by Delle Jacobs
He could not go farther than the sand on the beach, not so much as touch his toe in the sometimes heavy surf, before one or another Islander would gently tug him back, imploring him with their lyrical fractured English. The angry Namaka-o-Kaha'i would snatch him away, they said. It was hard to understand why they were so kind to him. He knew all too well how the white man treated natives all over the world. But always, he felt welcome among the Islanders of Hiapo's village.
Daily, when the rains came, he stood near the cliff and watched the waves rush against the rocks, remembering the times when Siren had walked on the wave crests, singing her song that rang with the beauty of golden bells. He could still hear it echoing in his mind, and its sound made his heart ache so deeply, he thought he would die from the pain.
He was restless at night, and often left the chief's hut to walk, but he did not go near the water. They called him sometimes the haole who walks, for he could not be still, and they tried to give him solace, for they said his heart would never be free of the sea goddess.
Finally he asked for a place to be alone, apologizing for so often disturbing them, and then they, too, thought him perhaps a bit crazy. But as he did not want to re-join the white men with their whaling ships, they helped him build a small shelter for only himself and the dreams that came to him every night, and left him shouting and calling out. They did not know what to do with such a man. They did not want him to be alone, but they thought maybe he needed to be alone with the gods. They were Christians, they said, but they had not forgotten the Old Ones. And so he had his little shack, away from the village beneath the high cliff.
At night, every night, he dreamed. Always he heard Siren calling to him.
"Come to me, John Wall."
Even when he knew it was a dream, the feel of her smooth hands on his flesh haunted him. He could feel her glorious hair trailing over his body. And in the dream they made love with a moaning frenzy that brought him to climax in the shouts that echoed against the lonely cliffs, and, in his mind, drifted far out to sea in search of the lost love.
He awoke in a sweat, his heart pounding, even his bones aching with the yearning. It could not be love. But she had made it seem to exist when it had not. Yet never had he hurt so deeply, longed so much, for one he could never have again.
In the morning he again walked like a dead man, and the villagers watched him sadly. He went to the old man Hiapo and asked his advice. But the old man shook his head.
"Stay away from the sea," he said. "You were not meant to live, and if you go back, this time it will be no more for you."
So John instead took the winding dirt path that led along the foot of the great crater called Diamond Head to make his way among his own kind in Honolulu Port. He had too little to do among the people of the village, and it left him too much time to think. He found work as a dock laborer, loading sugar onto the big five-masted American clippers. He dodged the curiosity of the dock hands who asked how he had come to Oahu Island if he had not come by ship.
"The things I can remember are like dreams that cannot be true," he said. And they all avoided him when they could.
In his pockets he carried the three gold Spanish coins Siren had left with him. They were all he had left of a life that now a strange erotic dream that refused to fade. He could not live among the haoles, nor among the Oahuans. So he made himself a tiny shelter in the rugged hills beyond the port village.
But no matter how hard he worked, how weary he was when he dragged himself back to his little lean-to made of branches and palm fronds, when he closed his eyes to sleep, the dreams came upon him. He hated their torment, yet longed for them, for in his dreams he was with his Siren again.
"Come to me... come to me... come to me..."
And in his dreams, his love was real, and he swam with his Siren in the warm, deep aqua waters of the Summer Sea, made love in her bed of sponges or tangled their bodies together in the weightlessness of the waters, placed garlands of summer flowers in her golden hair and necklaces of gold and emeralds that rested against her sleek pale skin.
The ache in his heart would not go away.
More and more, he dreaded going to sleep, so he sought the taverns where seamen and laborers celebrated their pay and drowned their sorrows.
On a September morning, he spotted the ominous clouds of a gale on the horizon to the southeast. By afternoon, the dock closed down, but no ship was in port, anyway. There was not much point in going to his little lean-to in the hills, for the wind would soon be tearing it to shreds. So once again John walked to the one tavern which had become a comfort to him.
