by Joe Denham
Miriam bends down to pick up the light-blue float at her feet, then continues. “When I asked him how he thought this would be possible given that there was no longer any caldera atop Mauna Kea, he replied quite simply that the mountain would erupt, contrary to all geological precedence and predictions, and the conduit would be reopened to receive the glass. And there it is, Francis.” She points to the high mountain now in plain view on the horizon. “Just like Arnault said. And it might be we’re here to do as we are. To deliver this thing to the one man who can do with it what needs to be done.”
•
German astronomer Johannes Kepler, widely considered one of the fathers of the Scientific Revolution, the contributor of a link in the chain of ideas which led to his contemporary Sir Isaac Newton’s law of gravity, believed that volcanoes were ducts for the earth’s tears. Tears of smoke and fire and scalding hot molten lava. Francis doesn’t know that the thought he is having is one that once occupied, resolutely, one of European history’s great minds. Nor is he a proponent of James Lovelock and his Gaia theories. He’s unwilling to anthropomorphize the entire planet, or anything for that matter, an insulative stance not uncommon among modern fishermen. To anthropomorphize is to risk empathizing with another species or object. Sympathy is one thing. But to empathize with the object of one’s own mass slaughter is a slippery slope—not one Francis has been willing to even approach the edge of.
But as Miriam steers the boat into the north end of Hilo Bay, inside the mile-and-a-half-long man-made spit of rip-rap breakwater extending across the bay, he thinks it: the tears of the world. It’s in keeping though, with the aspect of silent sadness Francis has assumed in recent years in response to the world’s dwindling and decline, antithetical to Miriam’s excitement and anticipation as she cruises the boat parallel to the rock wall’s inner perimeter, to its far southern end, into Radio Bay. The closer she gets to the impossible flowing and billowing of the Mauna Kea, the more an acceptance of what once seemed preposterous settles in. Horace, she thinks. You kooky old sod. If only you could see us now. And she can’t help but wonder, in the light of all that’s transpired, if it might be possible that in fact he can.
If Francis knew her thoughts at the moment he’d be liable to smack her. He’s morose about the prospect of Sunimoto being locatable in the current state of crisis sure to greet them on land, if indeed he hasn’t already evacuated the island. A cacophony of sirens can already be heard ringing out from the streets of Hilo. Francis imagines pandemonium: a state of desperate emergency, people everywhere crying out and rushing in panic to escape the flood of molten lava slowly sliding down the mountainside. Which makes his surprise twofold when they reach the dock and a very small, very calm Hawaiian man takes the spring line from his hand and helps to tie off the Princess Belle.
“Francis Wichbaun and Miriam Maynard,” he says. “Welcome to Hawaii. My name is Tito.” They both look at him with incredulousness and incomprehension, to which he laughs a warm, friendly laugh. “We have a car waiting to take you to Mr. Sunimoto. I will explain while we drive. Please, come. As you can well see, time is of the essence.”
•
It’s insane, the feeling of moving so quickly within such narrow, confined margins only moments after stepping from a three-week cruise on the open ocean. They’re in a white SUV with tinted windows from which they watch the countryside of green fields, macadamia and palms careen by as the driver barrels the vehicle up the winding asphalt. Tito explains how and why it was he was there awaiting their arrival prior to their landing at Radio Bay. “Mr. Sunimoto is an exceedingly wealthy man, and he is a man with only one desire. To find what it seems you might possess there,” he says, indicating the blue tote set behind them in the back of the vehicle. “When the mountains exploded, as we’d expected they would, we knew it to be a sign that you were close, and so Mr. Sunimoto has had me stationed at Radio Bay waiting for you since last night. It is the only easy moorage in Hilo, so it was a safe assumption you would arrive there, which you have. And welcome to you! Although it is not the most ideal of circumstances, we are more happy to have you than you can imagine.”
