Over the Rainbow - Book One - 'The Gathering Place'

by Robert Vaughan

  Abigail replied, mock-scandalized, “Christopher-!” But the thought nevertheless made her eyes twinkle with mirth, her hand masking a bemused smile as she envisioned her husband as Chris described.

  A coconut bra about his stout chest, a grass skirt around his waist, a bright yellow Hibiscus flower tucked delicately behind one ear, open-mouthed and snoring, Walter’s fantasy transformation was both horribly ironic and wildly funny. Abigail tried not to laugh at the imagery but failed- and a strangled chortle, barely stifled, snorted out.

  As both she and Chris tried in vain to choke back guffaws, tears of mirth now streaming down their faces, both desperately trying to not to wake the still snoring Walter, their laughter suddenly changed, becoming more- raucous, with shouts and muffled curses interjecting…

  … A colorful crowd of boisterous and rowdy sailors of every size and ethnicity filled the smoky Grog house nearly to overflowing, and several topless native girls danced on the raised platform at its rear to a ragged chorus of cheers and jeers. Through the dirty windows of the tavern, several battered Whalers of every shape and size could be seen unloading their cargo of men and material among the flotsam and jetsam of Lahaina, the guts and gore of that days’ catch painted red in the early evening light.

  Captain Walter Mayhew, lushly bearded and barrel-chested, lolled drunkenly at a table in the midst of the crowd, wearing only his tight sailor’s pants and his Captain’s hat in the sweltering heat, his only other adornments being several colorful leis of various flowers, and a sole, laughingly incongruous touch- a bright yellow Hibiscus flower tucked haphazardly behind his left ear. He peered myopically into the battered tanker in his hand, tipping it skyward to drain the last remaining drops from it, and then banged it loudly on the table as he bellowed, “CARGILL! Mis-TER Cargill! RUM!!! Another round for the lads- and TWO for me!” And then he slumped back into his chair and relaxed as several giggling native girls snuggled up to him- a warm, fragrant brown huddle of flesh sliding over his pale, sweaty skin. Slapping one plump girl smartly on the rump, he addressed them as a group, “Now then- which one of you fine lassies is coming back to the ship with me for a drink tonight?”

  All of the girls raised their hands enthusiastically.

  “All of ye, then-?” Captain Walter stood ponderously and belched noisily, his eyes unfocused and casting about in different directions, and then he wobbled unsteadily as he began to slowly make off, his charges propping up his massive form with difficulty as he shouted over the din, “CARGILL-! A cask to go!!!”

  The parallel rows of palm trees passed overhead, their delicately waving fronds tinged with salmon pink and burnished gold, framed in the open sunroof of the limousine. Chris stood up through the opening and raised his arms, bathing his face in the fading light, his eyes closed and a gentle breeze ruffling his golden locks around him. A broad smile spread across his face, his dimples deepening, and he waved slowly back and forth like a sailplane in flight, floating and spinning on imagined currents of air as the limo slowed and stopped at the entrance of the luxurious hotel, the soft strains of a Hawaiian melody drifting from unseen speakers.

  Walter awoke with a start and looked around, clearly disoriented, still caught in the throes of what had been a most unusual dream. He blearily rubbed the remnants of the bizarre memory from his eyes and shook his head to clear it as the car jerked to a halt and bellhops moved in almost choreographed fashion to welcome their newest arrivals. As he stumblingly emerged from the limo, he gazed with cool appraisal at their destination.

  In the open-air lobby, a colorful ménagerie of hotel guests crossed and converged through the spacious room, surfboards and beach towels clutched in sunburned arms. Chris stretched and yawned as he emerged, tilting his head into the warm island breeze and savoring its exotic aroma as Abigail nearly bounded from the vehicle and strode into the lobby with the air of a child in paradise, smiling and nodding to those who passed, most of whom nodded and waved in return.

  They had arrived.

  The creak and squeal of straining wheels accompanied the overloaded baggage cart as the two diminutive bellmen struggled to move the load. Walter wavered unsteadily behind, still blinking to clear the fog from his brain. He handed Chris a golden key-card and muttered, “Here you go, son- 314.” And then he looked with a frown to the restaurant across the way, where a crowd of loud and boisterous diners filled the noisy room, and turned to Abigail with a sigh, “Abby, honey, I'm beat- Can we just order in this evening?”

