by Chip Hughes
I agree with her. “She say she see Pele, in da kinolau of one beautiful young wahine, pitch da geothermal boss inside da vent. You evah see one woman like dat ‘round hea?”
“I no see her,” she says, “but was Pele. She make da oddah two. Why not da boss? Pele your suspect numbah one!”
“You t’ink so?”
“Fo’ sure. You gotta go to Halema‘uma‘u Crater at sunset wit’ ‘ōhelo berries. Make her one offering. She come to you. Guarantee.”
I slowly nod.
But, Pualani warns me, it’s not the best time to visit the crater. Its floor—the thin crust resting on a lake of boiling lava—is bulging. Park volcanologists worry another eruption is coming. She describes fiery fountains spewing ash and molten rock into the air. She cautions me to be careful.
“T’anks, eh?” I think of the cliché: fool’s errand. Then I go it one better: dangerous fool’s errand.
Back in my room I catch up on paperwork. I write out detailed notes about my four interviews on the Big Island with Kathryn Ransom, Mick London, Ikaika “Sonny Boy” Chang, and Serena Barrymore, a.k.a. Goddess Hi‘iaka. I will refer to these notes when I report back to my client. I can’t count out any of these four suspects just yet. But while all four had, to varying degrees, motive, opportunity, and means to kill Rex Ransom, the interviews lead me to believe none actually did kill him. Unless one of the four incriminates him- or herself, or unless another suspect surfaces, I’m left with only Pele.
Barrymore claims she saw the goddess heave Ransom into the vent. I can dismiss her description of Pele’s widely-known kinolau, but not the lipstick I later recovered on the trail. Barrymore had to be there for that. And so I’m stuck with her story. Stuck at least with part of it. To believe it all, I’d have to believe that the goddess materialized bodily on this earth and caused the death of a mortal man.
That’s a huge leap.
I lie back on the bed and decide that it might not be a bad idea to at least check in with Pele later at the Halema‘uma‘u Crater. Maybe it could help me get into a frame of mind to understand how so many people, some of them at least apparently sane, could conclude that it had to be the goddess who pushed the old man to his death.
I’m not a normally a napper, but the long drive yesterday and fitful sleep last night make me drift off.
Suddenly I’m on the edge of the crater at sunset gazing into the fiery pit. Standing over the hiss and roar, I wait for the goddess to appear. Finally she does. Pele rises out of the flames as the seductive young woman I saw on the trail. She says my name and promises to tell me everything. Before she does I awake.
It’s late afternoon—little time to spare before sunset. I drag myself out to gather an offering for Pele. Yes, I actually do this.
I don’t have to hike far on the Crater Rim Trail. Just to The Steaming Bluff. Sulfur fills the air. By the vent where I found the old man I spot the green-leafed stems of the ‘ōhelo plant reaching skyward and carrying pale yellow to bright red clusters of fruit, about the size of blueberries. There’s plenty to choose from. The nene, or Hawaiian goose, loves these berries and disperses their seeds widely. The berries aren’t fully ripe. I’m a bit early to pick, since peak season is June through October, but I doubt the goddess will mind. Or even notice.
One stem yields up two or three berries, another nearly a dozen. I end up with several stems—berries and leaves and all—and carry them back to my room.
Since sunset comes at quarter to seven in early April, I make reservations for dinner at eight. An hour should be more than enough time to interview a goddess.
But what do I know? I’ve never done it before.
Fifteen minutes before sunset—I hate being late—I pass the registration desk where Pualani is still working. I hold up my stems of ‘ōhelo berries and say, “On my way.”
“Bettah go fas’,” she says. “Da Park Service gonna close da Halema‘uma‘u overlook.”
“Why dey close da overlook?”
“Cuz da crater floor bulging. Maybe dey t’ink one eruption coming.”
“I going.” I make tracks to my car.
I head south again on Crater Rim Drive toward Halema‘uma‘u. About half way there I pass the Jaggar Observatory and Museum where Park Service personnel are loading barricades into pickup trucks. I mash the gas pedal. Once the barricades go up, I’ve got no chance with Pele.
