by Matt Larkin
“Him,” Leapua said, pointing off into the outskirts of the celebration. “Someone Milolii sent. Upoho is with him.”
Now Namaka craned around to look at Leapua—she couldn’t make out the men in the darkness anyway. If Milolii had sent the wererat, she clearly wanted Namaka’s attention. With a slight frown, she rose and made her way over to where her kahuna had indicated.
Indeed, Upoho did sit beside a bonfire there. If Namaka didn’t miss her guess, the man had yet more tattoos on his arms. Wererats, even more than most kupua, never fit well into society, often considering themselves apart from tabus, and thus finding themselves shunned by the ali‘i and kāhuna. Still, the man had his uses, and Milolii had all but raised him, making him a kind of foster brother to Namaka.
At his side sat a handsome man Namaka had never seen before, with a sea turtle tattoo on his chest, marred by a criss-cross of vicious white scars. The man rose as Namaka drew near, and offered her a formal bow. Even if his kihei had not identified him as high-ranked ali‘i, his manner would have.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I am Aukele, out of Lihue on Kaua‘i.”
Namaka glanced at Upoho.
The wererat grinned. “In Sawaiki.”
Well that was interesting. Now Namaka sat across from the foreigner. “You’ve come a long way.”
He nodded. “And I made the mistake of not coming with peaceful intent, having not conceived of your power.”
She stiffened. This was a survivor of the fleet she’d sunk last month. “You swam quite a way to reach the shore, then.”
Aukele nodded, raising a hand in placation. “Please. All I want is peace now. Like you, I am kupua. I beg your forgiveness for my rash behavior in the past.”
Namaka allowed a slight frown to creep over her features. “Why should I not have my kahuna sacrifice you? Hiyoya would be grateful for another sacrifice, especially a kupua.”
Aukele offered up a satisfying flinch. “I am known for the magic in my mo‘olelo. Let me impress you with my tale, and you may judge for yourself if you wish to keep me around your court.”
Namaka snickered at that. “Ready to wager your life on your ability to entertain?” She glanced at Upoho. The wererat’s presence here was a reminder that Milolii wanted Namaka to listen to Aukele. Not that Namaka had to adhere to the dragon’s wishes, but she’d be forever grateful to the mo‘o regardless. “Ah, fine. Tell your tale. See if you may keep your head with it.”
While she’d expected him to flinch, Aukele laughed and clapped his hands together. And when he spoke, his voice took on a strange timbre. Perhaps truly flush with mana and truly carrying a magic?
“I was one of five brothers,” Aukele began.
I CANNOT SPEAK TO WHY, exactly, but my father, King Huma, gave the inheritance of the kingdom to me, forgoing his sons with his current wife. My mother, you see, had already left him for his own brother, Kalana, and our relations with their side remained complex.
Regardless, my brothers—my half-brothers, rather—were wrestling on the beach when I came upon them one day. As we have already established, I can sometimes be a fool, and thus, I saw nothing of the ire in their hearts. Together, three of them set upon me. I’d like to tell you I thrashed them all and had them begging for mercy, but I can see you are a canny audience and not likely to fall for it.
Which explains how I found myself cast over the edge of the Pit of Hunger. Yes. They really called it that.
And yes, I fell dozens of feet before landing in a dark, muddy hole. Filth shot up my nose. Shards of bone from prior victims snapped under my fall.
A piece of someone’s femur plunged through my thigh.
I suspect they heard my howls of pain and rage far above. Oh, how I howled then, clutching my ruined leg, writhing in the shadows, begging the ‘aumākua for mercy. Until I heard something shifting down there, in the darkness. A massive bulk, mud squelching under its weight, edging closer and closer to me.
Gasping in pain and terror, I thrashed, scrambling away but making little progress with my wound. Another shard of bone punched through my palm, drawing a fresh shriek from me. I remember … I was dragging myself through the muck by my elbows, whispering a mele, invoking my ancestors.
Maybe the ‘aumākua were listening. I’ve never known for certain, and perhaps I never will. Who can say what the dead hear out in Pō?
