Fires of Eden

by Dan Simmons

  “Or Nanaue,” I said, “the shark boy.”

  “Or Kamapua’a,” he whispered. “The hog.”

  We continued smiling at each other for a long moment, and I must record here that a strange, intense energy passed between us. I am sure that it must have been the excitement of the moment, that surge of energy and sheer giddiness which soldiers record experiencing just before the battle, but it was also…something else.

  Mr. Clemens tightened the knot and smoothed the length of vine out, speaking as he prepared to lower me into the chasm.

  “Miss Stewart,” he said, “this reminds me of the day not long ago in San Francisco when I happened upon a hotel fire. A lady was trapped on the fourth floor and all those around me had lost their head and were running uselessly to and fro. Only I kept my wits about me…” He paused to tug at the vine, checking the knot on the boulder. The vine held. “Only I had the presence of mind to go to a nearby tethered horse, remove the lariat kept there, toss the long rope to the hapless woman on the fourth floor, and shout instructions to her on how to secure it.”

  I backed to the edge of the fissure and waited there as Mr. Clemens took up the slack in the vine. “Yes?” I said.

  He looked at me. His eyes were very bright under his expressive brow. “Well, then, once she had tied the line on, I shouted, ‘Jump! I have you!’”

  We stood there a moment, that strange energy rippling between us like the St. Elmo’s Fire that had guided us here.

  “Step back, Miss Stewart,” he said softly, wrapping the vine once around my forearm and showing me where to hold tight. “I have you.”

  Leaning back, stepping off the boulder into nothingness, I began the descent into the Underworld.

  TWENTY

  O gods in the skies!

  Let the rain come, let it fall.

  Let Paoa, Pele’s spade, be broken.

  Let the rain be separated from the sun.

  O clouds in the skies!

  O great clouds of Iku! black as smoke!

  Let the heavens fall on earth,

  Let the heavens roll open for the rain,

  Let the storm come.

  —Kamapua’a’s war chant

  E Pele e! Here is my sacrifice—a pig.

  E Pele e! Here is my gift—a pig.

  Here is a pig for you.

  O goddess of the burning stones.

  Life for me. Life for you.

  The flowers of fire wave gently.

  Here is your pig.

  —traditional chant to Pele

  A sense of unreality had been building in Eleanor all afternoon, and now, as she jumped from the skid of a hovering helicopter to the broad surface of the tumbled “dancing stone” called Hopoe, that sense of unreality took on a delicious, dreamlike quality. Dreamlike, but hardly calm, thought Eleanor, crouching as the helicopter rose in a downblast of wind and blown grit. She felt the surge of adrenaline in her body acting like some sort of turbo-boost to her spirits. This is being alive!

  Mike, the pilot, had given her ten minutes. His own fuel requirements and the approaching storm had made even that allowance marginal. In the meantime, he would circle above—“orbit” was the word he had used—and five flashes from Eleanor’s flashlight would bring him back to the pickup area on the rock called Hopoe.

  Eleanor flicked on the flashlight, testing it, and then turned it off. She had thought that it would be dark here on the mountainside, but the reflected volcano glow on the clouds above and the more fiery light from the lava flow less than fifteen yards away cast each rock, boulder, and fissure opening in a thick, bloody light. Eleanor picked her way from rock to rock toward the base of the giant boulder on which she had landed.

  There was an open space at the foot of the huge stone and a darker shadow that may have been the entrance to a cave. Lava flowed by not ten yards down the hill from that entrance. Eleanor was amazed by the heat and rapidity of the flow; it moved like a mountain stream at flood stage, black and red rushing by at freight train speeds, the heat from the hurtling magma causing her to raise her forearm to shield her face. A hundred yards farther down the mountainside, lava geysered fifty or sixty feet in the air. Eleanor was reminded of fireworks displays she had seen as a child in her sleepy Ohio town, with the ground-display finale fountaining sparks and liquid fire like this. Not like this. A quarter of a mile lower, another geyser, taller and brighter, and below that, more flaming fissures and geysers, and so on to the invisible sea eight miles or more below. Eleanor wondered if this tidal wave of molten rock had reached the Mauna Pele Resort yet. She squinted upward, but could not see the helicopter in the clouds of smoke and ash. Pele’s hair gleamed here and there, filaments strewn across boulders and bridging black fissures, each glasslike strand catching the hellish light.