  Abigail responded distractedly, her voice a bit distant as she tore her gaze from the gift shop across the spacious lobby, its interior dark and a ‘closed’ sign tilted in the silent windows, “What? Oh, certainly, dear- I want to get out of these clothes anyway...” She turned to Chris and rose up on tip-toes as she kissed his cheek lightly, a silent ‘thank-you’ for being the harbinger of granting her long-time dream. “Well, good-night, sweetie! Don’t stay up too late. Shall we call you for breakfast?”

  Chris replied absently, somewhat distracted as well, his attentions focused on the panoply of gorgeous and sun-tanned women all around, “What? Oh- uh, sure Mom. Goodnight.” And with that he paused and took in a slow, deep breath as he puffed out his chest and slowly, tentatively extended his hand to his father. “Dad…” he waited, not fully expecting his father to return the gesture, only slightly relaxing when he did, and said a single word, “Thanks.”

  For a moment the men stood with hands clasped, both unspeaking, staring with calculated measure into the others’ eyes, neither acknowledging defeat nor granting victory, and then, as if on cue, they turned and went their separate ways.

  Chris leaned onto the cool rail of his balcony and stared out to sea, the warm trade winds gently ruffling his golden hair. He gazed thoughtfully off to the distant horizon, contemplating the almost bizarre series of events that had led to this- his unexpected arrival in a strange new land. His gaze drifted to the spectacle of the sight of the huge glowing Moon as it sat poised above its reflection in the water, its mottled surface oddly pinkish, its’ bloated shape nearing full.

  And as he stared at the wonder of the beautiful sphere, a sudden gust of island breeze rippled his shirt and carried with it a most unexpected sound. It was the clear and distinct tinkling of a wind chime, an odd musical coda that drifted away nearly as quickly as it had arrived. But just as the curious sound was fading away another enigmatic noise followed immediately in its wake. It was the dull throb of music, a driving Polynesian beat; a rhythmic, powerful dance that seemed to almost reach into his soul, tugging at something deep within him. The oddly compelling sound seemed to come and go on the breeze, and Chris turned his head from side to side trying to locate the origin of the peculiar noises, inexorably drawn to the strange, exotic music. Music that suddenly, and quite unexpectedly- stopped.

  Chris leaned lazily against the sleek side of the Schleicher ASW 27, its glossy white wings and shiny fuselage reflecting streaks of blue and gold from the early morning sky. In the distance behind him, the lush green sides of the Ko’olau mountains were crowned with a sparkling rainbow that shimmered against the slate dark clouds of a passing rain. He held his cellphone back to his ear, where the muted squawking of his mother’s voice had finally faded to silence.

  “Of course it's safe, Mother. I have more hours in these than I have driving a car.”

  Abigail leaned back with a sigh of resignation into the lushly-cushioned chaise that was perched next to the azure hues of the pool- her large, floppy white hat and over-size sunglasses giving her a look reminiscent of a Hollywood starlet as she replied with a hint of confusion and concern, “But- it doesn't even have an engine!”

  Chris rolled his eyes and smiled. “That's why it's called a glider, mother. I’ll take some cool pics for you, okay? See ya for lunch.”

  Abigail replied, her voice still tinged with a mother’s worry, “Okay- have fun! Don't be late…” And then she quietly closed her phone and looked with a bemused smirk to the form of her
oblivious husband sitting beside her, his focus solely intent on his laptop and phone, his lily-white thighs already beginning to redden in the early morning sun. As she reclined back onto the chaise to bask in the warmth, she nearly giggled in amusement as she imagined her husband’s consternation later when to his dismay and annoyance he would discover the curious rectangular patch of white that would remind him of his previous rant against being an idle layabout, almost a form of instant Karma for not heeding her advice to just let go.