The creature in there with me drew closer and closer. I could not see it, save for the displacement of shadows, shifting with its movement, dancing. Slurching. Its hot, putrid breath washed over me like a poison wind. It left me gasping, choking out more pathetic prayers to the ‘aumākua.
This was something come from beyond the dark of Pō, worming its way into the world to devour my body and soul.
So little light reached into the pit, just a single sunbeam, and I scrambled to keep that ray between myself and the creature down there with me, desperately convinced the light might somehow protect me. But the creature slithered its way closer, allowing a hint of that glow to fall upon its features … scales glistening with moisture. Horns jutting at irregular angles, and a long, vibrating frill that ran down its spine.
Were it not for the horns, the webbing between its toes, and the elongated body, I might have taken the creature for some giant monitor lizard. Only a tiny portion of the creature’s bulk came into the light, but I could guess at its size, larger than any such beast.
And now, perhaps you can guess at that of which I speak.
A mo‘o—a dragon. Something crossed over from dark waters so deep as to reach beyond our world. They were, I had heard some claim, children of the great taniwha who roamed the seas in the days of the Deluge.
The dragon circled around me, hissing, its thick, earthy stench almost too much to bear.
And then … it spoke to me. Its voice was like billowing smoke from an imu, deep as a volcano that had just begun to waken. “Your mele invokes your ancestors,” she said.
The sound of her voice had my heart seizing up in my chest and left me plopping down on my ass, trying to scramble away backward like some godsdamned crab, gibbering nonsense.
“You are the son of Uli, the sorceress of Kahiki who voyaged here across the great Worldsea. Uli, the descendant of Milolii, my granddaughter.”
NAMAKA STIFFENED, now staring hard at Aukele. The mo‘o—the greatest of them—could take human form and sire children. Kupua. She had heard it claimed by some, when they thought her not listening, that even her own father Kū-Waha-Ilo was a mo‘o who never revealed his true form.
And Milolii!
By the ‘aumākua … Could the dragon have told him to say all this, knowing it would predispose Namaka to spare him? Could Namaka’s old nursemaid have created all this as some elaborate fiction to manipulate her? But why?
And further … Namaka had heard the name Uli, though the sorceress had left Kahiki when Namaka had first risen to power here in Uluka‘a. Had left along with Namaka’s little sister Kapo.
Namaka leaned forward. “Who was the dragon in the pit?”
“Mo‘oinanea, she called herself.”
The ancestress of all mo‘o, some claimed. The great dragon who had led most of her kind on a migration to Sawaiki in the days of Maui, perhaps even in the Firebringer’s company, though not all tales agreed on their relationship. Namaka had heard it told that Maui had slain Mo‘oinanea’s father, the taniwha Toona, when the dragon had attacked his wife.
Now, all Namaka could do was rub her arms and shake her head, uncertain what to make of this man. Clearly, he was blessed by the ‘aumākua and perhaps the akua themselves, and clearly beloved of Milolii, if not the dragon’s own kin. That meant, she could hardly have sacrificed him now without arousing the ire of the gods.
Besides … she did want to hear more of his strange tale of far-off lands.
But not now, not when she had a luau to oversee. She glanced back over her shoulder to see Leapua still standing in the distance, watching her, the
n beckoned the kahuna over, closer. “Have Upoho and Aukele fed and given a place to stay in the palace as my honored guests. I’ll see to them in the morning.”
The kahuna nodded slowly, obviously trying and failing to hide the smile creeping at the edge of her mouth. Yes, fine, let her be pleased with herself.
Namaka rose and, casting a last glance back at the Sawaikian, returned to the luau.
Still, much as she tried to focus on the celebration, she found herself perpetually thinking of Aukele’s tale. A man who had come from the far north after his grandmother had made the trek, returned here.
And Namaka had yet to ask him his true purpose in doing so.
DRUNK ON AWA, Namaka writhed, Kahaumana’s head between her legs, his tongue sliding over her like an eel. While Kanemoe nibbled on her breasts and she licked his cock, moaning in the tumbling, sweaty embrace of her husbands.
The three of them groaned and grunted, until Namaka could not say where one session of lovemaking ended and the next began.
