Roar of Sky

by Beth Cato

  The white dog trotted ahead of them and barked, looking between them and the horses ahead.

  “I’m moving as fast as I can,” Ingrid snapped, belatedly remembering that she probably shouldn’t show irritation to a goddess of volcanoes, especially when standing in a volcano.

  “Sorry. I hope we can rest on the airship for a while. I . . .”

  She gawked as the dog went into a sudden frenzy at her words. “You seem excited at the mention of the airship. Do you want us to fly somewhere?”

  The dog spun in a happy circle, as if she could go airborne on her own. Which she likely could, though not in this form.

  “I’m not quite certain how Fenris will react to our new passenger,” Cy said dryly.

  “It may come as a surprise to you that the Palmetto Bug is not Noah’s ark.” Fenris greeted them from the engine room. Goggles were propped on his forehead, a wrench in his hands.

  The white dog had followed them aboard and sat in the hallway before the cockpit, gazing around with blatant curiosity. Ingrid could sense the sylphs up in their bunk. They offered her a subdued greeting but otherwise remained still, perhaps even invisible. She understood their caution in the presence of a deity and had no intention of drawing them out.

  “Obviously, this can’t be Noah’s ark. We haven’t gathered creatures by twos.” Cy shrugged off his coat.

  “We cannot have a dog on this ship.” Fenris squeezed past Cy to stand by Ingrid, staring across the open hatch at the offensive beast. “Look at it! It’s filthy, and even worse, it’s furry. There’s no way to effectively barricade it from the engine room, and if that fluff gums up the machinery—”

  “You haven’t even complained about excrement and urine yet,” said Ingrid. She sat on her rack, boots off. The soles of her feet tingled as if feasted upon by a thousand ants. Her calves didn’t feel much better.

  “Oh, yes. Let’s complain about the excrement and urine. We can’t set the Bug down just anywhere for the mutt to take a walk. Oh! Oh! Look!”

  The dog lifted a hind leg, back end aimed toward the cockpit. Her gaze focused on Fenris.

  “Now you’re just doing that for spite,” scolded Ingrid, then pressed a hand to her face, appalled at her lack of tact yet again. She was too tired to deal with recalcitrant deities. “Sorry, Madam. With you in that form, it’s easy to forget who you truly are.”

  “Madam?” echoed Fenris.

  “Fenris, do you think we’d bring just any wandering dog along for the ride?” Cy asked.

  He mulled this for a moment. “No. You’d do that with a cat.”

  The dog remained in pose, waiting for further reaction from Fenris.

  “Madam, please don’t vex him,” Ingrid said. “He loves this place like you love your island.”

  The dog sat with a slight grunt.

  “So. That’s not a real dog,” said Fenris.

  “It’s an aspect of Madam Pele,” said Ingrid.

  “The goddess. Your grandmother.”

  “Yes.”

  “Huh. Interesting.” Fenris frowned.

  The dog entered the control cabin and sat beside the main pilot’s chair, her gaze on the controls.

  “I take that as our cue to fly. Fenris, is the ship ready?” Ingrid asked.

  “Ready for a short flight, yes.”

  “I’ll see about getting us cleared for departure.” Cy bowed to the dog and hurried down the stairs.

  “Does this”—Fenris waved at the dog—“have anything to do with that dog sorcery you used in Seattle?”

  “No. That enchantment didn’t even last the night. This dog form of hers is apparently well-known to the locals.”

  Fenris snorted and moved down the hallway. Ingrid gripped the bed rail to push herself up, and failed. Rage flared through her and she barely held back a scream of frustration. Her legs were as useless as that broken elastic band. She was twenty-five years old. Twenty-five! Her body wasn’t supposed to be like this. She should feel tired, yes, but not . . . broken.

  That very word popped her bubble of self-pity. She refused to be broken, damn it.

  She used her hands to set her feet in a different position, and tried again. This time, she made it upright, though walking felt as if she were moving through setting concrete. She gritted her teeth together. She didn’t have to go far. Almost there.

  At the hatch, she stopped, overwhelmed by the urge to sob and laugh at the same time. The hatch was open. She couldn’t control her feet well enough to angle around it. She sagged against the wall, her breaths fast and heavy. Here she was, the granddaughter of a goddess of volcanoes, and she couldn’t step around a two-by-two-foot square hole.

