by Rob Swigart
He kept his eye on the coast, moving slowly to the west. From time to time, a small yacht or fishing boat out of Lihue would pass him, and the people aboard would wave cheerfully. He would let go of the steering arm of the small outboard motor and wave back in a restrained manner, not inviting a closer approach as he idled along. In the distance, he could see the low buildings of Kekaha, where the Kokee Road turned up into the mountains. Around the next point would be Waimea at the mouth of the Waimea River, which flowed out through the deep, red-layered rock of the canyon bearing with it the red silt that gave the river its name – Red Waters.
From time to time, he would see something of interest on shore and approach cautiously, mindful of the swells curling and crashing against the rocks just head of him. Always he would turn back out to sea again, paralleling the shore thirty meters out.
Just before Waimea came into view, he spotted something. This time as he approached, still humming the relentlessly mindless refrain of the drinking song, he smiled.
The coast was rocky here, jumbled lava standing a couple of meters above the high-tide mark. He cruised slowly about five meters out, the long swells tipping him gently sideways in a motion he found soothing. He turned into a tiny cove with a narrow beach and cut the engine, allowing the last swell to lift him onto the gravel.
He leaped from the boat, pulling the painter with him. The cove was hidden by a tumble of ancient lava that curved in front of it.
He lashed the painter several times around a large stone then reached in the boat and pulled out a small blue nylon bag. The rock wall ended just above his head, so he climbed a little to look inland.
There was only a rocky field for 200 meters to the highway. The field was overgrown with weeds and low brush among the sharp jags of crumbling black lava. He put the bag carefully over the edge, then picked up a large clump of lava and put it in the stern of the boat. Then another, and another. Soon she was riding low enough in back to take on water. He added a few more stones and watched the stern settle to the bottom. Now the boat would show only a low line of dark wood against the water. She was as nearly invisible as possible, her name well below the water line.
Satisfied, he climbed to the field, slipped on a T-shirt and topsiders he took from the bag, and walked slowly across the field.
Here in full sun the ground threw off waves of heat. He continued to hum the song as he walked, skirting the larger brush, stopping from time to time to knock thistles from his legs or shorts or to wipe the sweat from his forehead or upper lip. He was still smiling.
He stopped in the middle of the field to examine an unattractive weedy shrub with irregular leaves, dark green on top and lighter underneath. The ovate leaves were jagged and toothed. A few withered blossoms showed only a ghost of trumpet shape. The dried petals were about four inches long and would have been a couple of inches across when in full bloom. Even then, he knew, they would have been ugly flowers, a sickly whitish-violet, the color of drowning and death.
He lifted one of the blossoms and examined it briefly before dropping it. Spiney seedpods that had formed where the earlier blossoms had fallen. He picked one and opened it. Small seeds spilled into his palm.
From the pocket of his shorts, he pulled a Zip-Lock bag and dumped them inside. He went to work in earnest then, harvesting, distantly aware of the hum of traffic on the highway behind him. He would be just another native out gathering wild edibles.
This, however, was not edible. It was Jimsonweed, called scientifically Datura, after the dhatureas, a league of thieves in ancient India who used it to drug their intended victims, and had a long history based on its capacity to induce stupor or death; it was known in parts of the world as the poisoner’s drug of choice. It contained atropine, hyoscyamine, hyoscine, and nor-hyoscine, four of the most powerful alkaloids known.
He took his time, breaking open the spiny pods and dusting the seeds into the plastic bag. “Et le bee, out, out, oui, et le bee non, non, non. The words buzzed round in his mind as he worked, soothing as the sea.
When the bag was full, he found two flat rocks and ground the seeds, careful not to tear the plastic. Then he slipped the package into his pocket and walked to the highway. He hesitated, then turned west and walked along the edge. When a car came by, he turned around, held out his thumb and smiled at the driver.
She was middle-aged and overweight. Even so, the man felt the cold wires run down the length of his body from the top of his head. The wires hummed with a small vibration, and he held himself very still so she could not hear. He told her to stop at Kekaha. After her car was gone, he crossed the street and held out his thumb again.