As was his habit, he drank alone every Saturday night, standing at the bar with one foot on the worn brass rail, never looking another white man in the eye. That was not hard, for they all kept their distance from him.
"I know you. You're John Wall. I met you in Singapore oncet."
He looked up from his whisky. He remembered the face. The short, thickset fellow was called Tom Bartholomew. An American. Very drunk. John nodded.
"You was captain of the Telesto. I heard she went down, all hands."
"Off the Skeleton Coast," John replied.
"How come the captain lived, and his men didn't?"
"I don't know if they did or not. Last I saw, the long boat was headed for shore. They might've made it."
"Then how come you're here?"
"I can't say. I have no idea."
"I'm saying. I say you're a coward, Captain Wall, and you saved yourself and left your crew to die."
John frowned as he stared at the drunk who had begun to press his finger into the worn linen of John's shirt.
"No," he said. He turned back to his whisky and stared into a dirty glass full of something he did not want.
"Hey, I'm talking, Wall. Don't you turn away from me. And I'm saying you're a coward."
John made a quarter turn to face the rummy belligerent. "You ought to try better manners, Bartholomew. You're too drunk to win a fight."
Bartholomew pulled back and swung, a punch easily dodged. The drunk swayed, over-compensating for his effort. He folded over John's rapidly advancing fist into his stout gut. John connected his left into the side of Bartholomew's face and the man crumpled to the floor.
"That was quick," said a grizzle-bearded man who had been standing to Bartholomew's right.
"I don't like brawling," John said. "Best to get it over with. You'll see him home? I'd hate to see him drown in some ditch."
The man nodded. John left his half-empty shot glass and walked out into the rain.
It was a fierce, heavy wind, catching him sideways instead of head-on as it had done that afternoon. So the eye of the storm must have passed. He knew he should go to his hut, but it was just as likely there would be nothing left. He walked instead, seeking the cleansing of the soaking rain and fighting the howling wind to stay erect, as he has so many times on the deck of the Telesto.
Over the roar of the storm, he heard Siren and knew she rode the huge waves that crashed and tossed the ocean.
"You are for me, John Wall." The old hunger roared to life so violently, it made him think his guts would be torn out. He had to go. Had to be with his Siren again.
And to go to her would be to die.
Up the road to his hut he wandered, deep mud sucking at his new shoes. If he'd had a coat, he would have clutched it tight, but he didn't, and instead let the deluge whip into the side of his face. As he suspected, there was little left of his lean-to but a few poles of the frame.
He sat on a rock, his knees up to his chin.
Oh, Siren, Siren, how I miss you.
He had never been a man to shed tears. But even if he had been, they would mean nothing against the stinging, pelting rain.
Chapter 7
"Come to me... come to me... come to me..."
The Siren's song rang in his ears, like bells going on and on. Haunting, never ending in the storm. "Come to me..."
The gale raged, swirled
, battered him, and the song swirled with the wind, tormenting his soul. No, it was not a storm. It was Siren. Siren was the storm. Come for him.
If he went, he would die. Old Hiapo was right, John knew it in his heart. If he went to the sea, she would take him back, and this time he would die. He did not want to die. Yet his heart did not want to live. Not without her.
He knew in his heart he belonged to Siren. That he could not change.
The wind shifted again, from east to southeast, slapping his sodden hair against his face. It would continue to shift as the typhoon passed the island, and would diminish as it moved on. The desperation of his loneliness drove him, and he slogged through the thickening mud of the road, heading toward the sea, following the gnawing hunger in his soul, until he found himself standing on the wet sand of the little bay by Hiapo's village, his eyes fixed on the wild crests of the waves blowing ashore.
Only a crazy man would be here if he didn't have to be, for any moment a rogue wave could blow ashore and carry him out into the violent surf. He could not deny that might be him.
Crazy.