  Searing heat warned her of the dog’s approach. Ingrid’s rage was suddenly replaced by shame. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this, and certainly not this dog.

  The mutt emitted a soft, concerned whine and pressed against her legs. Ingrid bit back a yelp, but to her surprise, the contact didn’t induce more pain. In fact, her legs hurt just as much as before, but they felt more . . . solid. Pele had somehow empowered her in a way that kept her from collapsing.

  “Thank you for the help,” Ingrid said, gratitude bringing tears to her eyes.

  Together they maneuvered around the opening to the control cabin, where Fenris was muttering to himself and oblivious to all else. Ingrid lowered herself into her usual seat by the door.

  “I’m glad you brought up dog sorcery, Fenris. Maybe I should try that again,” she said. The dog looked up at her with a face of disgust. “Or not.”

  “What?” asked Fenris, his focus on his dials.

  “Never mind. I’m talking to the dog,” said Ingrid, smiling at the white mutt at her feet. “As you don’t want me to utilize sorcery, I assume you have something else in mind?”

  The dog stared at the rudder wheel, tail wagging.

  Chapter 7

  Sunday, May 6, 1906

  Fenris and the dog worked out a communication system that involved canine nods, head shakes, and pointed noses. Fenris handled the situation with aplomb, his usual caustic wit subdued. Ingrid lingered in the cockpit long enough to make certain that they were getting along like butter on toast, and then retreated to her rack. She had scarcely rattled the curtain shut when she felt Cy’s hand grip her shoulder.

  “Ingrid. We’ve arrived.”

  “Already? Arrived where?” She lay flat on her back, legs straight and tingling. In an instant, she took in the presence of the sylphs, still dormant in their high bunk, and the dog at the far end of the airship. She also sensed . . . more.

  “Are we over that lava lake? How long was I asleep?” The Bug bobbed against a high wind. That she slept through that said a great deal about her exhaustion.

  “You’ve slept over an hour. We’re out in the godforsaken nowhere on the southwestern side of the island.”

  She rolled onto her side with a groan. Her lower body felt like one big bruise. “Has Fenris continued to handle things well with a dog as his copilot?” Ingrid helped her legs to swing out into the hall. Her purple dress was wrinkled and smudged, smeared green where plants had whipped her along the crater trail.

  “They’ve become a good team. I may be out of a job. Here.” He helped her up with an arm around her waist. She leaned into him, enjoying his touch.

  Loud shudders rattled through the belly of the Bug. Cy stiffened, his gaze jerking toward the control cabin. “Fenris?” he called. “Are we—”

  “We’re docking.” Fenris’s tone was stoic and even.

  “Who can possibly dock us?” Cy almost dragged Ingrid as he hurried down the hall. She didn’t mind, weary as her legs were. “We’re at a mooring mast all by its lonesome in the middle of lava fields,” he said to her as they entered the control cabin.

  “The mast isn’t quite so lonesome now,” said Fenris. “A woman spontaneously appeared and waved us in.” Out the window, the ebony bowl of sky sparkled with a full array of stars. Lights beneath the Bug revealed the rop
y, braided gleam of an old pahoehoe flow below them.

  As he spoke, someone rhythmically knocked at the hatch of the ship. The dog hopped to the floor and padded that way. Ingrid shared a wide-eyed looked with Cy and Fenris. “When I woke, I thought we were over the lava lake. That’s the intensity of energy I feel below us. Madam Pele must be out there.”

  “How many pieces is she in?” Fenris muttered.

  “As many as she wants. She’s a goddess,” Ingrid said, her voice tight. Her grandmother, a goddess. Ingrid had wanted this meeting, and now that she was on the verge of having it, she felt more like crawling into her cot and pulling her blankets over her head. Why was she here? What did she really hope to gain from this family reunion?

  At the hatch, the dog barked, encouraging her to come. “Are you going to help me down the steps?” she asked. A tail wagged in response.

  “Pardon.” Cy slipped past her to unlatch the hatch. He glanced up at Ingrid. Love, pride, and fear shone in his eyes. He had vowed to be with her every step of the way, but they both knew there were some steps she had to take on her own.

  He believed in her. She wanted to live up to that belief.

