Mauna Kea: A Novel of Hawai‘i

Praise for Tom Peek’s Daughters of Fire

Winner, Benjamin Franklin Silver Finalist Award for Popular Fiction, Independent Book Publishers Association

If you’ve never been to Hawaii, this novel will take you there. If you’ve been there and love it, this novel will reveal things you never knew about our fiftieth state. If you have no particular interest in Hawaii but just want to experience a countdown to cataclysm in a tropical setting, this is one highly recommended thrill ride of a book.

—Huffington Post

"Set on the island of Hawaii, Daughters of Fire keenly captures the boiling point of long-simmering tensions between traditional lifestyles and Western development."

—San Francisco Chronicle

"Set amid the beauty, volcanoes, and intrigue of Hawaii, Daughters of Fire is an original novel exploring the meeting point between cultures. . . . An engaging saga of suspense, crafted with a deep understanding and appreciation for Hawaii’s unique history and culture, Daughters of Fire is highly recommended."

—Midwest Book Review

This is a book about power and justice . . . one of the most factually aware novels I’ve come across.

—Maui Time Weekly

"The rifts in the earth at Kilauea volcano are mirrored by the rifts in local society in Tom Peek’s debut novel Daughters of Fire, and although it’s a work of fiction, there are forces at work that anyone who lives in today’s Hawaii will recognize."

—Hawaii Public Radio

"Tom Peek has lived a life worthy of Melville, Twain and Stevenson. . . . The book, with multiple plotlines . . . has drawn comparisons to Michener’s Hawaii. . . . A portrait of Hawaii with an unflinching realism absent in tourist brochures."

—Hawaii Tribune-Herald

Places come alive for the reader on every page of this taut, deftly constructed novel. . . . Peek is a storyteller extraordinaire, cut from an older cloth seldom seen today.

—The Contemporary Pacific Journal

"Daughters of Fire tells the story of modern Hawaii, with its political problems and controversies. Peek brings it to life through his experience and knowledge, gleaned from years of studying with local Hawaiians and living among them as brother and friend. . . . He shares this knowledge and perspective with the reader in a far more knowledgeable and detailed manner than other writers who visited Hawaii occasionally, such as Michener and Robert Louis Stevenson. . . . Find the mystery, adventure, excitement, and wisdom from this must-read novel."

—Journal of Humanitarian Affairs

"Daughters of Fire offers a window into the complex reality of life in contemporary Hawai‘i. Tom Peek’s understanding of place, culture, and current issues is deep and respectful without being heavy-handed. . . . This is a terrific read."

—Maile Meyer, founder of Native Books / Na Mea Hawai‘i

An enthralling ride that introduces the reader to virtually all the forces at work in Hawaii today. From the historical to the scientific, the spiritual to the political, to corruption and eruptions, this carefully researched thriller MUST be made into a film!

—Victoria Mudd, Academy Award–winning producer of Broken Rainbow and Tibet: Cry of the Snow Lion

Drawing on years of experience living and working with Native Hawaiians, Peek takes us into the spiritual and cultural depths of Hawaiian traditions, masterfully presenting a worldview that deserves our consideration as rampant development threatens to destroy traditional cultures worldwide.

—Edwin Bernbaum, author of Sacred Mountains of the World

A page-turning thriller on the surface, a deep meditation on culture one level down, a spiritual tour-de-force at the core.

—Arthur Rosenfeld (aka Monk Yun Rou), award-winning author of A Cure for Gravity, The Monk of Park Avenue, The Jade Boy, and many other Taoist-inspired books

"Earthquakes, volcanoes and a romance in paradise . . . Daughters of Fire hits the trifecta of a South Seas adventure."

—John C. Dvorak, critically acclaimed author of The Last Volcano, Mask of the Sun, and other science history books

Vividly imaginative in its storytelling, yet stunningly accurate in its rendering of Hawai‘i’s history and contemporary scene . . . Tight, gripping drama that exalts the power and mystery of nature over the supremacy of man. For anyone who can see and feel and know there is sacred all around us.

—Nelson Ho, past chair, Sierra Club Hawai‘i Chapter

An epic tale . . . a mystery of social and political discord . . . a story steeped in culture, mythology, and spirituality. . . . Peek writes about the land with respect [and] the Hawaiian spirit with reverence.