  “Eleanor,” said a voice.

  Eleanor turned quickly, seeing the form of a woman in the dark mouth of the cave. “Molly Kewalu?”

  “Come in,” said the woman, and stepped back into the shadows.

  Eleanor glanced at her watch and hurried up the talus slope, She had less than seven minutes before the helicopter returned.

  The cave widened half a dozen yards beyond the entrance. Eleanor noticed the carpet on the lava-smooth floor, the fine old table with two chairs, another rocking chair near an end table made of a packing crate, the books in other crates made into shelves, the kitchen area with its gleaming copper pots, the three hissing lanterns illuminating the scene with their warm light. The dreamlike quality of everything had not abated. Eleanor did not ask how the woman had known her name.

  “Sit,” said Molly Kewalu. Eleanor had expected her to be the old woman she had seen in Leonard and Leopold’s trailer, but she was not. Molly Kewalu may have been the Crazy Old Woman of the Big Island, but she reminded Eleanor of a former head of the English Department at Oberlin. Molly’s gray hair was drawn back in a tight bun and held in place with a beautiful tortoiseshell comb. Her face was almost unlined, and strengthened by exquisite eyebrows and a firm chin, and her eyes seemed more amused than mad. She was wearing tan chinos, a red silk shirt open at the throat to exhibit a turquoise necklace which looked of Navajo design, sturdy hiking boots, and a simple but elegant bracelet made of tiny shells.

  “Please, sit,” said Molly Kewalu, gesturing toward the rocking chair. The older woman pulled a table chair closer.

  “I only have a minute,” said Eleanor, settling back in the rocker and thinking, Is this real? It was real. She could hear the lanterns hissing, still smell the sulfur from the lava flow just outside the cave.

  “I know,” said Molly Kewalu. She leaned forward and touched Eleanor’s knee. “Do you have any idea what you have involved yourself in, Eleanor Perry from Ohio?”

  Eleanor blinked. “There is a battle,” she said, voice small in the comfortable, hissing silence of the cave. “Pana-ewa and the other demons…”

  Molly Kewalu lifted her hand to make a dismissive gesture. “Pana-ewa is nothing. Nothing. It is Kamapua’a who contests the rule of this island with Pele. It is Kamapua’a who has used the haole to prepare his way.”

  “Prepare his way,” echoed Eleanor. There was a rushing of blood in her ears. “Even with Kidder and Mark Twain, it was…”

  “The hog,” said Molly Kewalu. “The men kahuna say that they worship Pele, but in their heart of hearts, they follow the hog.”

  “The hog,” said Eleanor.

  Molly Kewalu leaned closer and grasped the teacher’s upper arms. “You have courage, Eleanor Perry of Ohio. You think you will descend into the Underworld of Milu as did your female ancestor.”

  Eleanor blinked again. How does she know all this?

  “You will fail, Eleanor Perry. Your body will die before this happens. But you must not lose your courage. It is the quiet night-courage of women which binds our powers and balances the loud day-courage of men. Our courage is the source of the darkness that makes darkness, do you understand, Eleanor Perry of Ohio?”

  “No,”
said Eleanor. She thought, My body will die? She said, “I want to understand, but I do not.” I teach the history and literature of the Enlightenment. Has meus ad metas sudet oportet equus.

  “Listen,” said Molly Kewalu, and rose to her feet. She chanted softly:

  “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

  The source of darkness that made darkness…”

  Creation chant, thought Eleanor. Simple, common creation chant. Am I to die?

  “When space turned around, the earth heated,” chanted Molly Kewalu.

  “When space turned over, the sky reversed.

  From the source in the slime was the earth formed

  From the source in the darkness was darkness formed

  From the source in the night was night formed.”

  Union, thought Eleanor. The womb of night. The birthing place of the universe in the clash of opposites. Even the war between Pele and Kamapua’a must continue.

  “From the depths of the darkness, darkness so deep,” sang Molly Kewalu.

