Fires of Eden

by Dan Simmons

  “August did not return that night. The village was filled with roars and shoutings. I was sure that we would all be killed… Theodore, Mrs. Taylor and her husband up the hill, Father, Mother, all of us…but the others did not respond to the noise, and I was too terrified to go for help in the dark.

  “Come the morning, I took Theodore and we ran for Father’s house. Father took the men—Grandfather, Mr. Taylor, two of the converted Hawaiians who could be trusted—and went into the village. They found Kaluna at the edge of the village, his head encrusted with blood, alive but with no memory of the night. They found August in the lava fields…”

  Here Mrs. Stanton did break down. Reverend Haymark comforted her. There was to be no more of the terrible news for awhile.

  The two Hawaiians who had led the fugitive Christians had filled in the missing parts to the innkeeper, who later told Mr. Clemens, who later told the Reverend Haymark. All of the men tried to spare me the details of this horror, but by stationing myself at propitious locations in the small hotel lobby, I was able to hear the whispered reports.

  Mr. Stanton had been found dead in the lava fields, his throat cut like some animal that had been drained of its blood. That night, the whites had congregated in Reverend Whister’s larger home near the temporary church. According to the Hawaiians’ whispered descriptions, it had been a night of pure terror—strange sounds, monsters creeping through the lava boulders, inhuman screams—all of it lit by the backglow of the same Hale-mau-mau eruptions I had witnessed just last night. Things had scraped and clawed at the grass hut of the terrified whites—Mr. Taylor and Reverend Whister had held ancient muskets at the ready while the women tended the flickering lanterns—but although the walls would not have held out a determined rat, nothing had entered. The Reverend Whister had told them all that this was a sign of Jesus’s power against these forces of darkness—although whether he had been referring to vengeful natives or actual demons, no one knew.

  That morning—only four days ago! Even as I partied and chatted with missionary families in Hilo!—the Christians had timorously gone out of their house to find that all of their horses had been slaughtered in the night, throats cut, legs severed. (This part was whispered most softly by the innkeeper describing it all to Mr. Clemens and Reverend Haymark, as if the disfigurement of horses were far worse than the slaughter of poor Mr. Stanton.)

  Despite this grisly discovery, Mr. Taylor had insisted on taking one trustworthy man and leaving for Kona, vowing to bring help back the next day. Mrs. Taylor had argued against this plan, but was kissed on the hair ribbon and overruled. Reverend Whister evidently agreed with the course of action, realizing that with his elderly father and the child along, the party would not make Kona in two days, whereas one man traveling alone, even on foot, could reach the village in twenty-four hours of hard walking.

  Mr. Taylor and the native, the same Kaluna mentioned earlier, left about ten a.m. About five o’clock that afternoon, Kaluna returned—again alone. The native, voice shaking and hands palsied with some terrible emotion, said that a huge reptile with the eyes of a man had leapt at them from a rock not four miles from where they now stood. Kaluna said that Mr. Taylor had fired the musket into the creature at a distance of less than six feet, but the reptile thing did not hesitate. Kaluna said that Mr. Taylor’s head had fractured with the sound of a coconut being halved—his exact words—and that the creature had been so busy devouring the Christian, that he—Kaluna—had been able to escape, injuring himself by falling in the sharp lava fields. Kaluna said that small dwarf-like beings had pursued him for two miles, but that he had escaped.

  At this point, the extent of Reverend Whister’s gullibility had apparently been reached, for he accused Kaluna of lying, of being an agent of the Pele priests. Kaluna denied it. An argument ensued between the injured Hawaiian and the outraged missionary. Kaluna had lifted his knife—to make an oath upon it, explained the Christian natives who had helped the others escape—but Mr. Whister had misinterpreted the gesture and fired his musket into the hapless Hawaiian’s body. It had taken Kaluna several hours to die.