—Misty-Lynn Sanico, cofounder of HawaiiReads.com and independent book reviewer for the Honolulu Star-Advertiser

"If it is dynamic, strong women you like in a story, then this is going to be a favorite. If you are intrigued by the mysticism of the Hawaiian gods and goddesses . . . then Daughters of Fire will be both exciting and educational. . . . There is something for everyone in this great fun book."

—Sheryl Lynch, Librarian, Hawai‘i Public Library in Waianae

"Like a local plate lunch special, [Daughters of Fire is] a mix of many different genres, an unexpected combination of flavors and tastes that work well together. . . . If you’re looking for a book to take on a trip—or to remember your Big Island vacation—this one satisfies."

—Lehua Parker, author of One Boy, No Water and Nani’s Kiss

Peek’s prose flows through the pages with all the rhythm and feeling of the old Hawaiian legends. . . . This one is a treasure.

—ABookAddictsMusings.com

As someone who grew up on the Big Island of Hawai‘i, I appreciate that the book honored the island and its local people. It was hard to put down.

—June Kaililani Tanoue, Kumu Hula of Halau I Ka Pono in Chicago

Copyright © ٢٠٢٣ by Tom Peek https://tompeek.com/novels/All rights reserved.No portion of this book may be reproduced in any fashion, print, facsimile, or electronic, or by any method yet to be developed, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used ficticiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Paperback ISBN 978-1-63226-120-5 eBook ISBN 978-1-63226-121-2 Audiobook ISBN 978-1-63226-122-9

Published by All Night Books An imprint of Easton Studio Press PO Box 3131 Westport, CT 06880
(203) 571-0781 www.allnightbooks.com

Book and cover design by Alexia Garaventa Cover painting Lilinoe by Catherine Robbins Map and illustrations by John D. Dawson

For Aunty Leina‘ala Apiki McCord and her ‘ohana,

and to the other Native Hawaiians whose commitment to aloha is inspired—and protected—by the extraordinary mountain Mauna Kea.

Love and hate cannot occupy the same space.

—Contemporary Hawaiian elder

‘A‘ohe wa‘a ho‘ohoa o ka la ‘ino (No canoe is defiant on a stormy day.)

—Ancient Hawaiian voyaging proverb

The opposite of a great truth is another great truth.

—Physicist Niels Bohr (1885–1962)

History is littered with the remains of great civilizations that chose to die rather than to change their organizing myths.

—Sam Keen, from Hymns to an Unknown God

Author’s Note

Mauna Kea, on the Big Island of Hawai‘i, stands 14,000 feet above the Pacific Ocean, higher even than the Himalayas when measured from its basalt base four miles beneath the sea. Its colossal cinder peaks tower above the coastal clouds, creating the distinct impression of an island in the sky.

Native Hawaiians consider the dormant volcano the archipelago’s most sacred place. Here dwell ancient mountain deities—among them the luminous snow goddess Poli‘ahu—and the bones of Hawaiians’ most revered ancestors rest close to the heavens on this, the highest burial ground in all of Polynesia. Numerous stone shrines built by Hawai‘i’s earliest inhabitants dot its windswept upper slopes, and Hawaiians still brave long treks in thin, chill air to pay homage at these holy monuments.

Stalwart hunters have long trekked Mauna Kea’s upper slopes to stalk mouflon sheep and goats to feed their families and to marvel at its majestic terrain. In more recent times stargazers from afar huddle inside their summit domes, gathering on giant mirrors faint waves of energy emanating from worlds and galaxies light-years away.

Just as oceanic storms blanket the volcano’s peaks with ice and snow, ancient secrets guarded by Hawai‘i’s oldest families cloak Mauna Kea in mystery, so the particulars of this story are by necessity fiction—though not entirely untrue. One notable event did occur as portrayed: Three men died in a fire while building the Japanese Subaru Telescope, and islanders widely believed some grave offense on the mountain had caused the tragedy.

Contents

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Part Two

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Part Three

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Part Four

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Epilogue

Afterword

Acknowledgments

Pronouncing Hawaiian Words

Glossary of Hawaiianand Other Words

Glossary of Primary Characters’ Names

Prologue

A Navigator’s Honor

1268 CE

Hetu and his seven companions hid in a thicket of yellow-blossomed mamane trees, praying the king’s men would not see them—or their precious burden. The choir of yellow-crowned palila, whose birdsong had greeted their dawn arrival, fell silent. Darkness had masked the pilgrims’ nighttime climb up Mauna Kea’s forested flanks, but now, nine thousand feet up, brilliant sunlight exposed the open slope of cinder and scattered trees.

