomed to breathing in the dog’s presence, which was good, as the hike soon had her panting and sweating. She would be due some extra pain tomorrow, of that she had no doubt.
The corral was in sight when the elastic support band on her right boot snapped.
She staggered forward a step, catching herself on the umbrella handle.
“Good grief. We almost made it.” Cy stared at his handiwork in dismay. With a quick swipe of his pocketknife, he removed the flaccid band. He wrapped an arm around her waist to help her forward. “The heat back there must have weakened it.”
“My skirt’s been catching on the bands, too.”
He sighed. “I knew it’d be a temporary aid, but I hoped it wouldn’t be that temporary.” He didn’t ask how she was feeling. Her limp had grown more pronounced, requiring her to roll her hip forward to prevent her feet from dragging.