In the violent dance of wind and wave, he saw her standing proudly on the crest, lit by the unearthly glow of the fire of the sea, a dance of swirling colors radiant and intense, outlining her form. Her Titian hair was like brilliant sunshine on new copper. Her dress of moonbeams draped about her, its silken sheen whipping scarf-like in the wind like something in his twisted dreams.
Siren, he said in his mind, fixed and drawn to the eerie, beautiful, awful figure. His Siren.
"Come to me, John Wall."
"No, Siren," he replied, wondering where he found the strength to resist. He didn't know or understand why. He just knew somehow he had to stand for something different.
"You are for me, John Wall. Come."
"I will not. If I go into the sea, I will die. You know it is true."
"You are mortal. Mortals die."
"But I will not die at your behest. A man must fight for life, Siren. It is the way we are made. A man cannot live with himself if he has no control of his own destiny."
Her radiant hair danced in the wild wind. "If you love me, come to me."
"No, Siren. I cannot. I am a man. If you love me, you come to me."
"I am Siren. If I do I will be no more than a mortal. I will die."
"That is the natural way of things, Siren. It is not natural to never die."
"It is the way of man. I cannot do it. I am for you, John Wall, and you for me. You must come."
"If I do, we will have no time together. No, if you love me, come."
The sea writhed about her as if she were a storm of her own. He knew her anger. He knew the godlike arrogance that was Siren. Now, this time, for sure he would die. . .
He breathed deeply, steeling himself for what he knew must come. She would not give up her dominance over him, and he could not accept it.
So yes. Now his time had come.
He squared his body, prepared to take what must be and watched as the wave grew ever taller and rolled toward the beach, Siren riding its crest like a magnificent Hawaiian on a board, the long ropes of her hair flailing in the storm as the wave drew closer, ever closer.
The crest broke, then rolled softer in its break. In the ferocity of the storm at her back, the clouds began to break and the lower corner of a crescent moon glowed. Siren rode atop the gentle wave until it reached the sand and she stepped onto the drenched earth. Her eyes fixed on him, she walked, a slow and fluid step with her hips swaying as each foot stepped so carefully in front of the other. John held his breath. Mesmerized, as Siren approached. She stopped.
"I am for you, John Wall." Softly, slowly her hand rose to touch his bearded cheek. "This is the world of man. Your beard has grown."
He could do nothing else. He could not stop himself if he demanded it. He swept his arms around her into a fierce kiss, as if he could absorb her into himself.
John Wall held her face between his hands, stroking thumbs over her cheeks, and she threw back her head, baring her throat. He lavished kisses over every part of her face, down her neck, across the vulnerable crevice at the base of her throat, and down her body. They fell to their knees, hands eager and hungry for every inch of each other. Her dress of moonbeams fell away, and John's unneeded shirt parted from his chest, his trousers deserted his waist, then his hips, her hands warring with his in their eagerness to pull away the offending garments. Bare, they dropped to the beach atop the debris of fronds from the storm.
Rain straggled down their faces and skin as they made warmth for each other. Siren traced the lines of his chest and down the line of hair that led to his rampant arousal. Furious heat raged in his cock and his breath battled for control. He wanted her with such violent heat, he almost feared himself.
"Take me now, John Wall. Take me. Don't make me wait."
In one perverse way, he almost wished he could. Make her wait, as he had. Now, no, now more than ever, he must have her. He must have her his way. Siren had come to him. He had not gone to her. Surely she had been wrong. She must surely know, he was a man. She, the woman.
The thought fled. All thought fled. John let himself slip away into the heavy passion that engulfed him. As Siren wrapped her glorious legs around him, her heated flesh pressing against his, John sought only the crimson haze of oblivion, and thrust himself into the magnificently familiar tightness that gripped him in frantic passion. Siren's need, as fierce as his own, demanded madly of him.
