Fires of Eden

by Dan Simmons

  From the award-winning author of Hyperion and Carrion Comfort comes a harrowing tale of natural disaster, all-devouring greed, and wrathful gods.

  “Toothsomely well-written,” Kirkus Reviews said of Dan Simmons’s Children of the Night. Stephen King praised Simmons for writing “like a hot-rodding angel… I am in awe of him.” In Fires of Eden, Simmons returns with an awesome blend of horror and suspense.

  Real estate mogul Byron Trumbo is the owner of the Mauna Pele, a deluxe Hawaiian resort that until recently was the playground of the rich and famous. Yet instead of making money hand over fist, Trumbo has a bit of a problem: guests keep disappearing. Hoping to sell the resort to Japanese investors, he invites them to the Mauna Pele to finalize the deal-but strange and fantastic events complicate the weekend. Giant beasts capable of human speech are spotted, visitors turn up dead and dismembered, and volcanic eruptions fill the sky with smoke and flame as fast-moving lava flows dangerously close to the resort. Trumbo refuses to allow these minor inconveniences to impede his sales pitch to the Japanese.

  Other guests find themselves at the Mauna Pele this weekend, with agendas that extend beyond enjoying the sun and sand. For college professor Eleanor Perry, this “vacation” is a pilgrimage to a place once visited by her spinster aunt. Equipped with her aunt’s diary, which details adventures with Mark Twain more than one hundred years ago, Eleanor has uncommon insight into the frightening and mystical events about to unfold. And thrice-married Cordie Stumpf, whose housewifely appearance belies her keen mind and fearless resolve, is at the resort to pursue her own goal. The two women join forces as an astonishingly self-reliant duo prepared to do battle with the immortal enemies of the volcano goddess Pele and thereby restore harmony to the island.

  Against the mythic backdrop of an island paradise filled with vengeful gods and brooding menace, Dan Simmons weaves a stunning tale of ancient rivalries tested in the modem world.

  Other Books by Dan Simmons

  LOVEDEATH

  CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT

  THE HOLLOW MAN

  SUMMER OF NIGHT

  PRAYERS TO BROKEN STONES

  ENTROPY’S BED AT MIDNIGHT

  THE FALL OF HYPERION

  HYPERION

  CARRION COMFORT

  PHASES OF GRAVITY

  SONG OF KALI

  G. P. Putnam’s Sons

  Publishers Since 1838

  200 Madison Avenue

  New York, NY 10016

  Book design by H. Roberts

  Copyright © 1994 by Dan Simmons

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Simmons, Dan.

  Fires of Eden / Dan Simmons.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-399-13922-2

  I. Tide.

  PS3569.I47292P45 1992

  813'.54—dc20 94-19464 CIP

  Printed in the United States of America

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

  This book is printed on acid-free paper.

  To Robert Bloch,

  who taught us that horror is just one curious component

  in the broader celebration of life, love, and laughter

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank Tara Ann Forbis for her proofreading help and insightful comments. I would also like to thank the friendly people at the Mauna Kea Beach Resort, the Kona Village Resort, the Hotel Hana Maui, and the Hawaii Volcanoes National Park. Researching this book was rough work, but it was worth every sun-drenched, spray-splashed, rainbow-lit moment.

  Sources that were helpful to me and that might be of interest to the reader seeking Hawaiian lore include: Mark Twain’s twenty-five “Letters from the Sandwich Islands” (1866) for the Sacramento Union, later reworked in Roughing It (1872); Victorian traveler Isabella L. Bird’s Six Months Among the Palm Groves, Coral Reefs and Volcanoes of the Sandwich Islands (1890); Pamela Frierson’s fascinating The Burning Island: A Journey Through Myth and History in Volcano Country, Hawai’i (1991); The Legends and Myths of Hawai’i by His Hawaiian Majesty Kalakaua (1888); and Myths and Legends of Hawaii: Ancient Lore Retold by W. D. Westervelt (1913). There are many more wonderful books about Hawaii and the goddess Pele, but these books give the interested reader a good head start.