Francis’s head is spinning and pounding and he is having trouble getting his bearing, his grounding, as the vehicle moves at a fast clip winding further and further out of town and into the hills. He grabs hold of Miriam’s hand and grips it tightly in his. “Pull over,” he says. “Now! Pull over.” Tito has his driver pull over and Francis falls from the vehicle and ejects the contents of his stomach onto the roadside. Outside the air-conditioned SUV, the day is oppressively muggy, and Francis breaks into an instantaneous sweat. He retches again, then scans his sightlines. Where the hell am I?
“Are you all right Mr. Wichbaun?” Tito asks from his unrolled front passenger window. Francis wants to say no and run. Nothing feels all right to him. Not this place, not Tito, not driving farther and farther away from the boat toward the slow river of lava flowing down the Mauna Kea. But he knows he can’t be sure of his instincts. That they’ve been altered by his time at sea, his injury, and his being enveloped in Miriam’s presence these past three weeks. He’s an animal out of his natural element—all the green is too green, too bright, the air too humid, the earth beneath his feet too dusty, yet dark—and so he’s without power, which may be all that is giving him pause. He climbs back into the vehicle and takes the bottle of water offered by Tito. “It’s going to be okay,” Miriam whispers in his ear. “We’ll deliver this thing, get your money and we’ll be gone.”
The driver idles the car by the roadside while Francis drinks. “You’re all right then?” Tito asks. Francis nods. “Good. I’m sorry to have to ask you to do this,” he holds two black sheets of cloth out as he says this. “But could you please tie these over your eyes.” It’s not a question, quite obviously.
“You’re kidding, right?” Francis says, looking to Miriam for backup.
“I’m sorry Mr. Wichbaun. Mr. Sunimoto must maintain absolute secrecy as to the whereabouts of his home. I’m sure you can understand.”
“No fucking way,” Francis says, feeling instantly claustrophobic at the thought of wrapping his face in Tito’s black cloth. Miriam takes his hand. She’s feeling uneasy too at the prospect of being taken blindfolded up into the hills of a foreign island by these two strangers, but she trusts enough in those who originally put her in touch with these people to not let it get the better of her.
“Again, I’m sorry Mr. Wichbaun. But there is no way we can proceed from here without you putting on the cloth. It’s for your own protection, too.” Tito drops a cloth in each of their laps. “Not proceeding is not an option. So you must please put these on.”
“I don’t like how this is going,” Francis says, and he tries to open his door, which is locked. “Open it,” he says to Tito. “Open it!”
“Please put the blindfold on,” Tito says, no longer with the soft and patient tone he’s thus far maintained.
“Open the fucking door!” Francis shouts, lunging at Tito, who lifts a small handgun from his side and presses it to Francis’s oncoming forehead. Francis freezes, then eases back into his seat as Tito guides him with the end of the gun still pressed firmly between Francis’s eyes. Tito looks at Miriam, who settles back, too.
“Look,” he says. “I’m sorry we have to do it like this. But it’s just the protocol we have to follow. We’re not here to hurt you. Quite to the contrary. If we were going to cause you harm we would have done so a long time ago. Now, Mr. Sunimoto is waiting. It is supposed to rain later this afternoon, and if it does, it won’t be safe around here any longer. Please Mr. Wichbaun. For everyone’s sake, just put the blindfold on and we’ll proceed.”
Miriam leans over and takes Francis by the hand, then looks to Tito to indicate he should back off. Tito takes the gun from Francis’s head and recoils to his seat. “We have to trust them,” she says to Francis. “There’s no other way to do it. We’re in this now for better or for worse.” She takes the cloth f
rom his lap and folds it over several times, then lifts it before him, leaning in. “We’ll make it through this,” she says to him. “We’ve made it this far, haven’t we?” She places the cloth over his eyes and his sight goes black, then she reaches behind his head and ties it off tight.
Francis listens as she ties her own over her eyes, Tito and the driver sitting silently up front, waiting. He’d like to ram that gun up Tito’s ass. He doesn’t take well to intimidation, but he knows there’s no winning in this scenario. Miriam places her hand on his leg. It’s warm and loving, the way she holds his thigh, and he allows himself to drift back into the concussive dark of her bunk and their slow, feverish fucking. She’s taking him inside of her, all of him, as the SUV pulls back out onto the road.
