by Kealohilani
He remembered the aching feeling as he left the items dearest to his heart behind, with the hope that perhaps someday he could return home to reclaim them. And that was nothing compared to the heart-wrenching feeling of leaving his father behind and the panic of not knowing where his brother was.
Jharate had looked up expectantly at the doors to the stables every few moments for Keanu, as he was saddling his own varsin. Finally, when all of the varsins had been saddled and all of the supplies had been loaded, Jharate mounted his varsin to take the lead.
He had spurred his chestnut brown steed on and galloped away from the castle towards the Forest of Kar at full speed. He tried to comfort himself, despite the pit in his stomach, as he rode— hoping that what he had done would be enough.
Despite the danger of the varsins falling into the hands of the enemy, Jharate had left the last two, Mahinyx and Ziriza— which personally belonged to Keanu and Sarana— behind in their stalls, hoping that his brother and soon-to-be sister would join him shortly. That they would reunite in the forest at their rendezvous point…
Jharate tried not to think of home. His efforts proved useless. He missed his family.
He and Arante were now the only surviving members of the Inihma royal line. Jharate was the last one to bear the Inihma family name— the last chance for it to carry on. His father, Karahn, had four married sisters and no brothers— all gone. And now Keanu was… his father was… My father. If only I could have your guidance now!
Karahn had always felt that knowledge of one’s roots grounded one’s mind and soul in the power of “the ancestors.” Because of this, he had taught Jharate everything he knew of the Trisaknen history and culture. Jharate thought that maybe if he recalled the things his father had taught him all his life— now in this horrible moment of crisis— that perhaps the ties to the past would help him find a way to hold on to the future.
Jharate knew that he had the blood of two strong cultures running through his veins to help him through this, the worst of times. His father was Kelamosan by blood, as the Trisaknen royal line always had been— ever since an adventurous group of Kelamosans settled previously-uninhabited Trisakne, millennia ago.
Jharate’s father had taught him about those first settlers and how they had been a diverse people. Their main culture being a mix of the Native Kelamosans and Alamean Islanders who had left their islands to come to Kelamosa.
They were later joined by immigrants from Tofan. Jharate had been taught that this unique mix created a blended and robust cultural identity for Trisakne. Jharate’s mother, Karsenia, was a descendant of those who had come from Tofan. And so both sides of Jharate’s family could be traced back to the beginnings of Trisakne itself.
His mother had died inexplicably twenty years ago when Jharate was just five years old. No one knew what had happened to her. Her body had been found near a river in Trisakne. Unbruised. Unbroken. And she had obviously not drowned.
There was not much Jharate remembered about his mother— only that she was beautiful and that her love for his younger brother and for himself had been greater than any he had ever felt in his life, past or present. Keanu had been only two years old when Karsenia had died. Consequently, he had asked Jharate about her constantly— desperately hoping to share treasured glimpses of the memories his elder brother had of their mother. And although she had been gone for most of his life, Jharate still missed her every day.
Jharate’s mind moved back to the sharpest and most current heartbreak— the loss of his father. He knew that the task to measure up to Karahn’s legacy was monumental. He also knew that it was his duty and honor to do so.
His father had been a great leader and a brilliant military commander whose keen mind for strategy had kept their kingdom from falling for so long. He had fought valiantly to drive back the attacks against Trisakne from the beginning, as the first Kingdoms of Tofan, Kresar, and Lanas began to fall— and had continued to fight even after Zenastra and Kelamosa fell, leaving Trisakne surrounded and cut off from any outside help or supplies for five more years. Jharate’s first challenge would be to reclaim the kingdom that had just been stolen from his father.
Beyond simply being a gifted military strategist, Karahn had the righteousness of a saint. He had kept the kingdom strong internally as he ruled with justice and fairness.
Even more impressive was that he had been as good a husband and a father as he had been a king. He had not only taught his sons everything that they needed to know to become great leaders— he had taught them how to become great men. The challenge to live up to that birthright would be a lifelong pursuit.
Not long after Jharate and his people had been forced to abandon the noble varsins and continue on foot into a denser part of the Forest of Kar— Jharate had watched helplessly as a vision showed his father dying by the sword in a daring effort to help his sons and a remnant of his loyal subjects escape into the forest so that they could make a run for Destavnia. Jharate felt wracked with guilt as he remembered that vision.
If only he had stayed to fight by his father’s side… Jharate sighed. Had he stayed, he would have died with his father, and his father’s sacrifice would have been in vain.
Cruelly, that same vision had also given Jharate hope, as he witnessed Keanu escaping the castle in the last moments of their father’s life. Jharate had felt sure in that instant that Keanu and Sarana would make it to their varsins.
However, less than six hours after Jharate had received that first harrowing vision, he had been forced to watch the death of his only sibling. Both visions had continued to plague Jharate in the days that had since passed.
Jharate felt so alone. He had no time to deal with these agonizing losses. How could he? He had been on the run for days.
He and the other refugees had been forced to make camp in the great forest every night. Each night followed a long day of moving at top speed— in order to put as much distance as possible between them and anyone who might attempt to follow them. They were barely surviving on what food they could hunt or gather, as the kitchens were located at the end of the castle that had already been breached the night of the fall.
