Death of a Messenger

by Robert McCaw

  Koa extended his hand to the descendant of the most powerful king in the history of the Hawaiian Islands, the ruler who, a thousand years after the first human habitation of the islands, had united them under one common dominion. The prince gripped Koa’s hand with crushing force. Despite himself, Koa felt a touch of awe.

  He quickly reasserted control over himself. The power of the prince’s grip reminded him of Dr. Cater’s hypothesis about the Pōhakuloa killer, tall and strong with nerves of steel. The prince fits the description, Koa thought wryly.

  “Welcome to my home, Chief Detective Kāne.”

  “It is an honor, sir. That was quite a show with the hawk.” Koa had seen ‘ios around the island since his childhood but had never known anyone to take the endangered birds from their natural habitat. “I wasn’t aware there were falconers on the island.”

  “I learned the sport in England during my Oxford days. From the time I first saw the sport, I wanted to hunt with an ‘io.”

  “They’re endangered, aren’t they?” Koa spoke softly.

  “Yes, like my people and these islands.”

  Koa held his tongue. This man might be a prince, but he had nevertheless violated state and federal laws by taking endangered birds from the wild.

  Koa turned to Aikue ‘Ōpua, extending his hand. “I have heard much about your crusade to return the islands to native sovereignty.” He scrutinized the heavyset activist, who wore a white Hawaiian dress shirt, jeans, and a belt with a Hawaiian flag buckle.

  ‘Ōpua wore specially made cowboy boots with underslung heels. The numerals “1893” were embossed on each side of the boot shafts, referring to the US annexation of Hawai‘i in 1893. He sported a drooping cowboy mustache on his broad Hawaiian face. Koa found the haole facial hair strangely at odds with ‘Ōpua’s sovereignty clothing.

  “Ahh, Detective Kāne, I fear my crusade, as you call it, will not succeed in my lifetime.”

  Koa wondered if those fancy cowboy boots had left the boot marks out at Pōhakuloa.

  “Gentlemen,” the prince said, interrupting Koa’s train of thought, “let me show you to my sitting room, where we can talk.” The servants lifted Jimmy in his wheelchair as though he were a child, and the prince led them across an entry hall and up a set of polished hardwood stairs. Koa listened to the clunk of ‘Ōpua’s metal heels hitting the floor as he walked up the stairs.

  As they reached the second floor, Koa took in a cathedral-like room. Sunlight streaking through the windows sparkled off the polished floor and paneled walls. A log fire blazed in a shoulder-high stone fireplace on the interior wall. The arched wooden ceiling soared from fourteen feet at the exterior walls to twenty-four feet at its apex, where a row of skylights pierced a graceful vaulted arch.

  Yet the breathtaking room was a mere vessel for its priceless treasures. Koa struggled to absorb the room’s opulent objects. Life-size wax figures of Hawaiian warriors dressed in feathered regalia threatened to spring into battle from opposing corners. Next to one of the warriors, a majestic kāhili, a royal battle standard with an intricately carved pole, rose high to a lush crown of ‘io feathers.

  A war canoe, complete with pandanus sails and senit bindings, occupied a place of honor. It had a rich, shiny black finish, and was balanced imperiously on carved wooden blocks as though sailing across the end of the room. Koa had a momentary flash of his ancestors building canoes for a long-dead king setting sail on an everlasting journey. He smiled to himself, thinking of his own racing exploits. He wasn’t sure how fast he’d go in that monster.

  The prince escorted them to a grouping of chairs in front of the fireplace. As Koa sat down, he took note of a desk with a computer, stacks of books, and a small stone dish. The dish held the remnants of several unfiltered cigarettes. Although he couldn’t read them from across the room, the butts bore a tiny logo that caught his attention. They were likely Gauloises, the brand found in the Pōhakuloa lava tube. He’d have to find a discrete way to examine them more closely.

  “As Mr. Hikorea knows, I entertain visitors rarely. You are guests because you hinted at some startling discovery. I trust you will not disappoint me.”