Their discovery of warriors camping on the cross-island trail near Pohakuloa had slowed their clandestine ascent to the summit. Five thousand more feet towered above them, but the next five hundred would be the most dangerous. Beyond that, ancient kapus—taboos set a thousand years earlier—would protect Hetu’s mission from the king’s warriors, now alert to their presence and determined to stop them. Even the ali‘i, whose royal blood gave them every privilege—including the right to kill or enslave those from the time before—dared not pass that sacred line on the mountain, for above it was the holiest place in the archipelago, a realm of female deities where weapons and war were not allowed.

In the fifteen years since arrival of the Tahitians’ harsh regime, Hetu’s chief had been routed and his people subjugated. Their community lands had been confiscated, their social and religious customs replaced, and their deep-seated Hawaiian values compromised. The Tahitian empire, in its quest for new territory, had carefully selected the Hawaiian archipelago to expand its domain. A charismatic priest, Pa‘ao, was sent ahead to befriend the affable natives, catalog their resources, and assess potential resistance to colonization. The welcoming aloha his party had received—during which his hosts innocently showed him all the riches their supreme god had bestowed upon them—convinced Pa‘ao he had not wasted his effort investigating the far-flung volcanoes of Hawai‘i. On his next visit he brought armed warriors, and the Hawaiians, whose families had lived there peaceably for fifty-three generations, watched the priest’s people overrun theirs. Hetu, now forty, had seen all this firsthand, for it was his father’s cousin, Chief Kapawa, whom the Tahitians had deposed.

That morning, seven others from Hetu’s clan climbed beside him: four strong men to carry their sacred burden, one at each corner of the seven-foot litter; his beautiful and courageous cousin Mahina to provide moral support; the village kaula, an oracle priestess with the rare gift of communicating directly with the gods; and Hetu’s fifteen-year-old nephew trained to blow the holy conch. The day before, as they had traversed the broad saddle between the island’s two highest mountains, Mauna Kea’s distant summit peaks, dotted with moon-white silverswords, had inspired them with a feeling of holiness and peace, dissipating their despair from all that had happened to their homeland . . . until they spied the band of warriors.

Now, with ali‘i soldiers in pursuit, Hetu’s group fought their reawakened fears. Hetu’s jaw clenched as he recalled the kaula’s stern rebuke the night before.

We could easily bash their heads with rocks as they sleep, Hetu had proposed. Why should we, who lived peacefully before they arrived, not assail these heartless men of the warlords!

We cannot violate our moral traditions, the wise oracle snapped, her long white hair gently fluttering in the alpine breeze, not without becoming less than human ourselves . . . as they have through their horrors. Those men are themselves terrorized by their rulers and now know only one way to survive. We must call upon our ancestors and the gods to show them another way.

The dim starlight had hidden Hetu’s disappointed face.

Now, as the group climbed amid giant cinder cones, scattered clumps of trees, and silverswords, Hetu scanned the steep terrain to find somewhere to hide. Following instinct lodged in his na‘au—wisdom gathered on previous mountain journeys, including those of his ancestors—he guided the group along the base of a mammoth cone that shielded their movements from the king’s men. Rounding its broad base, he noticed an eroded gully running through a cluster of old mamane trees, a stony route that would leave no footprints. Within moments, all reached the shallow ravine, and setting down their heavy burden, crouched close to the ground.

Hamau! whispered Hetu, a command to silence that hushed even their panting breaths. Then Hetu alone crept up the embankment and peeked through the gnarled mamane. He spotted his royal adversaries, the red-and-gold feather cape of their commanding chief flitting among the trees, and shark-toothed clubs, daggers, and spears in their hands. Hetu’s party carried no weapons, save for their slings to hunt birds for food along the way, for these sailors and fishers were on a holy mission. If caught, they could be sacrificed, mutilated, or enslaved for having fouled the royal lands. Trespass by lesser humans—those with the little mana—was bad enough, but Hetu’s pilgrims had also killed and eaten two nesting ‘ua‘u during their trek and were now thieves of the king’s property as well.

