by Fran Friel
Against loud dissent from the other men, Koma finally replied.
"No, Mr. Simon, too much danger in the night. Spirits come here to feast. You no leave beach. Wait until spirits go."
Simon was momentarily unnerved by the anger of the men. The normally genial villagers rarely raised their voices. Shaking off the knowledge that he was somehow the cause of the unrest, he turned his attention to Koma.
"Look, I need to get up high so I can see exactly what's on that beach. Whatever they are, they're not spirits, Koma. They're dead, cold bodies."
He continued to argue with the man, trying to convince him of the importance of this find to his career—to his life—but Koma shook his head, adamant in his decision.
Simon was furious with the fisherman. Not long after his arrival on the island, he'd saved Koma's wife from a raging infection in a wound on her foot. With a few doses of antibiotics from his medicine kit, Peka recovered in a matter of days. Since then, Koma, Peka, and their son, Paulo, treated Simon like family. They insisted he move into their meager home, and though he'd hardly noticed over the months in their company, the gentle manner and the kindness of the family had begun to soften his long-held numbness to the world. But at the moment, this history seemed unimportant—Koma would not help him. Undeterred, Simon stomped off to find someone, anyone, who would guide him to Pahulu Pali, the Nightmare Cliffs.
With news from the beach spreading fast, villagers arrived carrying ceremonial drums, torches, and food for a feast. Large and small shelters made of palm leaves were erected to protect them from the storm as they prepared their vigil. A group of elder women built a crude altar of stones, heaping it with fruits, flowers and dried fish. Then their low sing-song chanting began as they filed toward the giant forms at the sea's edge, wind and rain whipping at their hair and clothing, their arms loaded with more offerings to the spirits. The sound of their chanting was soon lost in the wind as they moved farther from the protection of the palms.
The elder men gathered around the fire with their drums and a slow, hypnotic beat began. Still in search of a guide to the cliffs, Simon watched the scene with great interest. He was torn. Although this unrecorded tribal behavior could be key to substantiating his beleaguered theories on tribal mind, documenting the extraordinary scene on the beach would be a career maker—he really had no choice. Disregarding Koma's warnings, he turned back to his task of securing a guide.
In concentric circles around the fire, the villagers gathered, swaying, humming, clicking abalone shells in counterpoint to the sound of the drums. Others held vigil with low droning chants at the altar erected by the elder women. Soaked to the skin, Simon slogged through the sand from villager to villager, without success. Curiously, he noticed the mild trance state the natives were experiencing and suspected the cause was a narcotic effect from the leathery slivers of bark being distributed for chewing. Each time a piece was passed to him, he tucked it away into one of his vest pockets—an excellent addition to his research samples. Some of the villagers appeared more lucid, always the elders it seemed, and when he approached them they kissed his cheeks in the custom of gratitude, which perplexed Simon. Still, none stopped to offer assistance for his journey or explain what the ceremony was about. Most simply smiled, pointed in the direction of the path leading into the jungle, and returned their attention to the ceremony. Everyone, it seemed, had their part.
With no guide, Simon knew that precious time was ticking away. He feared the storm that brought the bodies to shore might wash them back into the surf with the changing tide. With the wind-blown rain stinging his face, he slumped down on a fallen palm trunk. The sound of the pounding drums wrapped around him, intensifying his weariness from his long months on the island. He had sacrificed much of his life for his career. So much time lost with his late wife, Karen. She'd believed in him and his work. An uncommon pang of regret rang in his heart, and he pushed it away as he always did. But the estrangement from his son, Ethan, was a shadow that kept his guilt fresh, sapping his energy, his hope, and what vigor was left for his work. But this trip to the island was a gift. A few of his old supporters at the Foundation still believed him. This was his last chance to salvage his career before he was doomed to a dull academic life in the classroom of a third-rate university.
The morose attitude wasn't helping, so Simon shoved away his old concerns and buried the feelings—a skill he had honed since childhood. This was the break he'd been waiting for, and he needed to stay focused. The emergence of this undocumented ceremony alone was a huge breakthrough—but the forms on the beach? Such an event would put the anthropology community, not to mention the world, in a frenzy. He had to get this right. He had to get to those cliffs.