  “Darkness of day, darkness of night

  Of night alone

  Did night give birth

  Born was Kumulipo in the night, a male

  Born was Po’ele in the night, a female.”

  But the rape has to stop, thought Eleanor. The balance must be reset or lost. Part of her mind understood. Part of her mind did not care. Must I die?

  “Born was man for the narrow stream,” chanted Molly Kewalu. She touched Eleanor’s hand. Eleanor rose and followed her to the dark cave mouth. Lava hissed and poured red light beyond. Somewhere above there was a roar.

  “Born was woman for the broad stream

  Born was the night of the gods.”

  Molly Kewalu released her hand. “Go back, Eleanor Perry of Ohio. Go back and do what you must do. Have courage.”

  Eleanor turned, started to leave, and turned back in a panic. “No! You have to be there. To help.”

  “Someone will be there to help,” Molly Kewalu said softly, her words all but lost under the hiss of lava. “There is always a midwife to help us when we are in pain.”

  Eleanor shook her head sluggishly. It had seemed so clear moments before. “You have to come…”

  “Not tonight,” said Molly Kewalu. Her finger lifted, pointed to the river of lava, traced its flow back up the volcano’s flank.

  “This night I must make offering elsewhere.” She moved quickly forward, squeezed Eleanor’s hand, and disappeared in the cave mouth.

  Eleanor hesitated a second and then staggered blindly up the talus slope to the top of the tumbled rock called Hopoe, the Dancing Stone.

  The helicopter hovered low a moment later, its blast of grit blinding Eleanor, its roar deafening her. Hands pulled her in. Someone was shouting something over and over. It took a moment for her to understand the English words; they struck her ear as if they were from a foreign tongue.

  “No,” she said at last, allowing Paul to buckle her in. “She was not there. No one was there.”

  “All right,” said Mike, the pilot with kind eyes. The engine roared. They rose, tilted, flew away and down.

  “Byron-san,” said Hiroshe Sato as the Escargot Mezzanine arrived, snails baked in a sun-dried tomato pesto butter and white wine, “the electricity here seems unreliable.” The hurricane lamps flickered down the length of the resplendent table. Waiters set out bowls of Malaysian shrimp salad featuring skewered tiger prawns served with gadogado peanut dressing with stir-fried vegetables over a bed of greens.

  “Atmosphere,” said Byron Trumbo. “There is a storm tonight, but the backup generators handle it.” He nodded to Bobby Tanaka, who flipped a switch. The electric candles on the chandeliers blazed. Bobby turned off the lights. “We like the atmosphere of the candles,” said Trumbo.

  The white-liveried waiters set out a Grecque spinach salad for those who did not care for the shrimp. The onion-garlic-dill dressing with a hint of ouzo made Trumbo blink. Crumbled feta cheese added a nice contrast to the greens. Warm focaccia bread, straight from the ovens, was set in place. André, the aged wine steward, opened bottles and brought Trumbo the corks. Trumbo ignored them and gestured for the wine to be poured.

  “We remain concerned about our friend Tsuneo,” Hiroshe Sato whispered, leaning close so that no one else could hear him.

  “As irresponsible as he is, it is unlike him to miss a business function.”

  “Yeah, well,” said Trumbo, “I’m sure Sunny’s OK. In fact, I’m certain he’ll be back for the signing after dinner.”

  “Hrrgghh,” said Sato, emitting that half-growl that Japanese men made on emotional but noncommittal occasions. He applied himself to the Malaysian shrimp.

  “Excuse me a moment, Hiroshe,” said Trumbo. He had seen Will Bryant entering the long room, talking to two security men. Trumbo pulled his assistant onto the terrace. The wind was roaring, clouds scudding above, illuminated by volcano glow.

  “The bodies are back in the cooler,” Bryant said softly. “We’ve got the seventh floor sealed off here. Michaels has people guarding the elevator, the stairways, and the mezzanine.”

  “What about Fredrickson?”

  “He called in a few minutes ago,” said Will Bryant. “He’s spooked. He says a storm’s coming. He wants to come in.”

  “Tell him to stay where he is,” said Trumbo. He pulled Bryant a few steps closer to the railing. “Will, I’ve got a job for you.”