The kaula, descended from the oracle aboard the first canoe of Polynesian migrants, chanted in whispers as the ten warriors searched the stark terrain. She called to ancient gods known for generations in the islands far to the south, and to new gods discovered on Hawai‘i, including those dwelling on the mountain. This much divine help would not have been necessary before the Tahitian conquest, but now their hallowed trek was spurned. Many practices of the old religion had been forced underground, including the kaula’s summit pilgrimages and families’ visits to their mountain shrines and to the high holy lake—to say nothing of burying the extraordinary on Mauna Kea’s highest cones.

The old priestess, flanked by the four muscled carriers, rested her hand on the litter’s secret load, a six-and-a-half-foot bundle wrapped in white tapa cloth stained with ornate symbols of sea and sky—stars, sails, waves, birds, and wind. Inside was the body of a ho‘okele—a navigator—one who had known the ancient star maps of the heavens and embraced the corporeal and occult codes that ruled travel on Pacific waves. But this special sailor had also been the island’s principal navigation teacher, responsible for keeping alive these most revered practices. In fact, the departed had been the last to know the full details of the very first voyage to these sacred isles, until he’d passed them on to Hetu the night before death took him to his ancestors.

It was imperative—for Hetu’s clan, for those from the time before, and for all humans—that the bones of this man of great mana, of spiritual power, be interred on the highest peak of Polynesia, to that place closest to the heavens and where the bones and spirits of other venerated ones reside.

Hetu watched as the warriors emerged from the trees into the open. The ali‘i chief waved his division onward, then stopped suddenly as if struck by a thought. He gazed intently toward the gully that hid the pilgrims. A pure white cloud, moving swiftly up the mountain, framed his bold form.

Hetu, murmured the kaula, approaching from behind, her enormous eyes gleaming.

Please stay down, Hetu whispered, respectfully motioning her toward the ground, but it was too late. The white tapa cloth of the oracle’s robe flashed in the morning sun.

Ho‘onana! blurted the chief, pointing at the kaula. Look!

The soldiers bolted forward, but the oracle remained calm.

We will be safe over there, she said, inside that next cluster of mamane.

Hetu was perplexed. Those trees were too small to provide sufficient cover, and the towering cone behind them would block any escape.

Do not worry, Hetu, assured the kaula. I’m told there is a cave.

Hetu obeyed the oracle and motioned everyone toward the trees. The crouching carriers shuffled forward with the corpse, followed by Mahina and the boy with the conch.

Seeing more movement in front of the cone, the king’s men raced forward, determined to pounce upon the prey they had tracked since dawn. But the expanding cloud behind them also hastened, enveloping the rear soldiers in cold, misty fog.

The ancient priestess strode up onto the embankment and addressed the mountain’s goddess of mists. O Lilinoe, huli mai nana, she chanted with a robust, undulating voice that reverberated off the giant cone. ‘Eia kau pulapula i hele mai nei i ou la no ka po‘e pilikia!

The warriors, recognizing the words of a kaula from the time before, hesitated.

Rush them! cried their leader.

The soldiers crept forward with apprehension; they had heard stories of the mountain’s mystical powers and of the aging bygone kahunas who knew how to call upon them.

Hetu leaped into the cluster of mamane, pushing their branches aside to find the prophesied cave. Yellow blossoms tumbled onto his skin as he pressed ahead. A tangle of tree limbs and three huge lava bombs spit out eons ago by the cone concealed the cave’s shallow entrance. Hetu directed the carriers and corpse inside first. Mahina followed, but the boy with the conch stopped to blow the sacred pu while the kaula chanted the prayers. The haunting moan of human breath blown through the seashell raised bumps on the warriors’ skin.

Come! Hetu whispered loudly. All are inside!

The two moved into the cave, first the boy, then the priestess—still chanting. Before dashing after them, Hetu glanced above the embankment. Only the chief, still two hundred feet away, was visible, all his warriors swallowed up by the fog.

By the time Hetu slipped his broad-shouldered frame into the opening and with the boy muscled a fallen chunk of cave ceiling over the entrance, Mahina had lit a candlenut lamp and taken the lead. The pilgrims’ shadows danced along the ceiling and walls as they moved up the old lava tube. Hetu heard the warriors’ voices as they approached the ravine outside, and he halted to listen.

Where did they go?