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  ONE

  E Pele e! The milky way turns.

  E Pele e! The night changes.

  E Pele e! The red glow is on the island.

  E Pele e! The red dawn breaks.

  E Pele e! Shadows are cast by the sunlight.

  E Pele e! The sound of roaring is in your crater.

  E Pele e! The uhi-uha is in your crater.

  E Pele e! Awake, arise, return.

  —Hulihia he au (“The current is turning”)

  At first only the wind is screaming.

  The westerly wind has blown unimpeded across four thousand miles of empty ocean, encountering nothing but white-capped waves and the occasional off-course seagull before striking up against the black-lava cliffs and gargoyle-shaped lava boulders that line the almost empty southwest coast of the Big Island of Hawaii. But having reached this obstacle, the wind now screams and howls between black rocks, the sound of it all but drowning out the constant crash of surf against the cliffs and the rustling of agitated fronds in the artificial oasis of palm trees within the jumble of black lava.

  There are two types of lava on these islands and their Hawaiian names describe them well: pahoehoe is usually older, always smoother, and has hardened to a smoothly billowed or mildly braided surface; a’a is new and jagged, its edges knife-sharp, its forms molded into grotesque towers and tumbled gargoyle figures. Along this stretch of South Kona coast, the pahoehoe runs in great, gray rivers from the volcanoes to the sea, but it is the sea cliffs and broad fields of a’a which guard the ninety-five miles of western coastline like tier upon tier of razor-edged warriors frozen into black stone.

  And now the wind screams through these labyrinths of sharp stone, whistling through gaps in the pillars of a’a and howling through fissures of ancient gas vents and down the open throats of empty lava tubes. Night comes on as the wind rises. Twilight has crept from the coastal a’a fields all the way to the summit of Mauna Loa, two and a half miles above sea level. Most of the great shield volcano rises as a black mass blotting out sky to the north and west. Thirty miles away, above the darkening caldera, low clouds of volcanic ash gleam orange from unseen eruptions.

  “So what then, Marty? You gonna take the stroke penalty or what?”

  The three figures are barely distinguishable in the dying light, their voices almost lost to the shrieking wind. The Robert Trent Jones, Jr.-designed golf course is a narrow, sinuous path of grass fairways and carpet-smooth greens snaking its way through miles of tumbled, black a’a. The few palm trees along the fairways are swaying and rustling in the wind. The three men are the only ones on the course. It is full dark now, and the lights of the Mauna Pele Resort seem far away from the fifteenth fairway, where the three figures huddle to be heard over the sound of wind and surf. Each man has driven his own golf cart, and the
three carts also seem huddled together from the howling wind.

  “I tell you it’s in them goddamn rocks,” says Tommy Petressio. The orange volcano glow casts a florid light on the short man’s bare arms and sunburned face. Petressio is wearing clashing yellow and red-plaid double-knit golf wear. A cap is pulled low over his sharp-featured face and he is chomping on a thick, unlit cigar.

  “It ain’t in the goddamn rocks,” says Marty DeVries. He rubs his jowls and half a dozen rings scrape against stubble there.

  “Well it’s not on the fucking grass,” whines Nick Agajanian. Nick has worn a lime-green shirt that strains against his massive belly, and the wide legs of his plaid shorts end six inches above his pale, knobby knees. He is wearing high black socks. “We’d see it if it was in the fucking grass,” Nick adds. “And there ain’t no fucking rough here, just this fucking grass and this fucking rock here that looks like petrified sheep shit.”

  “Where’d you ever see sheep shit?” says Tommy, turning in the gloom and leaning on his wood driver.

  “I seen lots of things I don’t usually talk about,” whines Nick.

  “Yeah,” says Tommy, “you probably stepped in sheep shit when you was a kid out trying to fuck the sheep.” He cups his hand and strikes a match, trying for the fifth time to light his cigar. The wind blows out the match in a second. “Shit.”

  “Shut up, you two,” says Marty DeVries. “Look for my ball.”