  She gave him a nod, and the door dropped down, the stairs springing into place.

  Intense heat boiled and coiled around her as if he’d opened Nebuchadnezzar’s oven. She gasped, a hand to the wall. The dog sidled against her, the warmth of that body minor compared to what awaited below.

  “Let’s go.” The words trembled, her voice raspy. She gripped the hatch edge as she eased her stocking feet onto the short staircase. A fierce wind slapped her in the face. Her hair, falling loose from its pins and headband, tangled and lashed her cheeks. She would have fallen for sure without the helpful aura of the dog. Even so, God helps those who help themselves, and she was glad to reach the deck and use the rusted railing to propel herself along.

  With each step, a sinking feeling increased in Ingrid’s gut. She knew the old stories about Pele. This was a being more persnickety and violent than even Ambassador Blum. Ingrid might very well die in these next few minutes, depending on how Pele took her request. She might very well deserve it—who was she, to pester a deity? But most of all, she shouldn’t have brought Cy and Fenris into this danger. The Bug could be immolated with a glance.

  Madam Pele stood on a deck one flight down, her forearms on the rail. She wore a red Mother Hubbard dress like that of many women in Honolulu. The wind caused the skirt to billow, revealing bare feet, broad like Ingrid’s own.

  Ingrid, scared as she was, experienced a strange spike of envy. Pele would never be forced to wear shoes—men’s wide shoes, at that—while in public, and deny to the world her natural ability as a geomancer.

  The goddess turned to confront her directly. She was an old woman, her silver hair loose and waist long. It flowed in the wind like a banner and did not tangle. Her skin was dark, her cheekbones high, jaw slightly rounded. Her eyes gleamed, black and shiny as the pahoehoe below.

  The dog trotted forward and vanished within the voluminous skirt, their essences merging in a single blink.

  “Madam Pele.” Ingrid was relieved that she remembered to say “madam” at the last second. She managed a small curtsy, the grace of her grandmother’s presence still lending her legs some much-needed strength.

  “Granddaughter. Ingrid.”

  The power embedded in the invocation reverberated through her skull like a thunderclap. “What should I call you, Madam Pele?”

  “Some call me tutu, but you’re accustomed to haole ways. You may call me Grandmother.”

  Pele was certainly unlike any grandmother Ingrid had ever encountered. She was ancient, yes, but strong. Her gown, waistless though it was, couldn’t hide the generous curves of her figure beneath the pleated, billowing fabric. Barefoot, bright-eyed, haughty, she defied every expectation of a woman of the Western world.

  In that moment, Ingrid knew she adored her. She wanted to be her. She cast her eyes down again, not wanting to cause offense. “Grandmother, I . . .”

  “Here, use my stick.”

  A wavy stick was thrust into her line of vision. She gripped the glossy dark wood, her hand immediately finding a perfect grip. Then she realized what she held. “This stick. Is it—”

  “No. It’s not my Pā’oa. I do not hand that stick to just anyone.” Her laugh was as deep and rich as the earth itself.

  Ingrid nodded, feeling rather weak with relief that she hadn’t been handed the legendary magical stick used to dig volcanoes.

  “We will walk to the bottom of the mast together to talk. But first, Cy?”

  Pele’s casual use of Cy’s name caused Ingrid to jolt in surprise.

  “Madam?” His voice echoed down, dimmed by the whistle of wind across the top of the mast.

  “You brought tobacco to offer me at Halema’uma’u. I’ll take it now.”

  Of all the things Ingrid had been expecting, that wasn’t it.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Cy said at once.

  Pele continued to stare upward in expectation, so Ingrid remained quiet in wait, wondering if the white dog’s keen nose had detected the tobacco. A minute later, Cy scrambled down the stairs. He was hatless, his eyes downcast as he stepped beside Ingrid. “Ma’am.” He bowed and held out the pouch and sheaf of papers.

  Pele sniffed at the pouch without opening it. “Bull Durham? Good. You may go back aboard. I will not kill your beloved. She’s done enough damage to herself already.” Her tone was both chastising and kind.

  Cy nodded as he took in the goddess’s words. “More than enough, yes, ma’am.” He faced Ingrid, his eyes full of love and concern. His lips parted as if to speak, but then he gave his head a small shake and leaned forward. His kiss grazed her cheek, his whiskers soft on her skin. Her hand found his. Their fingers clenched, briefly anchoring each other. She remained reinforced by his love and strength even as his feet banged up the creaky stairs again.