From his place on the log, Simon spotted Koma's son working on a shelter. Paulo, like most of the villagers, spoke English; a legacy of deceased missionaries and an odd number of reported shipwreck survivors evidenced by the graves of the haole, the white men, outside the village. Forcing his weary mind and body back into action, Simon approached the slender young man. He appeared more clear-eyed than the other villagers. With renewed hope, Simon reached up to hold a palm frond in place against the wind as the young man fastened it down.
"Paulo, I need your help.” He raised his voice over the noise of the storm and the escalating sound of the drums. “I need a guide to the cliffs. Can you take me?"
"Pahulu Pali?” He shook his head. “Oh no, Father would be angry, Mr. Simon."
"Come on, Paulo, I'm sure your father wouldn't mind if you helped me out,” he lied.
The boy hesitated. He'd followed Simon around like a puppy for months, fascinated by his work, his tools, and his foreign mannerisms. Simon knew he would do almost anything he asked.
"I sorry. No can help you.” He looked away, lowering his eyes.
Simon's temper flared—What the hell is wrong with these people? I just want to get up to the damn cliffs! He took a deep breath and struggled to calm himself.
"I'm sorry. I wouldn't want to ask you to do something that scared you. After all, you're just a boy.” He didn't like manipulating the boy, but he was desperate.
Paulo stood tall, raising his chin as he spoke. “I am nearly grown. I not scared!"
Simon felt a pang—Paulo was so much like his own son, Ethan. Vexed by the intrusion of these feelings long buried, he pressed on.
"Then take me to the cliffs, Paulo.” His tone was an unmasked challenge.
"No,” said the boy, looking around, eager to change the subject. “I come here for akaku ‘ili—my first."
Simon remembered the leathery strips in his pocket. On a hunch he hedged his bet.
"So how is it? I haven't tried it yet myself."
The boy looked away, embarrassed. “They no give it to me."
"No? Why not?” Simon resisted a knowing grin.
The boy mumbled his answer. “Not a man yet."
Bingo!
"Ah, now that doesn't seem fair at all,” said Simon. “You certainly look man enough to me."
In fact, the boy was strong and tall for a village teen, but he was still awkward and immature. Reluctantly, Simon used this fact to his advantage. Huddling against the shelter, he motioned for Paulo to come closer.
"How about a trade?” he said. “You take me to the cliffs, and I'll give you akuku ‘ili.” Simon pulled a handful of bark slivers from his pocket.
The boy's eyes widened. He looked around to see if anyone was listening, and after a brief flicker of guilt on his face, he said, “Okay, I take you ... but no tell father."
After some further negotiating, Simon handed over two small slivers of the bark, with a sincere promise from Paulo that he wouldn't chew it until they returned from their journey. Satisfied with this arrangement, they split up and hurried off to collect their gear and supplies for the climb to the Nightmare Cliffs.
* * * *
The villagers swayed and chanted to the sound of the drums. Those outside the cooking shelter were oblivious
to the rain and wind that blew through their flimsy palm shelters. With his heavy pack over his shoulder, Simon wove a path through the swaying crowd, the wet sand bogging down his shoes. He stopped to tap it loose when a cold hand shot out of the crowd and gripped his ankle. Caught by surprise, he nearly toppled over. A familiar face glowed up at him in the fire light, her wet hair ringed with pink orchids. Eyelids heavy with the effects of the akaku ‘ili, she nodded at Simon's pack. It was Peka.
"No ... leave ... beach,” she said, still gripping his ankle.
His guilt for using Paulo flared. “I'll be back by tomorrow, Peka. Don't worry."
"No leave!” Peka struggled to her feet, grasping at his clothes.
Impatient with the interruption, Simon wanted to push her away along with the guilt he felt for tricking her son. Instead, he gently disengaged her hands.