  “Your ball’s in the sheep-shit rock,” says Tommy around his cigar. “And it was your fucking idea to come to this fucked-up resort.” The three are all in their early fifties, are all sales managers from car dealerships in the Newark area and have taken their golf vacations together for years, sometimes bringing their wives along, sometimes bringing their current girlfriends, but most frequently just going with each other.

  “Yeah,” whines Nick, “what kind of place is this anyhow, what with all the empty rooms and the fucking volcano and everything?”

  Marty steps into the edge of the endless a’a field, poking between the tall rocks with his 5-iron. “Whattaya talkin’ about, why’d we come here?” he rasps. “This is the newest fucking resort in fucking Hawaii. It’s Trumbo’s big enchilada…”

  “Yeah,” laughs Tommy, “and look at all the good it’s done for the Big T.”

  “Fuck that,” says Marty DeVries. “Come help me find my ball.” He steps between two black a’a boulders the size of upended Volkswagens. The soil there is mostly sand.

  “Aww, nah,” says Nick. “Take the fucking stroke penalty, Marty. It’s gettin’ dark. I can’t see my fucking hand in front of my face.” He shouts the last part to be heard over the wind and surf as Marty steps deeper into the rock maze. The fifteenth fairway runs along the cliffs south of the palm oasis that is the main part of the resort, and waves are crashing high not forty feet from where the men stand.

  “Hey, there’s like a trail in here that goes down toward the water,” calls Marty DeVries. “I think I see my…no, shit, just some seagull feather or something.”

  “Come on out and take the fucking penalty,” yells Tommy. “Nick and me ain’t coming in there. Those rocks are as sharp as a motherfucker.”

  “Yeah,” yells Nick Agajanian toward the tumble of black clinkers. Now even Marty’s yellow golf cap has disappeared from sight.

  “Stupid shit can’t hear us,” says Tommy.

  “Stupid shit’s gonna get us lost out here,” whines Nick. The wind grabs at his cap and he scuttles across the fairway after it, finally running it down when it blows up against one of the golf carts.

  Tommy Petressio makes a face. “You can’t get lost on a fucking golf course.”

  Nick returns, clutching his hat and a 6-iron. “You could sure as hell get lost in that”—he waves the handle of his club at the a’a field and the crashing surf—“in that sheep-shit rock.”

  Tommy tries to light his cigar again. The wind blows it out. “Shit.”

  “I ain’t going in there,” says Nick. “Probably break my fucking leg.”

  “Probably get bit by a snake.”

  Nick takes a step back from the heaps of black cinders. “There aren’t any snakes in Hawaii. Are there?”

  Tommy makes a gesture. “Just them boa constrictors. And cobras…shitloads of cobras.”

  “Bullshit.” Nick’s voice is uncertain.

  “Didn’t you see them little weasel-like animals in the flowers this afternoon? What Marty said was mongeese?”

  “Yeah?” Nick glances over his shoulder. The last of the twilight has faded to night and stars are visible far out over the ocean. The lights of the resort seem very far away. The shoreline to the south is devoid of lights. The volcano glow is dim to the northwest. “So?”

  “You know what a mongoose eats?”

  “Berries and shit?”

  Tommy shakes his head. “Snakes. Cobras, mostly.”

  “Get the fuck outta here,” says Nick, but then stops himself. “Wait a minute. I think I seen something about that on cable. Those weasels…”

  “Mongeese.”

  “Whatever. Them mongeese in India. Like, tourists pay to see them eat cobras on the street corners and shit.”

  Tommy nods judiciously. “The snake problem’s so bad here that Trumbo and the other developers had to import the mongeese by the thousand. Otherwise, you wake up in your bed with a boa constrictor wrapped around your ankles and a cobra bitin’ into your dick.”

  “You’re so full of shit,” says Nick, but he has taken a step toward his golf cart.

  Tommy shakes his head and rams his cigar into his shirt pocket. “This is really stupid. It’s too dark to finish. If we’d gone to Miami like we usually done, we’d be on a all-night lighted course. Instead we’re out here in the middle of…” He waves his hand dismissively at the lava fields and black arc of volcano in the distance.