I can see nothing in this fog!

Auwe! They have disappeared!

There must be a cave! shouted the chief. We will find it!

But the fog! It’s dark as dusk now!

All of a sudden the cloud was upon us! From where did it come?

The magic of the kahuna, the chief mused. She has spirited them away, or we would certainly have them in our hands!

Hetu then heard footfalls racing up the cinder slope. Ikaika is missing! Fear in the soldier’s voice. He was right behind me!

Could he have stumbled along the route?

A weighty silence followed.

This mountain is strange, said the chief finally, goose bumps erupting across his back. The others muttered their agreement. We must go find Ikaika, he declared, and get out of this wretched fog!

Hetu smiled as the warriors’ footfalls faded. He thanked Ke Akua—the Supreme One—for providing the cave, and the goddess Lilinoe for the fog. By day’s end, another great ancestor had found his resting place on the holy peaks of Mauna Kea.

The early Hawaiians who had risked their lives to honor their revered ones would all but vanish under the new regime. A clandestine remnant survived for many generations, but apparently they, too, disappeared. But not their legacy. That lived on in the ancestral memories of the men and women who, despite generations of intermarriage with the conquerors, still carried their DNA.

The Tahitians brought a contentious seed of competition to the volcanic archipelago, and centuries of interfamilial conflict ensued. Despite the bloody turmoil played out at the coast, the bones of the great navigators buried high on Mauna Kea remained undisturbed for almost seven hundred years, guiding those who felt their spirit toward peace, light, and love—virtues honed by generations making long voyages at sea and living simply on small islands.

Later, a new empire took over the archipelago, a continental people less familiar with the sea and ignorant of the cooperative rules that voyaging and island life demand. The new conquerors had little regard for the past, even their own, a strange rootless people looking only to the future.

Part One

Chapter 1

Back to The Other World

Seven hundred and fifty years later . . .

Erik Peterson, his strapping frame hunched over the sloop’s navigation station, gazed at the captain’s chart of the Hawaiian Islands, and his heart sank. Under the swaying lamp, light and shadow swept over the young sailor as he recalled the last time he’d sailed these waters, three years earlier on his desperate escape to the South Seas. Had he not been sailing back to Hawai‘i from the lovely South Pacific islands, this boat delivery might have pleased him, but to Erik, after three years happily out of America, approaching the shores of its fiftieth state felt like being blown off course.

Nothing but the urgent need for money could have compelled the expatriate’s return—real money, the kind you could make quickly in the States, even in Hawai‘i, which to him, in the twenty-first century, had looked more like California than the South Seas. He ran his fingers over the raw scar under his shirt and cursed the only bad luck he’d had in the south islands. Every dollar of his pitiful savings had gone into that sewed-up hole, to pay an American doctor on Samoa who’d cut out his burst appendix.

Goddammit! he hissed, clenching so hard his jaw muscles flexed. "I’m heading back to the other world."

The specter of Jack’s wan, lifeless body nudging the weedy riverbank floated up into Erik’s mind. Suddenly claustrophobic, tangy sweat dampening his shirt, he pulled a Marlboro from his pack. Shit, he cursed under his breath, remembering the captain’s below-deck smoking ban, and jammed the cigarette behind an ear.

Erik pushed himself up from the nav station and stepped into the galley, where cool sea air drifted down the companionway. Braced between spar and cupboard, he poured a second mug of coffee, fortification for the four-hour watch ahead. Although usually his favorite stint at the wheel—when night turned gradually into day—the solo monotony of these watches afforded only the company of his mood, and on this long passage that nightly companion had been dark. Indeed, Erik was again smoking a pack a day.

From Samoa to Hawai‘i was a third of the way back to his former home in Minnesota—way too close to the source of unhealed wounds from all he’d lost there. For half a decade Erik had vacillated about leaving his beloved Mississippi River until finally his grief overwhelmed his roots, and he abandoned the life he’d built there. The balmy winds, affable islanders, and soothing beauty of the South Seas had pushed his woe beneath the surface, but his heart still carried the wounds, and going back now would only invite danger. Never good at sorrow, Erik’s paternal Viking blood could default to anger, and while he’d also inherited his mother’s tender Irish American heart, half of him was fiercely Danish.