  Then it was nightfall again. Once again Reverend Whister, his terrified wife, his uncomprehending, aged father, his daughter, his grandson, his sister, and the crypt-silent Mrs. Taylor endured the shufflings and wheezings and roarings and scrabblings. Finally, as the natives explained to the innkeeper, the women, child, and grandfather were sleeping in the second room of the house when a terrible noise arose from the room where Reverend Whister and his wife were standing guard. There were screams. Inhuman noises. The sound of a musket being discharged. More screams. Mrs. Stanton had tried to open the door, but at that moment friendly natives had broken through the back wall and spirited the shocked survivors to safety, urging them up the trail through the lava into the night. Behind them, the church and house they had recently vacated could be seen burning in the night. They had arrived at the Volcano House after some forty hours of travel across some of the worst terrain in the world. There had been no sight of pursuers, although the guides reported strange sounds among the lava fields and ghostly glows in the rocks behind them.

  Thus ended the tale. It was terrible enough to set Master McGuire and the Smith twin conferring with Hananui for an immediate departure for Hilo. The innkeeper also decided to leave that morning, locking up Volcano House and leaving it to the mercy of the winds and vapors. The natives—both the innkeeper’s servants and the two loyal guides of the Christians—were terrified at the prospect of traveling again at night, but willing to do so if it meant putting even more distance between them and the Horror along the Kona Coast.

  Just minutes ago, as everyone finished their preparations for leaving, I heard the incredible spoken on the veranda between Mr. Clemens and Reverend Haymark. “I am not going back to Hilo with you,” said the correspondent. “I must see what has happened. Whatever the truth of this terrible event—and I suspect it is nothing more supernatural than the vengeance of a jealous village shaman—it promises to be a bigger story than the sinking of the Hornet!”

  Reverend Haymark had frowned at this selfish view of an obvious tragedy, but then surprised me by saying, “I will go with you. Hananui, McGuire, the hotelkeeper, Smith and the others can safely see the women down the mountain to Hilo.”

  The correspondent was also obviously taken by surprise at this announcement and announced his willingness to proceed into danger alone. Reverend Haymark brushed aside the comments. “I am not going to watch out for you, sir. I met the Reverend Whister and his son-in-law in Honolulu. We do not yet definitively know their fate. Much of what I hear is womanly panic and native superstition. I owe it to Reverend Whister and the others to see if anything can be done. If nothing else, they deserve a Christian burial. I am sure they will send a fast schooner around from Hilo, arriving shortly after you and I would get there. There should be no great danger.”

  The two men then shook hands. I went to my room and packed, pulling on my hardiest boots and most rigorous riding skirt. Mr. Clemens and Reverend Haymark do not yet know it, but I will be accompanying them to the Kona Coast.

  Sato and his entourage retired to their suites after the interminable dinner and Byron Trumbo was free to deal with his disasters by 10:30 P.M. He and Will Bryant took the elevator to his wife and her lawyer’s suite on the north side of the Big Hale. Outside the suite, Trumbo touched Will’s arm. “Five minutes. Not a goddamn minute more. It has to be some emergency… I don’t care what you make up. Five minutes.” Will Bryant nodded and disappeared behind the potted palms.

  Trumbo rang the buzzer to the suite, putting on the most affable face he was capable of this night. Myron Koestler opened the door. The lawyer’s frizzy gray hair was tied back in its usual ponytail and he was wearing a thick terrycloth bathrobe with the Mauna Pele volcano crest on it. He was holding a glass with what looked like several fingers of Scotch in it.

  Trumbo let his affable face slip. “Got comfortable enough yet, Myron? You and Cait
tried the Jacuzzi yet?”

  The lawyer smiled thinly. “She’s been waiting for you.”

  “Yeah,” said Trumbo, and swept into the suite. Everything was gleaming leather and combed cotton under recessed spots. The marble tiles and lush Persian carpets seemed to give off a light of their own. The storm winds ruffled long curtains away from the floor-to-ceiling windows along the west wall. Trumbo could hear the rain, and smell it over the scent of sandalwood and polish. “Where is she?”

  “On the terrace.”

  To Trumbo’s irritation, the lawyer followed him out onto the covered lanai. The view here in the daytime was north toward the shoulder of Mauna Loa and the white-capped summit of Mauna Kea beyond. Tonight it was just the tops of whipping palm trees illuminated by the occasional lightning flash.

