She lowered her hand-tied net as she surveyed the familiar surroundings. Tall coconut palms, iridescent when cast against the backdrop of gathering clouds, nearly obscured the volcanic mountain in the distance. The tops of the palm trees flapped like banners in the breeze and glistened like diamond-studded tiaras. Their long, ringed trunks, bulbous at their base in the sand, or shackled by the debris of peeled bark—some charcoal gray, some bleached white—supported splendid botanical corollas. Seedpods looked like swarms of bees.
Behind the palms grew the twisted trunks of a colony of deciduous trees, the entire population shaped by prevailing patterns of wind and light. Here they remained unchallenged by malevolent forces, for no manmade order presumed to impose. Conventional time was easily dismissed.
Billowy clouds promoted expanded self-image and provided a backdrop so one did not forever discount the world of forms. Indeed, such a thing might happen if Amie were to define herself solely within temporal rhythms. South Seas surrealism enclosed this beach, this forest, and this lagoon inside a protective bubble where deep relaxation was not only possible but wholly unavoidable. Amie no longer felt any panic at venturing out-of-body, beyond clouds and mountains, over waves to meet a timeless horizon; overcoming gravity, too, until time itself ceased to have meaning—or perhaps until it began to flow backwards—or until she glimpsed the future—or eternity itself! This environment was pure sweetness. It was a velvet touch upon the skin. With such ease she became lost in the ecstasy.
“The Scoundrel’s on the reef!”
Startled by the voice of a recent acquaintance, Amie’s attention returned to the present as BV swooped down and landed on a nearby rock.
“You keep showing up at the most unexpected moments,” Amie observed through a smile.
“The captain’s out of sorts!”
“How so?” she asked.
“Dysentery,” said the bird woefully.
As Amie cast her net into the pond, BV darted from tree to tree. Attempting to command her attention, he spoke to her in compelling riddles.
Amie listened as he chattered on endlessly about the invalid captain and the Scoundrel. Having taken not a single fish from the pond, she decided she must pull her net from the water at once.
Away from the shore and up a pathway that led over the north-facing promontory, she followed Buenaventura’s course. Through the steamy forest she hiked, knee-deep in soft ferns, a canopy of dracaenas overhead. Delicate orchids grew upon fallen, water-soaked limbs. Red and yellow-leafed crotons, along with prolific stands of torch ginger, marked her line of ascent up the cliff side. And waiting restlessly for her at each turn was the intensely provocative budgie.
Reaching the top of the incline, where the vista spread over inlet and seashore, Amie first noticed the wrecked ship upon the coral reef. Her reaction was not one of joy—or fear. Rather it was one of confusion.
Crouching behind a large rock and surveying the shoreline, she noticed the tarpaulin wrapped round the extending roots of the banyan tree. Upon the yellow sand she observed the charred remains of a fire. Strewn near the shelter were a number of articles: the water tanks; tools; a few pieces of clothing. Amie could barely distinguish two bare feet sticking out of the tent.
After so many years alone, how could she consider not risking contact? Early on (before she’d grown decidedly accustomed to solitude), she would have been glad to come across anybody, for there were times she thought she might literally die of loneliness. Her legacy was one sadly destitute of expression.
Buenaventura perched upon an extending branch very close to Amie’s ear. “There’s an idiot on the beach,” he croaked again.
“Is it a man or a woman?” Amie asked.
“The only man in a forgotten world,” lamented the bird.
“What about the boat?” Amie wanted to know.
“Hopeless,” said BV.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Bogus carburetors...”
“Can’t they be fixed?” she wanted to know.
“Only Kamehaloha,” said Buenaventura.
“Is that the man’s name?” Amie asked.
“Give me a pine nut!” said the parrot.
Amie continued to watch the castaway from her coverture on top of the promontory, all the while hoping he would come out of his tent and show his face. Growing increasingly excited by the prospect of contact with another human, she also cultivated reticence. What if he was deranged or violent? What if he was the carrier of some appalling, communicable disease?
“Did you also arrive on the boat?” she asked BV.
“Alas, set adrift over uncertain seas!”
“From where did you sail?”
“Captain Cook—what a crook!”
“You mean you came all the way from Hawaii?”
“Aloha... Surf’s up... Through the pipeline...”
“If we’re near the Hawaiian chain...” Amie speculated. “No, that’s impossible! Electra never had enough fuel to stay airborne all the way to Hawaii!”
“This is Electra calling Itasca. We are running on line. Will repeat. Will repeat...”
“Where did you learn that?”
“Merciless life laughs in the burning sun...”
“That’s my poem!” she protested.
Repeating a previous inquiry, BV challenged, “What are you doing here?” Ruffling his feathers and cocking his head, he waited to hear Amie’s reply.
“I told you, I was marooned here a long time ago.”
“He heard the crash, you know,” Buenaventura volunteered.