Passion rushed upon them, and too quickly, completion. Then, before he could even catch his ragged breath and withdraw, he hardened anew. It was Siren's magic, still reigning over him, and he, still in thrall to her enticing body and its never-fading allure. He stopped caring. He rolled her over onto her back and fucked her. He took her from behind. He sat her in his lap. He tasted her, and she him, until both of them were so spent, they could do nothing more than lie back, gasping.
Only the lowest hook of the crescent moon showed beneath the last clouds from the storm as they fell asleep in each other's arms on the bed of fern fronds at the edge of the sandy beach.
The sky lightened, the earliest morning gloaming as John opened his eyes. He reached out and found only the emptiness of flattened fronds beside him. He had not dreamed it—no, he was certain. As he sat up, he caught sight of the sparkle from the dress of moonbeams, and took the fantastic fabric in his hands.
The sun broke the horizon, brightening on the gauzy brilliance of the cloth draped over his hands. It disintegrated and sifted through his hands into the sand.
I've killed her! My selfishness has killed her!
He stared at the nothingness in his hands, as empty as a life without his Siren. Why hadn't he gone to her instead? Shouldn't he have known one such as Siren could not live a mortal existence?
Then, there, beneath the ruin that was his empty hands, two perfect pale feet appeared. He looked up to see his Siren pulling his shirt over her head to cover her beautiful nakedness. With a swoop of her hand, she flipped her long, long, golden-red hair out from the collar to flow in enticing waves nearly to the ground. His heart thrumming wildly, he could only stare.
"Where shall we live, John Wall?" she said.
His heart took another tumble.
Chapter 8
Relief flooded him like hot tears as John clasped his beloved Siren tightly in his arms, drinking in her heady scent of sea and earth, absorbing the soft, velvety touch of her skin.
But slowly he became aware that the village was coming to life along with the dawn. Hiapo led his people down the path from the cliff where they had taken refuge from the rage of the seas and wind. As a group, they stood around John and Siren, saying nothing. Siren smiled back at their silent welcome. He thought it odd, for she had always avoided the company of humans. Yet she seemed at ease among the Islanders, who seemed to both accept her and treat her with deference. It was as if they bowed in their minds to her.
As much as he had learned of
their language, John still did not recognize all their words. But Siren did. He began to think perhaps she knew more about them than he did.
The women had gone on to their wind-wracked homes, and the men to their canoes and nets, which they had sheltered in larger buildings. Soon, as they walked through the village, Hiapo's women emerged, bringing gifts for Siren. The gaudy garment of missionary origin they called muu muu, and leis of ti leaves and flowers, despite that the storm had made havoc of the fragrant flowering bushes so common around the village.
"Namaka-o-Kaha'i has come to us again," said Hiapo as he walked up to them, and he bowed as deeply as he might to his distant kin, the third King Kamehameha. "We will give you our home, where you may be with your lover."
Puzzled, John frowned. "This is Siren," he replied. But he began to realize he could not tell anyone who she really was, nor how he knew it. He would have to give her a name, a white woman's name, for her vivid red hair set her apart from these people with their dark skins and black hair.
"Namaka-o-Kaha'i has many names, and we sometimes call her just Namaka. But we know this is her, for her hair is still flaming from the burning lava her sister Pele threw at her." The old man paused, and mischief quirked on his lips. "But I think John Wall does not want to say Namaka-o-Kaha'i. It is too hard for him."
A chuckle rumbled through the jolly crowd.
John felt his cheeks redden. "It is true," he said. "That is too much for me. I call her Siren, but the white men will not understand. You say she is a goddess, and they will not understand that, either. I think I will call her Serena now. That is a white woman's name."
"Namaka-o-Kaha'i is not a white woman, John Wall. She comes from the sea."
Yes. He knew that all too well.
"What did you do that she threw you out of the sea, John Wall?" Kekoa asked. "Do you make love like the missionaries do? Namaka would not like that."
The village all laughed, the men even louder than the women.