  Chris smiled and ended the call and then pulled a frayed and stained Boston Red Sox cap from his hip pocket and tugged it firmly onto his head. From a breast pocket in his well-worn flight jacket, he carefully extracted and unfolded a futuristic-looking pair of Oakley sunglasses and put them on, tapping the tiny earbuds firmly into his ears. Sliding the phone into the now vacant pocket, he zipped it closed and jauntily climbed into the cockpit of the sleek, white craft. With a whirling roundhouse gesture of his hand to the waiting tow-plane pilot, he closed the canopy with a sharp ‘click’ and buckled in. A quick burst of power from the tow-plane, a short dull rumbling and one final bump and then they were airborne, quickly gaining altitude into a cloud-puffed sky.

  As the tethered planes crossed through five-thousand feet above the patchwork of plantations and small towns overlapping in the lush green landscape, Chris’ radio crackled to life. “'kay, bro, the best thermals be over the pineapple fields, they them light green ones wit da red dirt. You jus' stay clear of da mountains, okay? An' remember to stay away from the pali by da coast, bro- the wind shear coming off dem cliffs is big trouble!” The cautionary tone of the pilot then changed to one of warm encouragement and he said with dismissal, “You just have fun, okay? Aloha!”

  Chris replaced the radio headset into its holder, re-inserted the earbuds and touched a nearly-invisible spot on the side of the Oakleys. His ears slowly filled with the delicate techno tinkling of a synthesizer and the rhythmic thumping percussion of the song he had deliberately chosen for this very occasion- it was ‘Above’ by the Blue Man Group. As the music swelled and suffused his head with sound, Chris smiled widely and grabbed the cherry-red knob of the release handle. He pulled it firmly and the tow-rope fluttered away on the breeze.

  And finally, he was free.

  Nestled serenely in the overlapping hues of viridian and green of the Hawaiian country-side, the gray-tiled roofs of the Japanese/Polynesian fusion of architecture shimmered in the sun, glistening with sparkling golden droplets from the early morning rain. The sound of sleepy birds came and went on the breeze, their songs punctuated by the occasional crow of a rooster who had overstayed his welcome. A gentle breeze stirred the zen-like profusion of native shrubs and trees that filled the inner courtyard of the horseshoe-shaped structure and a soft ringing of a myriad of wind-chimes lent a light sense of magic to this pastoral tropical setting.

  But not for long.

  The peace and tranquility of this sleepy Hawaiian morning was suddenly shattered as the front door of the house crashed open and Alani Nakamura dashed through, racing across the graveled yard towards a battered yellow Jeep. Struggling mightily to keep from losing all of her belongings in an inadvertent yard sale, Alani skidded into the side of the Jeep and tossed her purse into the passenger seat, at the same time flinging a stuffed to overflowing yellow backpack into the rear. Diving into the driver’s seat, Alani reached behind her and began to repeatedly tug a balky seat-belt around her while blindly fishing through her purse for her keys.

  A harried moment later, completely unsuccessful with either endeavor, she growled in annoyance and abruptly dumped the entire contents of her purse onto the seat, frantically rummaging through the pile of her purse’s contents with both hands, her actions now accompanied by a blistering streak of barely muffled profanity. Scattering the random debris across the seat in mounting irritation, she finally dug out a New York Yankees key fob and raised it in self-congratulatory triumph. With a sigh of relief she snatched a frayed and battered cowboy hat from the rear-view mirror, crammed the hat onto her head and jammed the key into the ignition. In what was apparently an ancient and time-honored ritual, she stroked the steering wheel twice from the top outward with both hands, patted the dash three times in a distinct and specific pattern, muttered a fevered prayer to the heavens, closed her eyes and turned the key.

  Nothing happened.

  “God dammit- not now!” she cried in anguish and pounded the steering wheel in frustration. Again Alani employed her ritual, this time with a voice now more cajoling than threatening as she said in encouragement, “C’mon baby, c’mon, you can do it! Be a good boy, c’mon…”

  Alani cranked the key, and this time the engine turned over, and over, and over again, but still refused to start. After several impotent revolutions it began to fade and fail with a whine, and Alani growled through gritted teeth and then whined in desperation and despair. With a final ‘whirr’ and a deathly rattle the tired vehicle teetered on the brink of giving up the ghost- and then suddenly and unexpectedly roared to life. “Yes!” Alani crowed, hugging the steering wheel in gratitude and stroking the dash in appreciation, quickly grinding the car into gear and spinning the tires as she whirled around in a gravel-spitting 180.