  “We are honored by your hospitality,” Koa replied. “A murder case has taken a surprising turn. An anonymous call led us to a mutilated body, possibly a ritual killing.” Koa locked eyes with the prince as he spoke but detected no discernible reaction. “We found the body in a lava tube in the Pōhakuloa Training Area. Jimmy’s efforts unearthed a burial cave, what appears to be a royal burial cave.”

  The prince’s eyes sparkled with interest. “A royal tomb? And what makes you think it’s royal?”

  “A burial canoe and a sorceress talisman.”

  “A canoe? What style is the canoe?” Koa looked to Jimmy to answer.

  “It has the bow of a war canoe. The wood is no doubt koa, painted not the traditional black but red, the color of a king’s canoe.”

  “A red burial canoe in the saddle lands. And the sorceress?” Excitement mounted in the prince’s eyes.

  “Typical female figure with crooked knees, except crowned with the head of a bird, all carved of black rock.”

  “The head of a bird?”

  “Yes. An elongated head and beak. It’s stylized but could be the head of a dark-rumped petrel.”

  “An ‘ua‘u bird?” Aikue ‘Ōpua interrupted. “And all this was discovered in the military training area … where the bombs of foreign devils disrupt the final sleep of an ancient Hawaiian king?”

  “I fear that is so.” Jimmy bowed his head slightly.

  “The white man came to these islands and infected my people with Western diseases—our women with syphilis, our children with smallpox.” Aikue ‘Ōpua grew red-faced as his anger mounted. “They killed a quarter million of our people. The devils desecrated the archaeological treasures of Kaho‘olawe.” ‘Ōpua choked off his tirade, letting his hands fall downward in a gesture of hopeless frustration.

  He’s a fanatic, Koa thought. Of course, the haoles had disrupted the traditional Hawaiian ways, and done much damage in the process, but Westerners weren’t the cause of all Hawai‘i’s problems. Reverting to a pre-1893 monarchy wasn’t the answer. All that sort of talk made him roll his eyes. Did anyone really expect to give up their modern conveniences?

  “What kind of king might have been buried in the saddle lands?” Koa asked.

  The question seemed to surprise the prince, plunging him into thought. Koa tried to judge whether the prince was searching his memory or merely deciding how much to reveal.

  The prince spoke almost offhandedly. “Story talk. No more than story talk.”

  “Stories are often rooted in real-life events,” Koa coaxed.

  “Just so,” the prince smiled. “I heard a story passed among my elders when I was yet a child. Old men talked story of a community. A powerful and wealthy community of stonecutters.”

  “Who worked at Keanaokeko‘i, the adze makers’ quarry on Mauna Kea?” Jimmy suggested.

  “Mr. Hikorea, I have wondered about that name. Keanaokeko‘i. An interesting word.” The prince became animated, talking with his face and hands as well as his voice. “One should translate Keanaokeko‘i as the cave of the adze makers. But where was this place? I have found no reliable historical record of its location.” The prince spoke with authority. “When foreigners discovered adze makers’ rock shelters on Mauna Kea they assumed … assumed that they had found Keanaokeko‘i.”

  “Are you suggesting that the real Keanaokeko‘i may not have been the quarry site on Mauna Kea?” Koa asked.

  “Yes, according to fragments from my childhood.”

  “As a child, you heard stories about another Keanaokeko‘i?”

  “In a way.”

  “Can you recall these stories for us?”

  The prince stared out to the east, as though his recollections came from there. “My elders talked of a powerful priest-king who ruled over a tribe of adze makers. A man of superhuman strength
and great wisdom. A man who could judge stone with the eye of the kingfisher. A man who could wield the hammerstone with the cunning of the manō and the strength of the koholā—the instincts of the shark and the power of the whale.

  “In the summer this priest-king and his stonecutters lived and worked under the stars around rock shelters upon the summit of the mountain where day first emerges from night.” The prince paused. “And during the cold winter months, when men couldn’t easily survive upon Mauna Kea, it was said that the priest-king and his adze makers lived where only Pele knows the way.”

  Koa and Jimmy looked at each other. Pele was the goddess of volcanic fury. “What does that mean?” Koa tried to keep the excitement out of his voice. “The words suggest a cave. Where might such a cave have been?”