  Caitlin Sommersby Trumbo was also in a Mauna Pele robe and nursing a drink. Straight vodka on ice, Trumbo knew. She sat on the chaise longue with her feet up, one leg raised, showing an expanse of impossibly smooth thigh. The reading lamp near her threw her long, honey-blonde hair into a cascade of highlights. Trumbo felt the old stirrings that had made him marry her in the first place…that and the fact that she was worth several hundred million dollars on her own. It was too bad that she was a bitch.

  “Cait,” he said. “Great to see you.”

  For a moment she only stared. He used to think that her eyes were a cornflower blue; now he knew they were a glacier blue. “You kept me waiting,” she said at last. Trumbo had never been able to analyze that tone: it was part pouting debutante, part spoiled daddy’s girl, part ice queen, and part imperious business exec. But it was all bitch.

  “I was busy,” said Trumbo, hearing his voice fall into the old tones of truculence.

  Caitlin Sommersby Trumbo blew air through her elegant nose.

  Before she could speak again, Trumbo tried to take the initiative. “You know that you’re violating the terms of the separation by being here.”

  Her eyes glinted. “You know that I’m not. This isn’t a residence of yours. It’s a property. And a hotel.”

  Trumbo smiled. “And with Myron here…” He nodded in the direction of the lounging lawyer. “You’d better be careful, Cait. I may have video cameras installed in the bedrooms.”

  She raised her chin. “I wouldn’t put it past you.” She looked at the lawyer. “The Big T here always enjoyed watching more than doing.”

  Trumbo realized that he was grinding his molars. “What do you want?”

  “You know what I want.”

  “You can’t have them,” said Trumbo. “They’re attached.”

  “I want the Mauna Pele.”

  “You can’t have it, either.”

  She raised her chin higher. “We’ve made you a fair offer.”

  Trumbo laughed. “Cait, Cait, Cait… I spent more than eighty million dollars on the fucking landscaping.”

  “Don’t you dare use obscenity with me.”

  “I wouldn’t fucking dream of it.”

  Koestler cleared his throat “If I could suggest something…”

  “Shut up, Koestler,” said Trumbo.

  “Shut up, Myron,” said Caitlin.

  The lawyer settled back in his chair and sipped his Scotch.

  “Look, Cait,” said Trumbo, trying to make his voice sound reasonable, “I know why you’re here, but it’s counterproductive. You’d do better to wait until I unload this place on the Japs and take your blood-money share of it rather than try to get the Pele at fire sale prices now.”

  His estranged wife sipped her vodka and stared at him over the rim of the glass. “I want the Mauna Pele.”

  “Why? You never came here. It’s not like you have a sentimental attachment to it. And you know as well as I that it’s a fucking money loser.”

  “I want it,” said Caitlin Sommersby Trumbo in a tone that left no room for argument. “If you sell it to me, you get something. If you can’t sell it, I may end up with it under the terms of the settlement anyway.”

  Trumbo laughed again, but the sound was more hollow this time. “You’d never get it. I’d burn the fucking place down first. And I will sell it.”

  Caitlin smiled sweetly. “Does your Mr. Sato know about all of the murders here in the past year?”

  “Disappearances,” said Trumbo.

  “Six murders,” she purred. “This place is riskier than Central Park at night. And I don’t believe your Mr. Sato or any of his investors would want to buy Central Park.”

  “You stay away from Sato…” began Trumbo, amazed to find that he could speak through gritted teeth.

  “Or what, T?”

  “Or you’ll find out how dangerous the Mauna Pele can be…”

  “I heard that!” cried Koestler, rising to his feet. His hairy legs showed through the flap in the robe. “That was a threat. I was witness.”

  “That was a warning,” said Trumbo, turning toward the ponytailed divorce lawyer and pointing a blunt finger like a revolver. “And I’ll warn you…this place may not be safe. There’s weird shit going on here. I’ve got security men around Sato and his people, but I can’t spare any for unexpected visitors.”