The Tears of the World, II
UNEASY OR NOT, they’re both thinking more or less the same thing as they step from the vehicle to the cobblestone driveway: what does a twenty-thousand-year-old man look like? Of course, there’s been no clarification as to whether this Sunimoto man is indeed the guy, or is even standing in for the guy, but much has been insinuated by Tito, and so much might be assumed. And it still stands that neither Miriam nor Francis is wholly sold on the whole Mu thing, though it is undeniable to both that the evidence is mounting. “I am so sorry about the blindfolds,” Tito says to them, handing Francis his tote. “Please follow me. There is very little time to spare.”
Sunimoto’s house sits backed against a high cliff of rock in a small clearing surrounded otherwise by trees. There is a black helicopter parked on the lawn behind a house much more modest in its size than in its detailing. It’s octagonal in shape, like Fairwin’ Verge’s treehouse, but the similarities end there. There are posts of ornately carved teak and wide windows, some inlaid with stained glass patterns of vine and leaf. A two-tiered glass pagoda rises up from the centre of a copper-shingled roof. There are three doorways to pass through, two separate vestibules, before entering the living area of the house. At each vestibule Tito punches in a code on a security pad and the next door slides open. Francis is wondering if PINEAPPLE is what he’s keying in, and thinking so sparks enough of his sense of humour to relax his shoulders a bit and unlock his jaw.
Tito leads them into the centre of the house, the living room, above which the pagoda rises, infusing the house with daylight. No men with guns. No shadowy corners. Not what Miriam and Francis were expecting following their blindfolding. “Please, sit down and be comfortable,” Tito says. “I will bring you cold drinks and inform Mr. Sunimoto you have arrived.” He leaves them both to seat themselves on the triangle of couches at the centre of the room. Miriam sits down and looks to Francis to do the same. “I’ll stand,” he says, stiff-lipped.
“Relax, Francis,” she implores him.
“We’re not safe here. Something’s not right Miriam. I don’t like this place.”
“You’re overreacting. Come sit down.”
A middle-aged Japanese man strolls toward them. He has silvery hair and smooth skin. A bright face. “Welcome,” he says to them. “Miriam and Francis, I’m Minoru Sunimoto.” Again, not what either of them was expecting. No arthritic, hobbled wrinkle-face, this Sunimoto. He shakes their hands and seats himself opposite them on a blue leather loveseat. “You’ve had a long journey. I can only imagine. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to sea.”
Tito brings them drinks and seats himself beside his boss. He looks up to the pagoda above. “We need to move this along. The rain is starting.” They all look up and watch the thick drops begin to pelt and stream down the glass. A sound like distant thunder can be heard approaching. The sucking thump of helicopter blades. Tito stands, as they all cast their gaze skyward, wondering.
Before they can react further, the pagoda explodes in a shower of tempered glass. They tuck into themselves as it rains down upon them. When it stops, Tito is the first to spring from his curl. The helicopter hovers above as thick lines of rope unspool into the house. Two figures fall from the helicopter, rappelling toward the hole in the roof. Francis and Miriam are uncurled now too, stunned. When Tito pulls his gun from his jacket and starts to fire, they bolt for the doors.
One body, then the other, drops from the sky to Tito’s feet. One lands on top of the tote holding Francis’s float still within it. Francis wants to retrieve it, but Miriam holds him back and Tito waves him off.
“Go!” he hollers. “Go to the truck.” He fires more rounds through the hole in the roof, then tucks Sunimoto under his arm and runs toward the back of the house as bullets start bursting through the hole onto the floor.
An entourage of armed men approaches the front entranceway and the doors slide wide open. All but one of the men race into the house past Francis and Miriam. The one who stops yells at them to run for the SUV over the racket of gunfire and helicopters. There are now three hovering above the property, disgorging machine-gun fire and rappelling lines. The army of men who have emerged from the forest perimeter return the fire, thwarting any attempts by the attackers to rappel to the ground.