“Impossible,” said Amie. “That was long, long ago.”
“The Scoundrel’s on the reef!” BV blasted.
“And I arrived here on the wings of a dragonfly,” she said with a playful glint in her eye.
“Impossible!” shrieked the bird.
“No more impossible than you drifting here all the way from Hawaii...”
“Anchor’s gone. Too bad!” BV shook his head and clicked his tongue inside his beak.
“You must understand,” she told the bird, “I’ve been on my own for years and years. I need time!”
“We’re all out of time,” reminded BV.
“Don’t worry,” said Amie, “I will help him. You’ll see my torch in the forest after dark. Then you’ll know I’m on my way...”
BUENAVENTURA flew down to the beach to keep a vigil over Julian, while Amie hiked over the palisade to her home near the great banana grove. BV was not inclined to detail his meeting with Amie to Julian, and even had he been disposed to do so, his companion was in no condition to converse.
Throughout the afternoon Amie felt the lively fluttering of a thousand butterflies in her stomach. Nervous as a schoolgirl, she assessed her bright and youthful face in the mirror above her outdoor, tortoise shell basin.
As twilight cast mountain, grove, and coastline in honeyed hyalescence, she assembled the items she wished to bring for the castaway. Besides a basketful of fruit and flowers, she packed a blanket made of tapa cloth and decorated with her own drawings of tropical images, as well as one of her own frond-woven sun hats. Amie also gathered together the peculiar components for the administering of awa.
She waited for darkness before setting off on her journey. Through the pulsating forest she moved, climbing with little effort to the top of the protected ridge. A glowing torch lighted the way she knew from memory. Her handmade, wood frame backpack rested squarely upon her shoulders, and it was only half an hour before she approached the desolate beach where Julian had landed just three days before.
Buenaventura saw the light from Amie’s torch as she drew near and flew to meet her where the sylvan slopes of the promontory descended toward the shore. Landing on top of her carrier, he admonished her for taking so long. “The captain’s out of sorts,” registered the caretaker.
“I know, dysentery... Don’t worry, I have everything necessary to put him right.”
“He doesn’t look well,”
said BV doubtfully.
“You must understand,” she told the parrot, “such a purge is to be expected for one coming out of civilization into a world so undefiled.”
“Kahuna knows best,” BV allowed.
Amie crossed the sand expecting a welcome from the island’s newest tenant. He did not present himself. Stopping near the improvised shelter, and not knowing whether there was really someone inside the tent, she called out hesitantly, “Hello... Is anybody there?”
No response. She again made overture. “I’m here to help,” she said. “No need to remain hidden.”
Still, no reply... What was she to do?
BV perched nearby, and Amie looked to him for advice. “You should go inside,” he declared. “I’m afraid he’s fallen unconscious.”
Amie planted her torch in the sand and approached the sanctuary. It was not her wish to violate anyone’s privacy, but now she feared something was terribly wrong. Just for a moment she was overcome with a sense of panic... What if she had not come in time? What if he was beyond help? Or what if he was already dead? No! Such irony would be too cruel.
Cautiously she drew back the flap and peered inside the tent. By the light of the flickering cresset she observed a middle-aged Caucasian man, prone and looking pallid and quite emaciated. Perspiration covered his forehead, and his purple lips were swollen and cracked. He was shivering. With eyes rolled back, he coughed weakly then muttered something unintelligible. Judging the situation critical, Amie went immediately to his side.
Awa was good when one was exhausted. After laboring day and night—diving, paddling, stooping, pulling—she had taken this cure herself! The awa had to be chewed, and to that end she was obliged to help the invalid. Then the heads of fishes were unwrapped from ti leaf sheaths. A bunch of dead-ripe bananas, some sour cane, and sweet potatoes—ringed in shape and deep red in color—was each presented and blessed. More awa was strained through fibers. Water was added and the dregs were squeezed until there was no fluid left. She poured the vile potion down his throat, and the patient gagged.
“Sorry for the nausea,” she said. “It’s necessary.”
“My ears are ringing,” he swooned.
“The whistling in your ears is the sound of land shells. It is the roaring resonance of your exile. Now, slip into peace and contentment. Feel the lightness of your being. Roll with the waves of your destiny.”
AT THE SUNRISE ON MAUI, Julian was on familiar ground again. He stared inquisitively at Song Cajudoy as she poured him guava juice. “This one’s on the house,” she said.
“Thanks.” said Julian. He drank down half a glassful immediately. “The taste is luxurious,” he sighed.
“Don’t mention it.”
“I think it’s the sweetness I miss most,” he confided.
The Filipina smiled paradoxically. “Everybody wants to taste sweetness,” she said.
Kamehaloha was lounging at his usual table. Sleepy-eyed, he stared across the water at Lanai Island. Tamara Sly was with him, looking lovely as always.
“Aloha, brother!”