The car was new and sleek and so was the driver. He got out in Hanapepe and once again crossed the street. Eventually the right one would come along. It was only a matter of time.
He made four trips back and forth before being picked up by a carpenter who talked nonstop in a rapid rock ‘n roll lingo the man could not follow despite his excellent English. Since the radio was turned up loud while the carpenter talked and snapped the fingers of first one hand then the other, it did not seem to matter.
At the stoplight in Waimea, the driver turned the radio off suddenly and looked at his passenger. The rust-colored Chevy vibrated, front to back, side to side, up and down, apparently at random. In the sudden silence the rattles grew louder. “You don’ say much,” the driver observed. It occurred to him that they might be brothers, he and this silent man in the passenger seat.
“No,” the man said, looking out the window at a white discount grocery store with cheerful red lettering that contrasted almost painfully with the sharp green of the sugar cane behind it.
“Thass okay,” the driver said, switching the radio on again. Music like warm molasses filled the car, and his monologue started up with the radio, apparently where it had left off.
In Kekaha the man asked the driver where he was from.
“Whass ‘at?” He turned the radio down, but not off.
“Where do you live?”
“Okay,” the driver said, snapping his fingers to the muted beat. “Waimea, hey.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “You goin’ to Mana too, man?”
The man didn’t answer the question. He didn’t know where Mana was. “I need your car,” he said.
The driver couldn’t have been listening because he kept snapping his fingers and tapping out the rhythm on the steering wheel, grabbing it to correct when necessary. He headed north out of Kekaha and drove past the Pacific Missile Range Facility.
His passenger turned toward him, twisting into his seat as if seeking a more comfortable position in the sprung and grease-stained upholstery. “What’s your name?” he shouted.
They had turned right on Koa Road and were going down past a blue metal warehouse at Mana. The driver was shouting, “Danny, man,” when his passenger asked him to turn left, down the old Mana Road.
“Dead end, man,” Danny shouted back, still beating the rhythm but dropping beats now the strange requests were getting through. He pressed down on the gas.
“Over there,” the man said, pointing.
“Don’ go nowhere, man. Just a road out to Polihale Heiau. Nice beach.”
The man nodded, still pointing.
Danny shook his head.
The man languidly reached over and took the little finger of Danny’s right hand between his thumb and forefinger. He did something and Danny’s face lost its color.
“Okay, Okay, don’ do that no more, shit.” Left-handed he spun the wheel, and the Chevy fishtailed into a left turn and thudded down the gravel road.
“Don’t worry,” the man said, “It isn’t broken.”
They jolted along for two or three miles. On their left, the sand beach widened and heaped into dunes that hid the sea.
The road dribbled out at a dirt parking lot. It was empty. A trail disappeared into desert scrub. To their right, the mountains climbed steeply into clouds. There was little vegetation higher up.
This was the dry side of the island.
A maintenance shed slumped at the end of a stretch of dirt road, surrounded by vacant ground overgrown with dry plants. Beyond it, at the base of the mountain, a tiny creek fed what looked like a small artificial reservoir, long abandoned. The man gestured that way and told Danny to stop behind the building. The car would be hidden from the parking lot. “Here.” He offered the Zip-Lock bag.
“Hey,” Danny said, the pain in his finger apparently forgotten. “Wha’s that you got there, man, a little pakalolo, hunh?” He made smoking gestures, inhaling loudly.
“Something like that,” the man said. He held out the bag. Danny looked his question at him.
“It’s powder,” the man said.
The light went on. “Oooh. Thass cool, man. Don’ look like coke, though.”
The man smiled. “No. Something else. Better.”
Danny shook his head, dirty rags of hair flapping beside his ears. “Somethin’ else, hah? You are one awesome soul, man.” He leaned down, curious but reluctant.
The man shook the bag. “Go ahead,” he said. “It won’t hurt you.”