  As she raced past the dusty front door of the house it suddenly burst open again, this time emitting her mother, Noelani, who flew after her waving her hands frantically over her head and hollering, “LANI! Alani, WAIT!”

  With a stifled curse, Alani slammed on the brakes and slid the roaring Jeep to a stop, spraying a hail of gravel onto the previously immaculate front porch of the house. As she watched the approach of Noelani in the driver’s side mirror, she gritted her teeth in frustration and ground the Jeep into reverse, and then punched the gas in irritation and rapidly backed up, sliding to a stop mere inches from her mother.

  Noelani slapped wildly at the rear fender of the Jeep and jumped aside to avoid being crushed by the errant vehicle as she raised her hands in renewed exasperation at Alani’s consistent lack of caution, “Hey, CAREFUL! One of these days you gonna kill me the way you drive.”

  “Mamma, I gotta go!”

  “You jus’ wait a minute, okay? You gotta take Sonny his pads!”

  “Mamma! I'm gonna be late!”

  Noelani placed her hands on her generous hips and glowered at her daughter in annoyance. “The store ain't gonna open any sooner without you! You just wait!” And with that, Noelani turned and slowly trundled back to the house, opening the screen door with a screech and letting it bang closed behind her.

  With an exasperated outpouring of breath, Alani punched the dash in frustration and then sighed and lowered her lovely chin onto the still-clenched fist that rested on the steering wheel and resigned herself to waiting.

  And truly lovely she was. Half Hawaiian/half Japanese, Alani Nakamura was the quintessential Island Goddess. A delicate blend of Asian porcelain and Polynesian earthiness, her skin was nearly flawless and the color of rich caramel. Her hair was long and glossy, reflecting subtle hues of mahogany and jet. Smallish breasts poked cheekily from beneath her simple cotton blouse, and her full brown lips were twisted in an irritated frown.

  She was dressed simply- the thin, white shirt knotted just below her bosom revealed a toned and tanned waist, the well-defined abs of a dancer supported by wide, flat hips. Denim jeans that were nearly frayed to oblivion concealed long, strong legs that terminated in delicately French-manicured toes, her one concession to vanity for a body that clearly needed little augmentation. Worn leather sandals adorned her lovely feet, one of which was now tapping an impatient rhythm on the edge of the door opening.

  She sighed almost exaggeratedly in acceptance at her enforced hesitation, and her gaze now wandered, her jade green and hazel-flecked eyes sparkling in the early morning light. Her most striking feature by far, her glance was truly breathtaking, simultaneously sensual and disarmingly innocent, hinting at just a bit of mischief countered with a thinly veiled note of ca
ution to anyone who underestimated their power.

  As Alani’s casual scrutiny wandered around the sprawling family farm, she noted with wry amusement the fresh patina of faint red dirt that mottled the normally pristine plastic roof of the Quonset hut that served as a greenhouse, and smirked at the decrepit contrast of her grandfathers’ rusting shed that nestled in the jungle just adjacent, its’ own curved roof completely devoid of any lingering trace of gray metal, its surface having turned a rich shade of russet over many years of service.

  As her view travelled outward past the twin Quonset huts that stood just apart from the house, her eyes briefly encountered the towering green cliffs of the Ko’olau range in the distance, and then slid along row upon row of colorfully flowered trees that carpeted their feet and ended at the edge of the hill near a gleaming vintage aircraft that stood alone at its’ crest, tie-downs still on its’ wings, tattered camouflage netting draped haphazardly over the cockpit.

  Alani was roused from her reverie a moment later by the slow, laborious return of her mother, who approached huffing and puffing with a filthy red gym bag, a scuffed and battered football helmet attached to it and a pair of sweat-stained shoulder pads dangling from her other hand. Flinging the gear tiredly into the rear of the Jeep, Noelani leaned in and kissed Alani wetly on the cheek as she admonished her with the shake of a finger. “You be good, now, and-”