Pouring his black brew, a picture of his rustic houseboat beside the river washed into his mind, Becky sunning naked in a deck chair while his buddy Jack, sequestered in that tiny rear cabin, rewrote yet again his doomed manuscript. More images came unbidden: his vacant Peterson Pictures’ studio downtown; ten years of photographs stored in his brother’s attic with his father’s yellowing Cottonwood Weekly editorials; that final swim in the river before shuttering his houseboat. His body shook. How many times can a man start his life over?

For three years Erik had wandered the South Sea Islands, using his lifelong familiarity with boats to earn subsistence wages as a deckhand on yachts. He was surprised at how much he felt at home on the sea and how quickly he’d picked up the nautical skills to crew sailboats. He’d also discovered that the far-flung Polynesians had much in common with the down-home river folk of his youth. The islanders’ custom was to welcome strangers, and over time Erik developed friendships—even a few brief romances—throughout the islands. Life had been good, far from the turmoil back home, and the optimism he’d inherited from his parents began to reemerge as he sailed through a remote part of the world that still seemed enchanted. He’d even started taking pictures again.

And then, just when he’d decided never to return to the States, his appendix burst.

Irritated by the way his trembling hand shook the coffee mug, Erik climbed the companionway and peeked out into the cockpit. Manu, the Samoan crewman, stood at the wheel, a bold silhouette beneath a halo of stars.

Good morning, friend, Manu greeted, noticing that Erik’s cheeks, easily flushed with the slightest emotion, were bright pink.

Spotted Hawai‘i yet? Erik asked, feigning buoyancy.

Manu shook his head.

Erik settled into a cockpit seat with his coffee and scanned the dark horizon, but his mind was on the river. As he steadily emptied the mug, anger rose in his chest, and he grieved afresh how everything he’d learned growing up in a remote Minnesota river town became irrelevant in the America emerging in the new century.

He retrieved the Marlboro from behind his ear and dug into his khakis for a match, his tropical shirt fluttering in the stiff wind. Inside it, suspended by a leather thong, dangled an urchin spine etched with a bold tiki image of a Polynesian god given to him by a Mangarevan for protection.

You look cold, Manu said, the Samoan bundled up in blue jeans and a thick cotton sweater.

Vikings thrive on cold, Erik laughed, but his hand still shook as he shielded flame and cigarette. His shock of blond hair, bleached pearl from the southern sun, caught each gust of wind, and his dark-blue eyes glimmered in the glow issuing from below deck. This is nothing compared to Minnesota.

Lucky we missed Hurricane Wanana, Manu said, adjusting the main sheet to let out more wind. For more than a week, the captain had tracked that Central Pacific storm through NOAA dispatches. It had passed just south of Hawai‘i two days earlier, but fortunately had brought only strong winds and downpours to their passage.

Last of our South Seas luck, Erik muttered bitterly, but the wind kept his sneer from Manu’s ears.

The ship’s bell rang eight times—four o’clock—and the two young men switched places. The captain’s weathered face emerged above the companionway, his eyes caulked with mucus and his tangled gray beard torqued comically to one side. What’s your heading, Ishmael? he said, using his droll moniker for Erik. An avid reader in port, the old salt often nicknamed transient crew, matching what he’d noticed in them with South Seas literary characters.

Still holding five degrees.

Any sign of the light at South Point?

Nothing, sir, said Manu. It’s been slow going . . . no letup in the wind.

The old sailor cursed quietly, then returned to his berth, where he would doze until eight o’clock bells signaled his turn at the wheel. Manu followed him.

Would you wake me, Erik, when you first notice Hawai‘i Island? the Samoan said from the companionway. I’ve heard about it all my life . . . the volcanoes and the snowy mountains. I can’t wait to see it!

I’ll do that, Erik replied, wishing it was Tonga, Mangareva, or Mo‘orea that lay ahead. A feeling of foundering gripped him, bringing to his mind Melville’s image of the maelstrom that had seized the remnants of Captain Ahab’s whale-shattered Pequod.

Alone, Erik settled into his nightly contemplation, watching stars rise and set at the rim of a gigantic stellar bowl under which the tiny boat rose and fell atop great breasts of wave. The primal beauty of the rolling sea and a starry sky streaked with meteors temporarily salved his grief, but anxieties kept intruding on that calm.