Jharate’s culture had rich customs surrounding death. Customs which helped the grieving to find expression for the grief inside them. These rituals were a luxury that he could not afford now. Not only was there no time— he also lacked the materials to perform them. Not to mention the lack of access to the appropriate personal items of the departed loved ones.
The loneliness in his heart consumed him. He felt as if he would never be made whole again. However, he knew he must go on. For although the battle was lost for Trisakne— the War for the Kingdoms was still raging. He must aid Destavnia in that fight.
Jharate had grown up with war surrounding him all his life. Karahn had trained him well in the skills of a warrior— and thus he was skilled with all weapons. However, from an early age the sword had called to him. It felt at home in his hands as if it were an extension of his body, rather than a mere object.
He wore it always at his side in a leather sheath. He had never been bested in any competition— or in any battle either— although that did not stop him from feeling powerless at this moment. He had been unable to save those closest to him. What good was all his skill if he could not protect the ones he loved most?
A sudden ear-splitting bang came from the shadows surrounding him. Jharate jolted from his thoughts, drew his sword and reeled around— now completely alert. His eyes carefully swept the area and his ears analyzed all around him in order to discover the source of the thunderous sound. He saw nothing.
The noise startled Arante awake. In a single swift motion she jumped to her feet, pulled out an arrow, and armed her bow. She stood near her cousin— tensed and ready to let the arrow fly— peering into the early morning haze.
Several others of Jharate’s camp were shaken awake and also leapt to their feet, weapons ready. They stood there facing an invisible foe— waiting for
another sound to give up the position of their hidden enemy.
Kendra and Erik hopped onto the last row of seats in the canoe just before the guide pushed it away from the dock. They glided into the greenish water of the winding lagoon. The guide spoke to them in an energetic tone— welcoming them with a great big “ALOOOOHA!”
All the tourists joined in repeating “ALOOOOHA!” back to him. The handsome guide was a tall, powerfully built, young man— with chocolate brown skin and an island accent. He was dressed in a bright blue aloha shirt, a black sulu that covered his knees, and black sandals with a strap around the back of his ankles.
He stood on the stern of the canoe— the dark glistening muscles of his forearm flexing, with periodic glimpses of his biceps popping out from his shirtsleeves— as he pushed a long sturdy pole down to the bottom of the lagoon, propelling the canoe forward like a gondola.
“My name is Kalepo and I am from a place far, far away from here, called Samoa. I came here to study at the Brigham Young University of Hawai‘i and I work here at the Polynesian Cultural Center to pay the bills.” He paused for a moment and resumed with a joking tone, “My major is math, with a minor in canoe pushing.”
The tourists laughed as Kalepo smiled and continued to push the canoe forward.
“On the right you will see the Samoan Village. That is where I come from. Not that village there— the island nation it represents.”
Everyone laughed again and Kalepo looked as though he were trying to keep a straight face, but failing.
“And now we’re going under a bridge. Please, remain seated, and don’t panic if I fall off. The canoe will keep going.”
The tourists laughed again, and a few of them found themselves ducking with him, despite the fact that it was tall enough that anyone sitting wouldn’t even come close to hitting it. A couple of the tourists, who realized this, reached their hands up to try to touch the bottom of the bridge, with only the tallest among them succeeding.
“Don’t touch the bridge!” Kalepo said urgently, making the tourists who had reached for it jerk their hands back quickly. “It will get mad,” he finished with a laugh.
The tourists laughed heartily at the joke and he smiled widely as they passed completely under the bridge.
“You see this plant over here? You know what they call this plant?”
“What?” asked a couple of the tourists.
“I don’t know. I was asking you,” he quipped. “You guys have the smartphones— tell them to be smart and give you the answer.”
Kendra leaned close to Erik and whispered in his ear, “This guy is hysterical.”
“Totally,” Erik answered with a grin.
“Listen up, my friends,” Kalepo began. “You see this bridge we’re coming up to? That one right there that connects Aotearoa with Tonga— it’s very low. That means you need to duck. I don’t want to have to take any of you to the emergency room because you didn’t listen to me.”
They all obeyed and as they finished passing under the bridge, everyone sat up again and the tour continued— minus two of the passengers they had started with.
“Hey! Where’d the two back here go?” Kalepo asked.
The other tourists in the canoe seemed confused but looked behind them instinctively.
“I don’t think there was anyone in that row,” one of the tourists answered.
“Yeah, I think we were the last ones on,” agreed another in the second to the last row.
Kalepo cocked his head to the side and squinted as he looked down at the empty seats. There was no one there. But there had been no splash— no thud— no nothing. The wake of the canoe behind him was the only pattern in the water. And they couldn’t have just disappeared.
“Forgive me, I think I’ve been in the sun too long today. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, see that canoe coming up on the right? It’s a Māori war canoe, so you better behave and say you like Māoris. Everyone say it with me— I like Māoris!”
“ ‘I like Māoris!’ ” many of the tourists said obediently, laughing.