Her husbands were aikāne—intimate—with each other, as well, and Namaka had never begrudged them that. Such things happened.
Nights like this, in the tangle of flesh and passion, she thought she glimpsed the finest things in life.
When they were all spent, Kahaumana slept, snoring lightly. Kanemoe had one hand on Namaka’s knee, the second on her other husband’s shoulder. The younger of her husbands, Kanemoe had more energy than Kahaumana, if not as much as a kupua like Namaka. It had been Kahaumana to introduce him to Namaka, even suggest him as a husband, and Namaka had often suspected that was because her first husband fancied the Kahikian man.
“You are far away again,” Kanemoe said.
Namaka nodded absently. “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“That life has never been better than this. The three of us.”
“You’re not thinking about the Sawaikian, then?”
Namaka sighed. Perhaps, a little. He was a threat to her perfect world, yes, but intriguing, nonetheless. “I had a … difficult childhood, Kanemoe. Did I ever talk of it?”
“You told me you had two other sisters, before Hi‘iaka. One who died, and one who crossed the Worldsea to Sawaiki.”
Namaka stared up at the ceiling rafters until Kanemoe squeezed her knee.
“You told me you were trained by a mo‘o.”
“Did I tell you my father beat Pele and me?”
“No.”
Namaka snorted lightly, shaking her head. “It was a long time ago. I don’t like to think about the past too much. Now, this life, is what we have, and I worry about any threat to it.”
Kanemoe chuckled. “There’s not a threat to us in all the Worldsea. You control the godsdamned ocean, Namaka. The kings of Kahiki pay tribute to you, my own father pays tribute to you. The mer don’t push us too far, even if they irritate you at times. They know their limits. And that’s saying nothing of your sister. If any real threat moved against Uluka‘a you and Pele would crush it. We’re safe here. You’re safe here, and there’s no reason to believe Kū-Waha-Ilo will ever return. The sea stays blue, darling.”
“Hmmm. Why would men come back from Sawaiki after fifty years of separation?”
He shrugged. “The sea stays blue.”
Pretty much his answer to any worries.
Maybe it was the best answer anyone could ever give.
PART II
10
T he volcanic eruption had mirrored the splitting apart Pele felt in her head. The way it threatened to rip in half. In a daze, she had wandered the island after finding Aukele dead. She’d grieve for him, of course, even if they had not parted on the best of terms.
She’d tracked Namaka back to the Sacred Pools.
And then things had grown truly surreal, when mer attacked Namaka. Pele could only guess they had somehow heard about Namaka’s actions across the Worldsea. Certainly, they must have felt the disruption caused by Namaka on Kaua‘i and now here.
Mu, it seemed, had solved Pele’s problems for her.
With Namaka out of the way, she could now focus on freeing Lonomakua. That meant, first, dealing with this agonizing headache, and second, finding Namaka’s camp.
A camp that Upoho, down there on the shore, surely knew where to find.
KUPUA CAME IN MANY KINDS. Some people called mo‘o—dragons—kupua. Some kupua, like Pele, had bloodlines hard to quantify. And others, like shifters, were possessed by animal spirits. Pele knew of two such kinds: wererats and the less common wereboars.
Neither were men you could sneak up on, so she didn’t bother trying.
Instead, while Upoho climbed the slope in a huff, Pele pushed her palms together, feeding mana into the earth. When he neared the top, she unleashed her power, releasing a torrent of flame that jutted out in a ring of fire, encircling the wererat in a wide arc, a hundred feet in diameter.
Namaka’s man leapt, apparently caught unawares after his altercation with the mer. An advantage Pele could not afford to waste.
Flames sprang up upon her hair. They engulfed her arms in vortices that leapt around her shoulders, danced over her torso, and clad her in a mantle of fire to replace her burnt-away clothes. A walking effigy, she advanced upon Upoho who, trapped in the circle of flame, slowly raised his hands in surrender.
“Where is Lonomakua?” Pele demanded.
“What, the kahuna? I thought he was with you.”
Pele’s lip quirked in irritation. “You do realize I’ve already reduced one of Namaka’s pet animals to dust today. Roasted rat might yet grace tonight’s menu.”