“It’s fucking raining bullets out there,” Francis screams back at him. “No fucking way.” The armed man hurls Francis into the driveway, sending a spray of bullets toward the two helicopters within firing sight. Then he does the same with Miriam.
They’re both out in the open, exposed in the torrential downpour now dumping from the thick clouds overhead. “Run,” the man screams, sending more bullets skyward. Francis and Miriam both make it to the white SUV and dive in, Francis at the wheel, Miriam in the back seat. The key dangles in the ignition. Francis turns it over and slams the vehicle into drive, spinning around on the wet cobblestone and flooring it down the driveway. Miriam watches out the rear window as the man who hurled them toward the SUV falls to his knees, then his face.
One helicopter spins out of control into the cliff-face behind the house and explodes as Sunimoto’s lifts into the sky. One of the two remaining ambushing helicopters pursues it. The other hovers while three men rappel successfully to the ground, then it spins and propels itself through the air in pursuit of Francis and Miriam as they catapult down the long, slick driveway. A cluster of bullets slams into the SUV, shattering the window glass Miriam looks through just as they pass into a tunnel of overhanging trees.
Francis is a single thought in every aspect of his mind and body: Drive. “We’ve got to stop. Stop the truck Francis,” Miriam yells at him. He doesn’t respond, pushing his foot further to the floor. “They can’t see us right now through the trees. Once we’re out from under them, we’re fucked. Stop the truck Francis.” But he hardly hears her inside his focused fear. She leans over and puts her hand on the wheel. “You have to stop the truck Francis. When we come out from under these trees, we’re fucking dead.” Fucking dead, and her face thrust beside his gets through.
He looks at her, then up to the trees. “Okay what?” he asks, pulling the truck over. “What do we do?” He’s panicking, she can see that. She files through their options in her head, all of them the shits, then she decides. “We’ve got to get into the forest,” she says. “We can’t stay in this truck.”
Miriam leaps from the SUV without another word or thought, running, then nearly free-falling down an embankment reminiscent of the one that leads to her beach of homage to the ocean, or did, before the tsunami washed her vast collection of glass floats, and the rest of her life, out to sea. She’s a woman untethered—her two girls launched into their own lives and so more or less estranged—sliding down a rain-washed bank with nothing but her survival to run for. Nothing but her survival and her love for the man now falling into the forest behind her.
The Lahars
LAVA FLOWS AT differing speeds, depending on its composition and viscosity, and of course upon the degree of slope down which it slides. The lava spewing from the Mauna Loa and the Mauna Kea is basaltic, and has been, until now, creeping slowly down the two neighbouring mountainsides. The Mauna Loa is a continuously active volcano, having a major erup
tion on average every twenty-five years. As a result there are fixed channels, the hardened flows of the past runnelling down its various faces, which the fresh lava moves over or between, unhindered. The Mauna Kea hasn’t erupted in 4,500 years, and so it is more consistently forested below its barren alpine slope. But this upper slope is nearly twice as steep as the Mauna Loa’s, so the flows, though obstructed by the forest, have enough momentum to keep pace with those of the Mauna Loa. Now, with the rain dumping over both these flows, the water is thinning their viscosities and slickening the earth over which they descend, mixing the lava with mud to form lahars, lava-heated slides building in breadth and velocity. Hilo is the wettest city in the United States, and one of the wettest in the world, measuring over two hundred inches of rainfall per year. When it rains in Hilo, it pours.
Francis and Miriam are trudging down the northern bank of the Wailuku River, through thick groves of unfamiliar trees. For three hours they have alternately bushwhacked thick brush and traversed open riverside fields, neither of them knowing where they are, only that the river will lead them to the shore, and on that shore will be, hopefully, the Princess Belle still tied to the dock in Radio Bay awaiting them. They are both soaked, fearful, hungry and exhausted, the river flowing full in a torrent of white beneath them. It grows louder and louder until they find themselves at the top of Rainbow Falls.