  “The story talk does not say.”

  “No hint at all?”

  “Only that the priest-king made war under the banner of a strange kāhili.”

  “Strange?”

  “Yes, made with the tiny feathers of the baby ‘ua‘u bird.”

  Koa, remembering the stick figure with an ‘ua‘u bird in its hand, exchanged glances with Jimmy.

  “Why might that suggest the location of the cave?”

  “It doesn’t necessarily, but it was said that the priest-king could fly higher than the ‘io and farther than the ‘ua‘u, and yet, like the ‘ua‘u, always returned to his nest.”

  “Higher than a hawk and farther than a petrel, yet, like the petrel, always returned to its nest.” Koa repeated the prince’s words.

  “Higher than a hawk could easily mean the top of Mauna Kea. As a seabird, the petrel ranges far out over the ocean for months at a time, but the Hawaiian petrel always returned to the Big Island to nest in burrows under the crags of the Humu‘ula Saddle,” the prince elaborated.

  “A cave in the Humu‘ula Saddle?” Koa suggested.

  The prince didn’t venture a guess. “That’s the best I can do for you, Detective Kāne.”

  “What happened to the priest-king and his craftsmen?” Koa asked.

  “Nalowale i ka ‘ehu o ke kai … lost in the sea sprays.” The prince extended an arm toward the ocean.

  “Disappeared?”

  “It is said that they disappeared without a footprint. One day, the priest and his adze makers walked where only Pele knows the way and never returned to Mauna Kea or to Keanaokeko‘i.”

  Koa studied the prince. Had this man revealed the extent of his knowledge? Koa doubted it. Hawaiians, especially the older generation, always held something back.

  “Suppose we were to tell you we’ve discovered an underground workshop in the Humu‘ula Saddle where ancient adze makers shaped tools …?”

  The prince straightened in his chair, leaning forward. “Is that true?”

  “Yes. And there’s more. In addition to the royal tomb and the workshop, a lava tube leads from the cavern some two and a half miles beneath the Saddle Road to the southern slope of Mauna Kea, where it emerges through twisted crevices into the bottom of an old cinder cone.”

  The prince stared off toward the east again, appearing to digest what he’d just heard. “They walked where only Pele knows the way. The tomb may well be that of the priest-king or one of his ancestors.”

  “Yes,” Jimmy said, unable to contain himself. “And there is a rock carving on the cave wall—not a petroglyph, but an unusual carving, a carving in high relief, depicting a man holding an adze and an ‘ua‘u bird.”

  “Higher than a hawk and farther than a petrel, yet, like the petrel, always returned to its nest,” the prince mused.

  “You knew nothing of this before we came here?” Koa asked.

  The prince’s wistful smile faded away. “Did you think otherwise?”

  “Someone entered the lava tube and the underground workshop in modern times.”

  “How do you know this? Have they desecrated the site?”

  “It has been looted. We’re not sure when, but we assume the looting was recent. Where could the looted artifacts be sold?” Koa asked.

  The prince didn’t need to think to answer that question. “There are three main options—museums, private collectors, and shady art dealers. Museums used to grab every valuable historical item, but they’ve become much more circumspect, especially since the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act protects the rights of native claimants.” ‘Ōpua nodded vigorously at this victory for his people.

  “Private collectors are another story. Unfortunately, some collectors are grave robbers and others satisfy their passions from the most questionable sources.”

  Although he’d never before worked an antiquities case, Koa knew of people who collected artifacts. That did not, however, stop him from asking questions. Playing dumb was often the best way to get information. “Are there such collectors here on the Big Island?” Koa asked.

  “Of course,” the prince said, smiling bitterly. “There are ranchers who treasure objects taken from graves on their property, and there are the wealthy haoles who patronize us with their egotistic displays of our cultural wealth.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere, Koa thought. “Have you heard of any recent acquisitions by such collectors?”

  “No.” The prince shook his head.

  “And no one has approached you with artifacts of questionable provenance?”

  “Absolutely not.” Hardness crept into the prince’s cultured voice.

  “I meant no offense.” Koa realized he’d breached etiquette with his suggestion that the prince might have bought looted objects.