Even from a mile away I can see the smoke—a massive column spiraling into the sunset sky.
I pull in at the Halema‘uma‘u overlook, grab my sprigs of ‘ōhelo berries, and walk toward the hissing and rumbling. The sulfur smell thickens. It’s hard to draw a breath.
The sun sinks to the crater’s western rim. I consider turning back. But I keep walking.
twenty-seven
The first thing I see on the path to the crater’s edge is this sign:
WARNING
STAY ON ESTABLISHED TRAILS.
STAY OUT OF CAVES AND CRACKS.
POTENTIALLY LIFE-THREATENING
CONCENTRATIONS
OF CARBON DIOXIDE.
I’m hiking just to the overlook—only a short distance on the three-mile Halema‘uma‘u Trail—but I make a mental note and look around. The landscape is rock. There’s nothing green. Smoke from the crater keeps billowing. The hissing and rumbling grow louder. I move on and pass another sign.
THE “FIREPIT” OF HALEMA‘UMA‘U
Halema‘uma‘u Crater is the site of the most eruptions at the summit of Kīlauea Volcano. Between 1905 and 1924, a period of about 20 years, a dazzling lake of molten lava circulated within its walls. Then, in 1924, the lake drained away, allowing groundwater to penetrate deep inside the volcano. Enormous steam explosions resulted, showering the landscape with rocky debris, still visible around the rim today.
When the floor of the pit abruptly rises or falls, as is occurring now, things can happen fast. I plan to be outta here if they do.
Upon reaching the overlook, I peer down. The crater is about a half-mile across and a hundred yards deep. Molten lava gurgles through cracks in the bulging floor. The fiery pool is a fraction of the whole, but it’s liquid and moving. Flames lick up the crater wall. And from the flames comes that twisting column of smoke.
My eyes smart. I blink away tears.
The last beams of the setting sun flicker over the crater’s edge. The sky around the sun whitens like a halo, but elsewhere darkens. Lava below in the pit takes on a crimson glow. Flames flare like torches. The molten lake becomes luminous—in the same hot hue as the flames.
By the overlook there’s a small platform surrounded by a picket fence and another sign that I can barely read in the diminishing light:
‘Āina a ke akua e noho ai
Land where the goddess dwells
Pele’s home. The sign reminds me of the warning delivered to Ransom’s wife moments before he died: “As you value your health and your life keep away from Pele . . . Deadly.” Had he heeded that warning he might still be alive. And I would not be here.
Turns out I’m not the only one bringing her an offering tonight. Standing by the fence, a few feet in front of me, a ponytailed girl drapes a lei around the pickets. The fence is already festooned with half a dozen lei. Just beyond sits a plate of mangos and papayas and a bottle of liquor—I can’t make out the label—wrapped in ti leaves. And on the barren earth around the plate are more lei and flowers, and sprigs of ‘ōhelo berries like I’ve brought.
Ponytail whispers several words I can’t hear and one I can: “Pele.” She’s smiling through her tears. Tears of joy—unlike mine? I don’t know. I’m a guy. But something has just happened here that’s meaningful to her.
She’s so into her feelings that she doesn’t even notice me as she walks by, leaving me alone at the overlook. The sun’s afterglow fades above the crater’s rim. The fire pit’s hue deepens. And it growls.
I feel like a fool. I’m standing here teary-eyed with these sprigs in my hand like they’re flowers
for a blind date. Will that seductive woman I saw in my dreams appear? Right. I have no idea what to say. But I don’t have forever to say it. This crater could blow, or the barricades go up. Either way, I’ll have to leave.
I’m about to screw up my courage when I hear another kind of rumbling in the lot. A motorcycle. A man dismounts his bike in the growing darkness and makes his way up the trail to the overlook.
Another guy? Another offering?
He struts up to where I’m standing like he really knows what he’s doing. He’s in black motorcycle leathers. His face is seriously sunburned. His salt and pepper beard is windswept. On his right hand, which is clutching a book, is tattooed an image of a Sunday school Jesus; on his left the words, GOD’S CHILD.