  “Middle of fucking snake city,” says Nick, settling into his cart and sheathing his 6-iron. “I say we say fuck it and drive back to the hotel and find a bar.”

  “I say right on,” agrees Tommy, walking toward his own cart. “If Marty ain’t back by morning, we’ll think about tellin’ somebody.”

  The screams start then.

  Marty DeVries had followed what had appeared to be a path between the a’a boulders, a winding of sand and scrub grass between the heaps of clinkers. He was sure that his ball had come down this way and if he could just find it lying on the fucking sand, he could chip it out onto the fairway and save some face in this fucking game. Hell, even if it wasn’t lying on the sand, he could set it there and chip it out. Hell, he didn’t have to chip it at all, just rear back and let it fly… Nick and Tommy were too wussy to follow him down here, so all they’d see was this perfect chip shot come flying out of the lava shit and plop right onto the middle of the fairway, setting up an easy iron shot to the green. Marty used to have a pretty good arm when he pitched for Legion ball in Newark.

  Hell, now that Marty thought about it, he didn’t have to find the goddamn thing at all. He reached into his pocket and took out a Wilson Pro-Sport, the same number he’d been playing. Then he turned around to throw it out onto the course.

  Which way was the fucking course?

  The heaps of a’a cinders and heaped boulders had gotten him all mixed up. He could see stars overhead. The “path” that he had followed downhill wasn’t so clear now—there were sand paths going every which way. Actually, the place was a goddamn maze.

  “Hey!” shouted Marty. When Tommy or Nick answered, he’d pitch the ball in that direction.

  No one answered.

  “Hey, quit fuckin’ around, you dipshits.” Marty realized that he was closer to the sea cliffs here; the crash of surf was much louder. Those idiots probably couldn’t hear him because of the stupid wind and the stupid waves crashing on the stupid rock. Marty wished they’d gone to Miami like they usually did. “Hey!” he shouted again, his voice sounding tiny even to himself. The heaps of cinder stone here rose t
welve feet or higher, the black pumice lighted by that goddamn orange glow from the volcano. The travel agent had told Marty and them about the active volcano, but she’d said the thing was way the hell around the south side of the island, that there was no danger at all from it. She’d said that people were flocking to the Big Island because of the little eruption—that they showed up in droves every time there was any activity. She’d said that Hawaiian volcanoes never hurt anybody, they were just pretty fireworks.

  So how come Trumbo’s goddamn Mauna Pele resort is so goddamn empty, thought Marty, launching the thought in the direction of the travel agent. He hoped. “Hey!” he shouted again.

  There was a sound to his left. Toward the sea cliffs. It sounded like a moan.

  “Aw, you dumb shits,” said Marty under his breath. One or both of the two clowns had come down into the sheep-shit lava to find him and had gotten hurt. Probably twisted an ankle or broken a leg. Marty hoped it was Nick; he preferred to play with Tommy and it would be a pain to spend the rest of the vacation waiting for Nick to duff his way out of sand traps.

  The moan came again, so soft that the sound of it could be heard beneath the surf and wind noise.

  “I’m coming,” shouted Marty, and began picking his way down the slight incline between the lava heaps. He put the ball back in his pocket and used the 5-iron as a sort of walking stick.

  It took longer than he thought it would. Whichever one of the idiots had come in here to get hurt, he’d really gotten lost. Marty only hoped he wouldn’t have to carry the stupid shit out.

  The moan came again, ending on a sort of sibilant sigh.

  What if it ain’t Nick or Tommy? he thought suddenly. The thought of dragging some poor schmuck he didn’t know out of this rock did not appeal to Marty. He’d come to this fucking island to play golf, not be a Good Samaritan. If it was some goddamn local or something, he’d tell the guy to take it easy and head back to the hotel bar. The goddamn resort was almost empty, but they’d have somebody up there whose job it was to come out and get injured schmucks.