  “None taken, Detective.”

  “And what about shady dealers in Oceanic art?” Koa prompted, hoping to coax more from the prince. “I suppose there’s a black market for that, too.”

  “International traffic is endemic to the art world. Just for starters, the British Museum acquired—many would say stole—the Elgin Marbles from the Parthenon. Sadly, here in the Pacific, the island governments have been criminally negligent in protecting their heritage. Ordinary objects sell for thousands of dollars and unique objects can bring millions. We have descended into a secular capitalist orgy where our cultural patrimony goes to the highest bidder on the international black market. And Westerners called us primitives.”

  The prince abruptly stood, signaling that the talk was over. Koa glanced at the desk, hoping for an excuse to examine the cigarette butts in the stone dish, but the prince shepherded them toward the door. The same two servants appeared to help carry Jimmy down the stairs.

  “Prince Kamehameha,” Jimmy said with the voice of a supplicant as the group descended the staircase, “would you honor us with a tour of the garden? I would especially like to see the aviary.”

  Koa smiled inwardly. Tradition required the prince to extend the utmost hospitality. Jimmy’s was a request the descendent of a Hawaiian king couldn’t refuse. As the prince walked with Jimmy’s wheelchair toward the aviary, Koa fell in with Aikue ‘Ōpua. He had another issue he wanted to discuss. “I understand you share the prince’s interest in antiquities.”

  “In some ways. He’s a collector. I’m compelled to preserve what the haoles took from my ancestors.”

  “Is that what you were doing on Kaho‘olawe?”

  Shock registered on ‘Ōpua’s face. “How do you know about Kaho‘olawe?”

  “Hook Hao is a friend. His son nearly died out there.”

  ‘Ōpua became guarded. “Kaho‘olawe’s out of your jurisdiction, Detective, and besides, I told my story to the Maui police.”

  “I’m not interested in prosecuting. I just want to help Reggie.”

  “Tell that to your police buddies on Maui.” Bitterness dripped from ‘Ōpua’s voice as he turned away from Koa to join the others.

  His little chat with ‘Ōpua told Koa he’d only scratched the surface of the events on Kaho‘olawe. Even allowing for the sovereignty activist’s hostility toward authority, ‘Ōpua had overreacted. Something ugly had happened out ther
e.

  The three of them—the prince, Koa, and ‘Ōpua—stopped beside Jimmy under the spreading branches of the royal poinciana trees near the aviary. Koa had prepared for this moment. He pulled a pack of Gauloises from his pocket, rapped the pack against his knuckles so that two cigarettes slid partway out, and offered one to the prince.

  The prince accepted. “You’ve traveled in Europe, Detective?”

  Koa smiled inwardly. The prince had instantly recognized the unusual cigarette. Koa was prepared to bet a month’s pay the butt in the ashtray upstairs was a Gauloises. He struck a match for the prince and lit up. “I’m afraid not. My addiction has a rather more mundane origin. I started smoking in the military, one of my only fond memories from those days.”

  “We have much in common.” The prince drew deeply on his cigarette. “We, like my people, have inherited evil habits from the haoles.”

  There it was again, conveniently casting blame on others. Koa knew full well that smoking was a nasty habit. That’s why he didn’t smoke. He’d only purchased the cigarettes to tempt a suspect, and it had worked. The haoles hadn’t forced the prince to smoke. He’d made that choice on his own.

  As the group broke up, Koa noticed a cigarette butt in a corner near the base of the aviary. As he bent to pick up the trash, he saw that it too was a Gauloises. The prince not only smoked them but casually discarded the leftovers.

  As Koa and Jimmy drove back down the twisting trail through the forest, Koa reflected on the interview. Koa’s own criminal history made him suspicious of everyone, and his encounter with the prince gave him plenty to chew on. The prince’s disregard for the protection of endangered hawks violated Hawaiian traditions and troubled Koa. Moreover, he smoked Gauloises and discarded the butts, like the one found in the adze makers’ underground workshop. In addition, neither the prince nor ‘Ōpua had asked about the murder victim. Experience told him that nearly everyone asked about murders.