“Hello, brother,” he says. “I just rode all the way from Kona.” He may have ridden from Kona, but his words and appearance suggest he’s from the mainland.
“Howzit,” I say. I could use a little support, so I ask: “Are you here on a mission?”
“Right on, brother,” he says, and holds up the book. It’s a Bible. “I’m here to deny Pele exists. I’m going to say so right over this burning pit.”
“It’s been done.” I relate to him how Princess Kapiolani defied the goddess over this same pit in 1823. Her followers warned her not to. But she did anyway and survived—a fact that put a big dent in the cult of Pele and furthered the efforts of the Christian missionaries in the islands.
“Never mind about the Hawaiian Princess. I need to do this for myself.” He steps up to the picket fence. “It’s a test of faith.”
He opens his Bible to the first of about a dozen bookmarks. He announces: “Exodus, chapter twenty.” Then he shouts: “‘I am the Lord thy God, who have brought thee out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. Thou shalt have no other gods before me.’” He lists various forbidden idols and graven images, adding Pele to the lot, and then shouts: “‘Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them, for I, the Lord thy God, am a jealous God.’”
The fire pit grumbles. Lava shoots into the air.
He flips pages to his next bookmark and says: “Deuteronomy, chapter eight.” He shouts: “‘If thou forget the Lord thy God, and walk after other gods, and serve them, and worship them, I testify against you this day that ye shall surely perish.’”
More thunder. More fountains. He turns to another bookmark and says, “Leviticus, chapter twenty-six. Again he shouts: “‘Ye shall make no idols . . .’”
The ground shakes like an earthquake.
I’m afraid the crater’s ready to blow. And I haven’t said a single word yet to Pele. Meanwhile this guy has maybe ten bookmarks to go. It’s not my style to argue with complete strangers about religion, but I have only one shot at this offering to Pele, and he’s making it impossible.
“Hey, brah. You have your god,” I hear myself saying. “Why not let Hawaiians have theirs?”
But he turns back to the fiery pit and shouts: “Pele, you false god, you have no power over me. You have no power over anyone. I dare you to show yourself—”
A lava jet shoots into the darkness.
He slaps his Bible shut, turns, and starts back to his motorcycle. He’s not four strides from me before I know we’re in trouble. Another fountain goes off. The ground shakes again. Then more jets. Soon a shower is coming down on my head. A shower of ash.
I toss my ‘ōhelo berries over the fence onto the edge of the pit. “For you, Pele.” Then I hear these myself saying: “If you’re real, show me a sign.”
I run for the lot, catching up to the bearded biker as he mounts his ride. Ash is falling thicker now. Pebbles the size of hail ping on the tank of his bike, making little dings in the metal. Then pebbles give way to rocks.
“So long, brother,” he says. When he starts his motorcycle, a rock the size of a baseball cracks his helmet and he tumbles to the asphalt lot.
“You okay?” I ask.
He struggles to his feet, looking dazed. “Pele is the whore of Babylon!” he seethes.
“I thought you said she didn’t exist?”
He gives me a sour look, hops back on his bike, and rolls away. I run across the lot to my rental car, sure it’s dinged beyond repair from the fallout. I don’t take time to look. I just hop in and tear away.
As I motor to the Volcano House, out of harm’s way, racing toward me are two Park Service trucks with flashing lights and those barricades stacked in back. They’re closing the overlook. I may be the last person to make an offering to Pele for a long time to come.
Back at the Volcano House I carefully check the roof, trunk, and hood of my rental car. This could cost me.
Not a single ding. Impossible.
twenty-eight
Flying from Hilo Friday morning I notice vog still hanging over the Honolulu skyline. Pele has followed me home.
Back on Maunakea Street my message light is blinking. CAITLIN RANSOM. She’s anxious to see me this morning. I return her call and she tells me she’ll be here in thirty minutes. Then I sift through the stack of mail that arrived while I was away. There’s a check from Donnie. She’s paid me in full and included a generous tip. A sticky note attached to the check says, “Mahalo, Kai.” That’s it.
Before Caitlin arrives I pull out my interview notes to review them. My eyes wander to this morning’s paper lying unread on my desk. The front page nearly knocks me off my chair.