  “Another threat,” said Koestler. “We can take this to court and…”

  “Shut up, Myron,” said Caitlin. She aimed her pale gaze at Trumbo. “You won’t sell then?”

  Trumbo returned her gaze with equal intensity. “Cait, there was a time when I would have given you the Pele. Hell, I almost did at Christmas three years ago. Now I wouldn’t let you have it if my hair was on fire and that was the only way I could put it out.”

  The door buzzed. Koestler went to open it. “Boss,” said Will Bryant, holding a phone out toward Trumbo, “I’m sorry to bother you, but Dr. Hastings is on the line from the Volcano Observatory. He says that the lava flow from Mauna Loa isn’t moving as far south as they’d predicted. He says that it’s following the old rift zones toward the Mauna Pele.”

  Trumbo sighed. “I’ll take it outside.” He pointed a finger at Cait. “I mean it when I say don’t fuck with this sale.”

  She set down her empty glass and gave Trumbo a glance that would have frozen hydrogen. “And I mean it when I say I’ll have the Mauna Pele.”

  Trumbo turned on his heel and went out with Will Bryant. In the elevator down, he glanced at his watch. “Bicki will sit out in the construction shack and watch TV until dawn, but I’ve got to get out to Maya before she comes hunting for me.” He looked at his assistant. “Lava flowing toward the Mauna Pele? I said an emergency, but… Jesus, Will.”

  Will Bryant looked at his boss and handed over the phone. “I wasn’t kidding. You need to call Hastings back. He says that we should evacuate the place tonight.”

  THIRTEEN

  At the time when the earth became hot

  At the time when the heavens turned about

  At the time when the sun was darkened

  To cause the moon to shine

  The time of the rise of the Pleiades

  The slime, this was the source of the earth…

  —from the Kumulipo, creation chant

  Eleanor almost did not accompany Cordie Stumpf and Paul Kukali into the catacombs.

  Dinner had been pleasant, despite—or perhaps because of—the storm raging beyond the lanai and the hurricane lamps with their warm circles of candlelight. When the power came on almost an hour later, the few diners on the terrace blinked at the relative brightness of the few soft electric lights. At first, Paul had seemed reticent to discuss the various myths that Eleanor had asked about, but as he realized that there was no hint of condescension from the Oberlin history professor, he visibly warmed to the subject. He explained the difference between moolelo—the oral tradition of the gods’ exploits, so powerful that it could be recited only in the daylight—and kaao, simple tall tales of human heroes, stories fit to be told around the bonfire at night. He discussed the hierarchy of Hawaiian animism: the aumakua, or important family gods; the kapua, or children of the
gods, who dwelt among the mortals much as had Hercules and the other Greek demigods; the akua kapu, who, like the ghosts of mainland Native Americans, merely frightened people and presaged bad luck; and the akua li’l, literally “little spirits,” who rounded out the almost endless Hawaiian pantheon as animist personifications of trees, waterfalls, forms of weather, and all the other aspects of nature.

  “It all has to do with mana,” said Paul, sipping his coffee as the last of the dishes were cleared. “Stealing mana, preserving mana, and discovering new sources of mana.”

  “Power,” said Cordie, who had been listening intently.

  “Yes. Power of the individual. Power over others. Power over the environment.”

  Cordie made a noise. “That ain’t changed much over the years.”

  The waitress, a heavy, unsmiling Hawaiian woman with the nametag “Lovey” pinned to her muumuu, asked if they would be interested in dessert. Eleanor and Paul declined. Cordie said, “Heck, yes,” and the three listened to the litany. There were numerous elaborate desserts, most seeming to deal with coconut, but Cordie chose an ice cream sundae…with coconut shavings. When it arrived, Eleanor realized that she wished she had ordered it. She asked Paul, “Where does someone like Ku fit in?”

  The curator set down his coffee cup. “Ku is one of the oldest Polynesian gods who migrated here by canoe with the early Hawaiians—the god of war. Very fierce. Human sacrifices were made to him. He could assume various shapes when he walked among mortals.”