  “Come.” Pele gestured for Ingrid to follow her.

  Ingrid and Pele sat against the steel feet of the tower. The goddess’s fiery presence kept Ingrid warm despite the brutal wind. It was a wonder Pele didn’t melt through the metal structure, but Ingrid supposed that was all a matter of focus, just as when she wielded her own power.

  The underlighting of the Palmetto Bug cast an eerie spotlight as the airship bobbed and rotated in place at the top of the mast. The flow of lava had cleaved to preserve the structure, creating an island amid desolation. Whatever civilization had once existed here was buried beneath feet of volcanic flow.

  As Ingrid tried to find a somewhat comfortable position for her legs, Pele rolled a cigarette with deft, slender fingers. Neither the papers nor a shred of tobacco dared to blow away, though she did pluck a few small twigs from the tobacco tin.

  “You’re not what I expected, Grandmother.”

  Pele lit the cigarette with a tap of her finger. “No. I am what you expected. I could appear before you as a young woman, but it might be uncomfortable to call me ‘Grandmother’ then, yes?” Pele took a long drag of the cigarette. The smoke undulated into the figure of a woman dancing the hula that dissipated with a pivot of hips. “I could speak Hawaiian, or Japanese, Chinese, Tagalog, or any of the other languages I’ve picked up in recent years. For you, though, I will speak your bland tongue so that I may be clearly understood.”

  “Could you have spoken as a dog?”

  “No. When I’m a dog, I am a dog. Pork tastes so much better to that tongue. Ah, the smells.” Her grin was wide as she seethed smoke from both nostrils like a dragon. “Tobacco, however, is much more enjoyable in human forms.”

  Ingrid thought of how Ambassador Blum employed different bodies for different purposes. She had utilized the form of an older Japanese woman who had apparently been a master of Reiki, and though she could tap into that healing power in her other bodies, it was strongest while she was in the originating skin.

  Pele’s use of shapeshifting seemed decidedly more ple
asant.

  Pele gave Ingrid a thoughtful look. “So, you inherited some of my affinity for the earth. You can use mana. Talk story.”

  The prompt baffled Ingrid for a moment until she remembered “talk story” was a common Hawaiian phrase. And so she began to talk, beginning with childhood, with Mama, Mr. Sakaguchi, and her long-lost geomancer father. Pele rolled a second cigarette as Ingrid told of what happened in San Francisco, and Portland, and Seattle. She fought tears as she explained Blum’s designs, of what that meant to Lee, to China, and inevitably, to America.

  “Show me the burn on your thigh,” Pele said, and snorted at Ingrid’s scandalized expression. “Such a prudish regard for bared skin. Come now. The men on board can’t see you.”

  Ingrid stood, leaning on a steel beam, and worked down the doubled layers of stockings. The hosiery hobbled her around the knees. She lifted her skirt to show the kanji of “tsuchi” to her grandmother.

  Pele leaned close, squinting, then nodded approval. “Yes. This is what damaged you so. You poured your own mana into creating this ward, and it works. That old kitsune would have found you by now otherwise.”

  Ingrid hadn’t encountered the word “mana” before this conversation, but the meaning was evident from the context. She lowered her skirt again. Then she reached for her courage and asked the question that had been burning on her tongue. “What can I do to fully regain my strength?”

  “Nothing.”

  The blunt word struck Ingrid like a blow. “Nothing?”

  The word echoed in her mind. Nothing. Her body would never recover. The pain would stay as constant as her shadow, the level of agony varying hour to hour. She’d never again sleep through the night uninterrupted by excruciating calf cramps and burning tingles in her toes. And how would she get around if she couldn’t walk? She thought of her experience on the airship just now, how she tried—and failed—to walk ten feet without aid. She remembered how she used to walk all over San Francisco, up and down those steep hills. How she’d haul heavy laundry baskets along the servants’ stairs at the auxiliary. How she had exulted in the full potential of her body during that one blessed night in Seattle with Cy. How afterward, with their legs intertwined, she’d tickled his calf with her toes until he chuckled and squirmed.