A Fourth Death at Pele’s Hands?
Kona: Another former officer of defunct Ransom Geothermal Enterprises was found dead yesterday in Waikoloa near the Mauna Kea Resort. The body of Michael “Mick” London lay on a barren stretch of volcanic rock near this west-side resort. Investigators say London had been fishing on the craggy coastline when he apparently fell and struck his head. Alcohol may have been a factor.
Mick London formed his own drilling supply company in the late 1980s that sold exclusively to his former employer. When Ransom Geothermal ceased drilling operations on the Big Island, London’s firm went into receivership. Litigation followed in which London claimed Ransom owed him thousands of dollars on leased and purchased equipment, but London failed to prevail in court.
Rex Ransom was found dead in a steam vent at Hawai‘i Volcanoes National Park in March. Two other officers from his firm, Stan Nagahara and Karl Kroften, also died in or around the park in the past two years. London’s death yesterday makes four.
Each man’s connection to the controversial geothermal project in the Wao Kele O Puna rainforest has persuaded some devotees of Pele that the legendary goddess of volcanoes has taken revenge.
Caitlin Ransom is early again. She’s in a floral print dress that does nice things for her grey eyes. No handshake this time—businesslike or otherwise. She just slides gracefully into my client chair.
I show her the headline. She’s already seen it.
“It’s so sad,” she says. “Mick was really a nice guy. After he and my dad had their falling out, Mick’s life has been so miserable.”
“I talked with him three days ago,” I say. “He was broke and bitter, but very much alive.”
“Did he shed any light on my father’s death?” She chokes a bit on the word “death.”
I summarize my interview with Mick. And then with Sonny Boy. I mention seeing her mother, but I spare Caitlin the details. I also spare her my encounter at the Halema‘uma‘u Crater. And I keep the found lipstick to myself, for now.
“And what are your conclusions?” Caitlin asks.
I tell the hard to believe, but equally hard to reject story that Serena Barrymore, a.k.a. Goddess Hi‘iaka, told me. “She claims she saw the same woman in red I did pursuing your father on the Crater Rim Trail. Barrymore says she also saw this woman push him into the steam vent.”
“But isn’t Barrymore an escaped mental patient?”
“True,” I say. “Not the most reliable of witnesses.”
“Who could the woman in red be?” Caitlin furrows her intelligent brow. “A
nd why would she want to hurt my dad?”
“The woman can only be Pele, or someone made up to look like her. Trouble is, I interviewed every potential suspect, and none of them even remotely resembles her.”
“Leaving only Pele?” Caitlin says.
“Afraid so. Or someone not on our list who’s good at costume and make-up. Maybe someone involved in the protests who’s willing to kill for Pele.”
“Who? I can’t think of anyone,” Caitlin says “But it’s some comfort that you’re ready to admit my father’s death wasn’t an accident. At least now I’m not alone.”
“There’s three of us,” I say. “You, me, and a woman who’s certified insane. We need more to go on. Can you think of other people who might have wanted to harm your father?”
Caitlin draws a blank.
I try a different tack. “Maybe your father mentioned someone or something in your last conversations with him?”
She comes up with a few things that don’t sound promising. Then she says: “He said more money was coming.”
“More money?” I perk up. “What did he mean by that?”
“Remember I told you he sent me a generous check?”
I nod.
“Dad said he was sending more. Both to me and to my two brothers. He said it had to do with estate planning, or something like that.”
“Did you receive another check?”
“No. My brothers didn’t either.”
“What about your father’s will? Do you know what it says?”
“No. We never discussed that. I just assumed he left everything to Donnie, since my mother’s estate eventually goes to my brothers and me.”
“It might be worth checking into.”
“I’ll do that,” she says.
After Caitlin strides from my office it’s almost noon. Time to leave for my appointment with Ashley at a shop at Ala Moana Center called Safari. She’s supposed to show me photos of the Lindquist twins celebrating their twenty-first birthday, before Fireball drove them off the Pali. I’m not hopeful her photos will be much use. Still, I head down the stairs.