“Sweet as, cuzzy bros! We like you too! Ha, ha!” called a tall shirtless young man standing by the war canoe, with a quite-realistic-but-temporary cultural tattoo on his face.
All the tourists laughed harder. Kalepo proceeded with the tour and tried to forget about his strange hallucination. As soon as he finished, he gave the canoe to Sione, one of his co-workers, so that Sione could take the next group of tourists around the lagoon— while Kalepo left to get some much-needed water and some shade.
Touring Paris and enjoying the lights of the city near the Eiffel Tower, Kara and her new friend, Henri, laughed happily as they walked down the street, hand in hand. They smiled freely and easily as they talked.
She pointed at whatever building, statue, or other sights, which happened to catch her eye— so that Henri could tell her all about the rich history behind each one. She tried to stay interested in all of the details— but mostly she just liked listening to his accent and watching his mouth move.
Kara’s shimmering pine green sequined cold-shoulder top completely covered the top of her shoulders before splitting open from the side of her shoulder down to just above her elbow and then back to a form-fitting three-quarter sleeve. Her dark designer boot-cut jeans were studded with intricately designed rhinestones at the cuffs, which swirled up elegantly to the knees.
Her tasteful shimmering evening makeup, a spectacular gold necklace and matching earrings, a set of gold bangles on her left wrist, a pine green sequin handbag, and black suede ankle boots with sturdy-three-inch-high heels completed the ensemble.
Henri was also fashionably dressed in dark designer jeans and dark dress shoes. He wore a white button-up shirt— with the top three buttons undone— under a dark vest. His short dark blonde hair was professionally coiffed. Not a strand out of place.
He stopped under a streetlamp and looked intently into her eyes. “You are so beautiful, Kara.” He moved some of her hair behind her ear so he could see her face better.
“I bet you say that to all the American women,” she teased.
“Not at all.”
Kara looked at him, incredulously.
“Okay, so yes— maybe. But I mean it with you.”
Kara laughed and walked away. He caught up with her and grabbed her hand again, matching her pace.
“You know, most women don’t try to resist me.”
“No prize worth having is easy to get.”
Henri smiled. “You are so right there, mon chéri. Very well, if it is a chase that you want, it is a chase you will get, mon trésor. However, I should warn you— I always get what I want.”
“Do you now?”
They split for just a moment in order to go around a tree in their pathway. Henri quickly popped around the tree to the other side to smile at Kara. He rounded the tree several times and looked up and down the dark and nearly-empty streets.
“Kara? Kara? Where have you gone? KARA?!”
He continued to frantically call out her name as he now ran through the street, alone and distraught.
The band of rebels heard another loud crack like a cannon being fired. It echoed wildly through the surrounding hills so that it was impossible to determine where it had come from. This time, however, they noticed the flash of rainbow-colored light far away in the forest. Jharate and his party set off quickly in that direction, leaving only a handful of people to guard the camp.
Terrible Reception
Chapter Ten
Six people lay unconscious on the forest floor in near-darkness, as the light of the coming dawn struggled to reach the clearing. They were arranged on the ground in two distinct groups. One was comprised of two girls and one boy, and the other of two boys and one girl— all in their early twenties.
A pair of glittering green eyes peered at them suspiciously from the shadows between the trees and watched intently as the girl who was amongst the two boys began to stir. The awakening girl’s blue eyes opened
and she blinked slowly as she pushed herself up into a sitting position. Her eyes widened as she looked at the tall trees surrounding her.
As the blue-eyed young woman awoke, she surveyed the surrounding forest and wondered if she were somehow dreaming. Where am I? Why is it so hard to move? Why is the sun coming up? She looked to her right and saw the two young men next to her on the ground, unconscious. She gasped.
“What on Earth?” the woman asked as she moved closer to them and quickly started shaking one of the men awake. “Justin, wake up!”
The glittering green eyes that had been watching her retreated carefully into the thickness of the dense forest before anyone could discover their presence.
“Five more minutes, Mom…”
“Wake up, Justin!”
“Okay, okay, I’m up! What the—?”
Justin rubbed his eyes and looked again, as if rubbing them would change what he saw. He no longer looked sleepy.
“What the heck happened?” Justin asked.
“I don’t know… One moment we were on the Tower of Terror and the next… Where are we anyway?” Lani asked.
Justin rubbed the back of his head and winced.
“It appears to be a forest of some kind. Raoul, wake up!”
Raoul jolted awake as Justin slapped his back with an open palm.
“What? Whoa… Where are we?”
“That’s our question, Mr. Eagle Scout,” Justin said. “Where do you think we are?”
“I don’t know… And hey! You’re an Eagle Scout too! And that’s a cool thing. Why are you acting like it’s weird or something? It’s not weird. I’m not weird. But the fact that we’re in some dark eerie forest is weird.”
“Just kidding, Raoul— just kidding. You can relax now.”
“How can I relax when we don’t know where we—”
Raoul broke off as a groan came from about ten yards away. The three friends whipped around. Lani jumped back slightly, wide-eyed, as she saw another girl staggering to her feet.