Saving Peka's life had made them family, and he felt a strong kinship and tenderness toward her. Many times in the past she had inquired about his own family and the sadness she saw in his eyes, until finally, dispassionately, he had shared the details of his life. She could not understand his numbness and how his tears did not flow, considering his loss. So like his own wife, she would do anything to love and protect her family, her ohana, the people she cherished, even Simon. With what little patience that remained before his journey to the cliffs, he guided Peka back to her spot in the circle.
The elder woman next to Peka said something harsh in their native tongue, chastising her and forcing her to focus on the ceremony. The old woman turned to Simon, and with a fierce squinty look, she thrust her chin toward the jungle. There it was again—somehow the natives all knew where he was heading—maybe word had spread that he was looking for a guide. At least no one tried to stop him, so Simon moved on toward the edge of the jungle, to the path that would lead him and Paulo to the cliffs.
The boy was there waiting with a fiery torch. Flickering against the wind and rain, its light cast ghoulish shadows across his face. Simon shivered at the sight and lifted his own bright lantern to dispel the shadows.
The boy smiled. “Come, Mr. Simon! It is long walk to Pahulu Pali."
Leaving the drumming and the memory of Peka's worried face behind, Simon followed the boy into the dense jungle.
* * * *
Trekking high up the side of the jungle cliff, the thick canopy muffled the noise of the storm. Rain collected into rivulets along thick tree trunks and leaves, falling in fat drops like pebbles from the foliage. The deeper into the jungle they traveled the steamier the air became, making it hard to breathe, but Simon plodded on, trying to keep up with Paulo's youthful stride. As they drew nearer to the cliffs, the jungle became quieter. Trudging along, he glanced into the dark canopy—the jungle was devoid of the usual cacophony of animals and insects. After the relentless noise of the storm, the silence unnerved Simon, but it was more than the absence of sound. Lifting his lantern to the darkness above, he saw a flash of gold and glowing eyes blinking all around him in the foliage. He was startled by the sight, and with his attention off the trail, he tripped over a thick root. To catch his balance he grabbed at a smooth-barked tree, where his fingers sunk deep into a layer of warm, sticky slime. He yanked his hand free with a sense of revulsion, the stench of the substance making him instantly nauseated. Scanning the jungle nervously, he did his best to rub the slime off his hand onto wet leaves and moss, but the stench remained.
The eyes seemed to have disappeared, but Paulo had pulled far ahead of him. He rushed to catch up, not really admitting to himself that he didn't want to be alone on the trail. When he finally reached the boy, Paulo made a face at the foul smell wafting around Simon. The boy picked up his pace to get away from the smell. Simon said nothing about the eyes—it must have simply been a trick of the light in the wet leaves.
After an hour of hiking in a cloud of rank odor, Simon felt lightheaded. His sense of smell had never been keen, but it seemed that things in the jungle were different somehow.
"Paulo.” The boy was again out of sight ahead on the trail. “I need a break."
He could hear Paulo stomping through the foliage, but there was no reply. They'd been hiking for hours, and Simon knew they should be near the entrance to the cliffs. It would be dawn in a few short hours. The boy was probably eager to get to the top, but Simon needed to stop. He would catch up with Paulo as soon as he did something about the putrid odor on his hand. By the light of his lantern, he dropped his pack and unhooked the canteen. After a couple of lukewarm swallows he nearly swooned. Must be the heat and exhaustion catching up with me ... or this damn stink. Shaking off the feeling, he dug his hands down into the wet jungle soil, rubbing the dark mud over his skin in hopes of removing the reek left from the tree slime. He glanced up at the trail ahead, but no longer heard Paulo moving through the jungle.
"Paulo?” he shouted.
Still crouching on the ground, wringing his hands with the mud, he felt the gritty paste turn slippery. When he looked down, his hands were awash in a thick red liquid—blood. Simon gasped. Alarmed, he checked to see if he was injured, but found no cuts or gashes on his hands.
Then the whispering started. It came like a buzz in the center of his head, unintelligible but relentless. Simon grabbed his lantern and held it high, searching the shadows of the forest in an attempt to find where the sound was coming from. He turned in every direction, but the noise remained constant. Finally, Simon covered his ears—the sound was still there, inside his head. At that moment, Paulo came crashing down the trail toward him.