“Eh, not really good eating, to be honest with you. I recommend some nice swordfish, if you can get it. Shark’s good, too.”
She took another threatening step toward the wererat. “Where is my kahuna?”
“Come on. You know Namaka wouldn’t want me to tell you that, and you know I’m not going to betray her. Now, I really don’t think you want to kill anyone else—”
A casual flick of her wrist sent a tendril of flame licking over Upoho’s chest and face. The man fell, screaming, as his flesh bubbled and popped. A sickly-sweet stench of roasted human flesh hit Pele as she drew closer.
She, of course, did not have a shifter’s Otherworldly strength. Then again, when a man was on fire, strength counted for less. She kicked Upoho in the gut and he doubled over, groaning. Pele dropped down atop him, pressing her knee into his throat and hovering a flaming hand over the wererat’s face. “You’re right. I don’t want to kill you. That doesn’t mean I won’t hurt you. I want my kahuna back. Now. Tell me where he is.”
“I can’t. You know I—”
Pele pushed her forefinger into Upoho’s cheek. His skin sizzled, popping and peeling in an instant, while he thrashed, almost violently enough to dislodge her, though it no doubt choked him in the process. Pele jerked her hand back to hold over his face once more, revealing a charred ruin of flesh. So much of his cheek had burnt away, she could actually make out a hint of his teeth behind it.
She could see it, how he fought with the urge to grab her and throw her, knowing he’d burn off his own hands to do so.
Shifters had more than superhuman strength and senses, though. They also healed from injuries no mortal could recover from. Maybe his cheek would even regrow, though Pele suspected it would always remain scarred.
“Where is he?” she roared at him. “Where is Lonomakua? You can’t keep him from me!”
“Fuck you.”
Pele growled. Then she pushed her thumb into Upoho’s left eye. It was … disturbingly easy. The jelly sizzled and popped and turned a liquid mess almost immediately. Upoho’s screams of indescribable agony made her wince, and this time, his thrashing did manage to throw her off. The wererat grabbed her wrist, flinging her aside, seeming hardly to notice he’d ignited his hands.
Instead he toppled over to the side, clutching his face, screaming and screaming and screaming.
On and on, a sound that
had Pele’s stomach clenching in disgust. She had to fight down the sudden urge to apologize. Who apologized for burning out someone’s eye? No words could ever atone, which left her but one course. Push forward.
“Where is Lonomakua,” she snarled at him.
“Aaaaaahhhhh!”
“Where. Is. Lonomakua!” Pele seized his shoulder with her still flaming hand and spun him around, drawing yet another scream from the wererat as his flesh melted. “Where is he! Where is my kahuna, rat? I will roast your banana until your balls explode, shifter!” She pushed her searing palm into his abdomen and slowly drew it down toward his cock. “I will leave you an eyeless, earless, cockless wretch if you do not return him to me!”
“Stopppp!” Upoho wailed. “Stop. Stop. I’ll … tell you …” He looked up at her, revealing the ruin of his eye socket, flesh raw and red and weeping some filth she couldn’t identify. Tears ran freely from his remaining eye, and his face had gone pale.
A flash of disgust filled her, first at what she had done, and more at this miserable creature before her. The bitter, sick reminder of what Namaka had made her into. She knew she ought to pity Upoho his fate, but all she really wanted was to be rid of him.
“Then tell me. Now.”
PELE’S SOLDIERS raced into the camp, shouting war cries, leading with a shower of javelins that indiscriminately rained among Namaka’s unsuspecting men. By the time her foes had gained their feet, Pele’s people were among them, axes cleaving into skulls. Spears ramming through bellies, spilling entrails, and staining the beach red with gore.
Pele would call it mercy. She could have brought a torrent of lava down upon this camp and reduced all these people to ash. This way, some of them would be spared.
Namaka’s people raced to meet Pele’s warriors, knives and spears in hand. But the battle was far against them before they even knew it was upon them. The slaughter continued until at last, the warriors cast down their weapons and knelt in the sand.
Flames encircling her hand, Pele burst into a hut to find Leapua standing guard over a bound Lonomakua.