“Hello, Kamehaloha. Hello, Tamara.”
“Are you taking good care of the Scoundrel?” asked the Hawaiian.
“I’m having a little trouble with the carburetors,” Julian related. “Perhaps you can give me some advice.”
Kamehaloha shook his head. “It’s all a matter of balance and flow, Julian. Keep working with them. You’ll master it. I have confidence in you...”
“Thanks, Kamehaloha.”
Tamara crossed her bare legs and her sarong fell away from her knee and thigh. Julian held his breath as she looked at him with limpid eyes and said, “Why didn’t you wait for me in Hilo, Julian?”
“I did wait,” he told her. “I thought you went with Woody.”
“I was coming,” she laughed. “You didn’t give me time!”
“I guess we’re all out of time. Sorry,” he said. And he really was...
Suddenly everything changed. Along with the familiar and comfortable surroundings at the Sunrise, the images of friends faded like shadows in twilight, and Julian found himself exiting his body through a tear duct in the corner of his right eye.
And carrying the weight of longfelt resentment upon scrawny shoulders, he marched to a place near the volcano’s cinder cone, where Polynesians had once performed sacrifices. He knew he must throw off all feelings of bitterness and regret. Kamehaloha called him haole. Perhaps that was appropriate after all.
Deep inside a cave his spirit lover presented him with a wood- carved talisman to wear around his neck; and by the light of a blazing fire she told him they would have great adventures together, hereafter only under the cover of darkness. They did not become intimate in their dreams, but rather their dreams became intimate.
NEXT MORNING Julian awoke long after daybreak. Inside his tent he felt disoriented, as if he’d had too much to drink the night before. Of course that was impossible. There was no alcohol here. He remembered the initial stages of his illness: the waves of nausea, the desperation, fever, and weakness. Apparently the dysentery was over now. Though his stomach still hurt and his muscles ached. Carefully he sat upright. Looking for his shirt, he became aware of a small, carved figure hanging by a braided string round his neck. Of course he had no idea from where it had come. Yet he felt a certain degree of familiarity with the amulet. Then he noticed a basketful of fruit and flowers near the doorway. What was this?
Along with the gift was a short note written on paper- thin bark in red ink:
“Dear Unfortunate Companion,
Apparently your poor sense of direction rivals my own. Nevertheless, I bid you welcome. When you wake, meet me where the mountain stream flows into the Seven Sisters. The parrot will escort you there.
Amie”
Excited, Julian scrambled out of his tent. During the night some Good Samaritan had found him in distress and left an offering of friendship, as well as an invitation. Perhaps his exile would soon end.
He took a mango from the basket, peeled it, and began eating. The succulent flesh of the fruit and the sweet juice tantalized his taste buds like no food he’d eaten before. Though he’d not been habituated to sugar in the past, Julian found himself craving sweetness, as a bee deprived of pollen. What might once have seemed insipid now provided the ultimate nourishment. Finishing the mango, he immediately began on passion fruit. After that, star fruit and papayas.
He danced a happy little dance on the warm sand, but quickly realized he was not yet fully recovered from illness. Feeling dizzy, he sat down to reconstruct as best he could the chain of events leading up to this glorious moment. There was the landing. And the dubious plane crash... Evidently BV was fending for himself without difficulty. And what had he eaten that made him so sick? Was it the mullet fish? The berries? Or was it the combination of bitter greens he’d made into a salad?
“Buenaventura! Buenaventura! Where are you?” he called. “Come out of the trees, my friend. Good news! Good news! We’re not alone after all!”
CHAPTER 11
A Bird in Hand
HAVING SPENT HER ENTIRE LIFE with her keeper in Manhattan, the captive one day discovered her wings were never clipped. Taking to delirious flight within the confines of the apartment, she came upon an unexpected reflection. Totally absorbed by the ecstasy of meeting one of her kind, she flew headlong into the harsh reality of the bathroom mirror. Stunned, she collapsed into the basin, a pathetic heap of bones and ruffled feathers. A powerful stream of water from the spigot pummeled her as she fluttered helplessly upon slippery porcelain. Nearly submerged and starting to lose consciousness, she slipped into a long, black tunnel, only to awaken some time later in a splendid place, previously unknown to her. Instinctively she knew she was finally home, but home alone.
Now concealed amidst a crop of cool green ferns she waited impatiently near the massive down-sloping clay field. There she’d observed the blue and yellow macaw twice before, and she knew he must come again
to ingest the particular red clay necessary to neutralize food toxins.
True to her prediction he came at last to the mud field. The female watched as he clawed at the ground and dipped his beak into the grit. His head bobbed as he swallowed the clay. He clawed again, ruffled his wings, spread out his tail feathers. When he’d ingested enough of the clay he flew away. Never out of her sight, he landed in an acacia tree. There he began sipping nectar with his tongue from the tree’s yellow flowers. From her perch she flew to meet him.
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