Danny looked at him slyly, his nose near the bag. “Won’t hurt? Ha-ha, thass a good one. ‘Course it won’ hurt.” He cupped his hands around the bag and inhaled. The dust in the bag twisted up in a small storm. Danny leaned back with a sigh and wiped his nose.
“Shit,” he said, softly. “So whass it spozed to do, anyway?” He was unconsciously rubbing his little finger, as if his body remembered the pain, too late.
“Give it a minute,” the man said, not smiling. He resealed the bag and slid it into his shorts pocket. They sat together in the car, listening to the heat clicks from the engine. Sunlight glinted off water through a stand of dusty trees.
“I gotta,” Danny said after a time. He was holding his throat now. ‘Thirs’… thirsty.”
His door flew open and he fell sideways out onto the ground. The man watched impassively. Danny’s hand gripped the edge of his seat. He pulled himself up. His eyes were wild, unfocused. “Where…?” He seemed to see his passenger. “Mama? Mama? Where are you?”
The man smiled. “No,” he said softly. “No Mama. You may call me Henri.”
“I gotta go, Mama.” Danny stumbled away. His arms jerked spasmodically as he lurched toward the shed, his thirst forgotten. He stumbled onto the small porch and banged on the door. “Mama,” he shouted. “Lemme in!”
A plank in the door collapsed. Danny stopped suddenly, puzzled. “Damn,” he said. Suddenly he began to cry. “They wanna kill me,” he wailed. “They wanna kill. Kill me.” He looked back at the car. “Thass my car.”
He came back, trying hard to walk normally. He almost made it, but something caught his foot and he fell against the hood. He leaned against it with both palms, breathing hard. Sweat had broken out on his forehead. “Mama, Mama, Mama,” he mumbled. The man could see ripples of heated air over the hood, but Danny didn’t seem to notice. He sagged between his stiffened arms, breathing hard and mumbling.
The man opened his door and stepped out. The heat was oppressive, trapped in this small clearing. There was no sign of a breeze. The silence, too, oppressed. The man called Henri said nothing.
Danny suddenly leaned back and waved his hands in the air, as if cooling them, though he did not look at them or speak. He walked in a circle with short abrupt steps. He stopped beside the car and looked at it for a moment. Suddenly his face twisted into rage, and he swung his fist at the rear window. It shattered, and blood from his hand flew to his face. He walked away, mumbling, waving his bleeding hand in the air. He headed for the trees. Beyond them was the heiau and beyond that the water.
The man followed him at a distance, carrying his bag.
Danny reached the ancient temple and stopped, puzzled. His eyes rolled in his head when he turned to look back at the man. Then he sat down with a jolt and put his head in his hands. The man came over and sat beside him.
He put his arm around Danny’s shoulders and looked down the trail. Heat shimmered beyond the trees over the parking area. The hood of the car sent waves of distortion into the air. There was no sound but very distant surf.
“Come on,” the man said, lifting Danny to his feet. They shuffled around the heiau, avoiding the hot stones. On the other side, the man lay Danny down on the hard dirt. Danny’s mouth was slack and wet, his eyes closed.
The man rolled up Danny’s shirtsleeve and looked at his forearm. It was bare and brown. The man grunted softly and opened his bag. He removed a flat leather case and opened it. There were small vials and a set of steel needles inside. He smiled as he removed them and set them up on the stone wall of the heiau. It was time for the worship of art. He set to work. As he worked he sang softly, under his breath, Et le bec, sous le robinet…
When he was done, he looked at it briefly. It would do, certainly. He put his equipment away, got out a pair of scissors and began to cut Danny’s hair. By the time he finished, Danny was moaning, low in his throat, a strangled sound over a swollen dry tongue. Suddenly, he sat up. He saw nothing. The man sat back in satisfaction and watched.
Danny lurched to his feet, rubbing his arms. “Where…?”
There was no answer to that.