  The assistant waited. He was wearing his round Armani tortoiseshell glasses and his eyes looked large behind the lenses.

  “You remember that cave I told you about? And the pig? And Dillon and Sunny Takahashi looking sort of like ghosts or zombies or something?”

  Will Bryant nodded and waited.

  “Well,” said Trumbo, “the pig said that if I wanted Sunny, all I had to do was go down and get him.”

  Will Bryant nodded and waited.

  “Will,” said Trumbo, “I want you to go down and get him.”

  Will Bryant turned his head slowly until the owl-like eyes were looking directly at his boss.

  “Now,” said Trumbo.

  “Ahhh,” said the assistant. He licked his lips and started again. “I just put Sunny Takahashi’s body in the freezer.”

  “Yeah,” said Trumbo, brushing away that fact with a flick of his hand, “but I think the pig’s got his spirit or some shit like that. You go down and get it and we’ll see if we can get it back in the Jap’s body in time for Sato to sign the deal tonight.”

  Will Bryant’s eyes did not blink behind the round lenses. “You want me to go out in the storm, find the cave that Fredrickson’s guarding, go down in it, talk to a pig, and get Sunny Takahashi’s spirit back in time for the signing?”

  “Yeah,” said Trumbo, his voice relieved. When the instructions were clear, Will Bryant had never failed him.

  “Fuck you,” said Bryant.

  Trumbo blinked. “What?”

  “Fuck you.” And then, as if an afterthought had struck him: “Boss.”

  Trumbo resisted the urge to grab the Harvard Business School graduate by his skinny throat and hurl him over the seventh-floor railing. He had essentially done that to his last executive assistant. “What did you say to me?”

  “I said, ‘Fuck you,’” said Bryant, his voice calm. “There are a lot of people dead around here, and I’m not ready to join them. It’s not in my job description.”

  Trumbo was trembling with rage. He clasped his hands behind his back to hide their shaking. “I’ll make it worth your while,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Will Bryant waited.

  “Ten thousand dollars,” said Trumbo.

  Will Bryant laughed softly.

  “All right, goddammit, f
ifty thousand,” said Trumbo. He would send one of the security men to fetch Sunny, but those guys were too stupid to pour piss out of a boot. Bobby Tanaka was a wuss and he had fired Stephen Ridell Carter. It had to be Bryant.

  Will Bryant shook his head and waited.

  “Goddammit,” breathed Trumbo, his face red and neck cording, “how much?”

  “Five million dollars,” said Will Bryant. “Cash.”

  Trumbo’s vision narrowed to a long black tunnel decorated with red spots. When he could see again, he said, “One million.”

  “Fuck you,” said his assistant.

  It was kill the blackmailing little dust mite or leave. Trumbo wheeled on his heels and left, returning to the dinner party. Waiters were setting out the main courses of opakapaka with ginger-scallion crusts, and pan-roasted lamb chops with macadamia nut-coconut-honey crusts floating on star anise sauce.

  “Are you all right, Byron-san?” asked Sato, his voice concerned. “Your face is the color of lobster.” Robser.

  “I’m fine,” said Trumbo, lifting his knife and thinking how sweet it would feel sliding between a certain traitor’s skinny ribs. “Let’s eat the fucking food.”

  June 18, 1866, In an unnamed village along the Kona Coast—

  For a moment I stood alone in the Ghost Kingdom of Milu. The lava tube extended away, but not into darkness. The walls glowed with a subdued phosphorescence. Faint sounds echoed from around the bend in the cave. The striated cavern floor was rough against my bare feet. I could smell the rancid kukui oil on my skin.

  Hurriedly, I untied the knots, freed myself from the vine, and tugged the braided cord to let Mr. Clemens know he could descend. Sunlight reflected from the fissure wall above, but a rock overhang kept me from seeing my companion. I looked away as he let himself down the thick vine.

  Glancing at each other, feeling somewhat less naked in the dim light here, we began walking toward the glow. “Still reminds me of lightning bug light,” whispered Mr. Clemens. We paused at the bend in the cave, Mr. Clemens peering around before we went on.

  He turned back, his mustaches veritably quivering with excitement. “Ghosts,” he whispered.