"Mr. Simon, we here before,” he shouted. Worry etched the boy's usually carefree features. “I see Sister Fork tree ahead on path and we passed her long time ago. We go in circle."
Disoriented by Paulo's news and worried about the whispering in his head and the blood on his hands, Simon squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make sense of what was happening. After a moment, he noticed the feel of grit on his palms. Opening his eyes, he saw that the blood was gone and the wet jungle soil was all that covered his skin. He snatched up the canteen and dowsed the mud from his hands, rubbing them dry on his pants. I've got to get a grip here. He tried to ignore the buzzing in his head, to stay calm, but his irritation sizzled. Finally, he looked up at the frantic boy.
"How?” is all he managed. He was trying not to think about the wasted hours and the strange effect exhaustion was having on his senses.
"I walk cliffs many times. Never go in circle, but..."
"But what?” The violent edge in his voice made the boy flinch. Simon gritted his teeth and continued with a barely controlled calm. “What happened, Paulo?"
Hesitating, Paulo scanned the jungle around him and spoke in a hushed voice.
"Spirits here now, Mr. Simon."
Simon rolled his eyes and struggled to keep his cool. The buzzing in his head was a hiss now, causing a maddening itch deep inside his ears. “Like I told your father,” he said as he dug in his ear with a dirty finger, “they're not spirits. Those things on the beach—whatever they are—they're dead!"
"But it is legend, Mr. Simon. They sleep on beach and their dreams demand a feast in jungle on Pouli moon night. The elders say today is twenty years. I no believe stories before, but now..."
"What stories? I've been here for months and I've never heard any of this."
"Spirits come from mind of the white man, and only nightmares can fill spirits’ hunger. The prayers of my village provide for spirits—bring visitors, like missionaries and men from broken ships. Ancient promise—village bring sacrifice, then spirits make peace with my people and leave bounty.” Tears trickled down the boy's face. “I think you the sacrifice, Mr. Simon."
The buzzing in Simon's head suddenly escalated into electric shrieks that ripped like spinning blades through his brain. He clutched his head, falling to his knees. Paulo rushed to him as Simon collapsed unconscious on the jungle floor.
* * * *
It was unclear how long he'd been unconscious, but when Si
mon came around he was relieved to find the excruciating pain in his head, as well as the noise, was gone. He was surprised by a sweet taste in his mouth—thick like honey. He didn't much care what it was, he was just happy the pain in his head had subsided. When he passed out, he thought for sure he was having a stroke.
Still lying on the soggy jungle floor, he blinked at the shimmery light that ringed the leaves on the trees above him. Slowly sitting up, he saw the same shimmer around everything—including Paulo, who stood wide-eyed and stone still, staring into the jungle.
"Paulo?"
The boy didn't respond. Idly noticing the absence of the normal stiffness in his joints, Simon climbed to his feet and turned to see what had gripped the boy's attention. A brilliant light shone behind the foliage ahead on the trail where the entrance to the cliffs should have been. Simon grabbed his pack and canteen and moved to Paulo's side.
"What's going on here?” he said.
Startled, the boy looked at Simon. A big smile brightened his face and he threw his arms around him. “Oh, I so glad you okay, Mr. Simon!"
"What happened?” Simon backed away from the enthusiastic embrace.
"I did not know what to do, Mr. Simon. I know I promise not to eat bark, but ... I remember stories from parents. They say with no akaku ‘ili on Pouli moon night, the spirits make men lost and mad. You look mad—I am lost, so I put bark in your mouth—and my mouth. That's when light come from path."
Simon smacked his lips at the sweet taste still lingering on his tongue, and he noticed that he felt strangely energized.
"At least the damn buzzing in my head is gone. Come on."
Paulo looked confused and more than a little reluctant, but Simon pushed him forward up the path toward the light. It wasn't long before they broke through the foliage and out onto the plateau that topped the Nightmare Cliffs. They stood motionless, mouths open and eyes squinting at the source of the brilliant glow.