Danny walked away. Then he broke into a trot that became a headlong rush toward the wall of the mountain beyond the trees, where he suddenly stopped and pulled off his shirt. He flapped it in the air, shouting, “Fire. Oh sweet Jesus Christ, I’m on fire.” His voice was dry, small. He started running again, banging into the twisted dry trees, spinning, tearing his flesh. The man walked slowly behind him, watching. The water was to his left, a flat brown sheet in shadow.
Danny saw the water. He ran into it with a scream. It was stagnant, choked with brown vegetation that gave off a thick odor of decay when he plunged his face under. He threw himself forward with a splash. The water was only a few inches deep. He thrashed, choking. Mud streaked in his head hair when he threw it up, out of the water.
He walked slowly around the pond. When he got back to his starting place, he climbed onto the black lava stone platform. They had built these ugly temples all over the Pacific. Everywhere it was the same. Superstition and dread. Such things were very useful.
The man stood on the platform and watched Danny drown.
In a moment of silence, someone shouted from the path to the parking lot, “What’s going on?” Without hesitation the man plunged over the low wall and into the water. He dragged Danny’s thrashing body out, pinned the jerking arms behind him and slogged out of the mud toward the trees, pushing Danny before him. The man standing there was wearing an orange utility company uniform.
“Help. He just went crazy,” Henri said. His English was American and very good. The utility man took Danny’s arm. The two of them managed to get him back through the trees to the shed. A utility truck was parked next to Danny’s car.
“Jesus, it’s a good thing I came along. He coulda’ drowned himself. What happened?”
The man shrugged. “I hitched a ride. He drove out here and seemed to just go crazy. I followed him to the water. He kept screaming he was thirsty.”
“Drugs,” the utility worker said with a shake of his head. “A problem everywhere. Christ! Young people!” He wasn’t over thirty himself, younger than Danny or the man. “He should get to the hospital.”
The man nodded.
Danny swung violently, trying to hit. “Don’t take me,” he shouted. “No. Mama!”
“We’ve got to restrain him,” the man said. The utility worker pulled some thick insulated wire from the back of his truck, and they bound Danny’s arms to his sides. Together they pushed him inside the truck. Immediately, a pool of foul-smelling water formed under him.
“I’ll go with you,” the man said. “Out to the highway.”
They left. A trail of dust hung in the air behind them and slowly drifted away.
“He say what his name was, anything like that?”
Th
e man shrugged. “Herbert. Something like that.”
The utility worker shook his head. “Herbert. Don’t know anyone goes by that name.”
At the highway, Henri said, “You can let me out here. I’m just going over there.” He pointed at the Mana post office, a tiny one-room store across the street.
“Shouldn’t you come with us to the hospital? Tell them what happened?”
The man shrugged. “I don’t know what happened, except what I said. And my wife…” He shook his head in despair. “She’s sick. If I lose my job…”
“Okay, Okay, sorry. But where can we reach you? You know, in case the hospital wants to talk to you.”
“Sanderson. In Waimea,” he said without hesitation.
“All right. I’ll get him to Wilcox. You get back to work.”
“Thanks.” The man calling himself Henri climbed out of the truck. He watched it roar away toward town. Then he turned and walked the three miles back to Danny’s car.
The heat was even more oppressive, the silence deeper. The keys were gone. Danny must have taken them out and dropped them somewhere. The man didn’t bother looking for them. He leaned over the hood and took out the wallet he had lifted from Danny while rescuing him from the water. He removed the driver’s license and union card and looked at them closely for a few moments. Daniel Cavanaugh, 34 years old, of Waimea, Kauai. The picture on the license would do.
He walked slowly to the heiau, where he gathered up the hair he had clipped from Danny and disposed of it in the water.
He opened the hood of Danny’s Chevrolet and gazed at the engine, wondering at the profligacy of Americans that they could build such enormous and inefficient cars, but the works were fairly simple, and he started it without difficulty. He smudged the license photo with a dab of grease. Then he returned the papers to their plastic holders and shoved the wallet into his pocket.
He got in and drove back toward town. The man taking Danny to the hospital would report a Mr. Sanderson, who did not exist. Danny would be lucky to remember his own name, even after a long recovery.