I never wanted to leave this, he muttered sadly. Why? Why am I forced to leave now? And again he worried that his share of the boat delivery fee would barely set him up in Hawai‘i. More vexing, could he find sufficient work there to save the money to get back to the South Seas? Another picture of his rustic houseboat beside the river floated into his mind, but by force of will, he sank it.

Chapter 2

Signs

An hour after changing the helm, Erik noticed a reddish glow dead ahead, visible whenever Albatross rode high up on the swells. It remained off the bow, barely growing as the sloop advanced, so he concluded that it was on land rather than a ship. When dawn’s first pinks began to backdrop the rising star of Arcturus, Erik noticed the broad silhouettes of two giant mountains visible above the sea. A band of gray clouds hugged the island, a patch of which glowed red.

Kilauea must be erupting again . . . , Erik muttered to himself, recalling its fiery lava pouring into the sea three years earlier as his vessel of escape skirted the Big Island on its passage south. A moment after that realization, the snowcapped summits of Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa turned peach with dawn’s first light.

He was about to inform Manu when a sudden commotion in the waters off the starboard side startled him. Instinctively he steered the sloop to port, and the canvas, suddenly full of wind, leaned the boat over. Erik righted the sloop and the turbulence passed astern. No fin broke the surface, and no spume either, but late autumn had arrived, when humpbacks return from Alaska, and a surfacing whale could deal a nasty blow to a boat, perhaps even sink her.

When Erik turned forward, he spotted a brilliant white light atop the taller mountain to the east, Mauna Kea. Its luminescence was as primordial as the sun, and he stood spellbound at the wheel, noticing that it cast a soft shadow off the jib.

Again the waters stirred beside the boat, this time to port. Unable to point higher to windward without luffing the sails, Erik held steady and felt the turbulence pass beneath the aft quarter.

What the . . . ? Again seeing no fluke, fin, or spume, he hailed the captain. Skipper! Up top! Quick!

Within moments both the captain and Manu were on deck. As the sun bathed Hawai‘i’s distant peaks in yellow light, Erik described what had happened. But he made no mention of the intense beacon he’d seen atop the mountain, now gone.

The puzzled captain scanned the empty seas with his own eyes, then sat down beside the binnacle. Did it look like a patch of eddy beside the boat?

Erik nodded, and Manu shook his head.

The captain grasped the rail and peered into the passing waves. The young men watched the face of the aging vagabond who’d spent forty years plying the South Seas.

So you’ve seen this kind of thing before? Erik said.

Aye, he allowed. Some odd permutation of the currents, I reckon. But a Marquesan I crewed with off Nuku Hiva claimed it was the sea itself sending a message. He pressed flat his crooked beard and thought for a long minute. Safe anchorages are rare in this wily world, he mused. I think we should sail on to Honolulu and skip that Big Island layover we’d talked about. Let’s set a course for the leeward side and get out of this squally wind!

The skipper went below, but Manu lingered on deck, his eyes fixed on Mauna Kea and its sunlit cap of snow.

All my life I’ve heard of that mountain, he muttered in reverie.

Really?

"Oh, yeah . . . stories told by elders on Samoa. And matua from Rarotonga and other islands."

The next morning at 4:00 a.m., the boat having spent a full day passing the Big Island in the calmer lee of Kona, Erik was again alone at the helm, beginning its crossing of the legendary ‘Alenuihaha Channel between Hawai‘i and Maui. Here, strong currents converged between the two mountainous islands while their flanks funneled the prevailing trades into fierce gales. Those winds and the waves they spawned—primal forces Hawaiians attribute to the ancient sea deity Kanaloa—created channel conditions capable of swamping vessels, even on crystal-clear nights like this. Indeed, these were the same seas where fierce winds had famously dismasted British captain James Cook, forcing him back to Kealakekua Bay—and his death at the hands of Hawaiian warriors. Another mythic maelstrom came to Erik’s mind, the one that had seized Captain Nemo’s misanthropic sanctuary, the Nautilus. He’d tried to run from the madness too, Erik muttered.

Unprotected in the channel, Albatross already heeled 30 degrees. The rigging howled and constant spray off windblown swells kept Erik buttoned up in his yellow slicker. Manu and the captain slept fitfully below the battened cockpit hatch. Wet and already weary from an hour steering through these adrenaline-stirring conditions, Erik watched the bow dive under yet another swell.

Damn sea! he cussed.

The ocean replied with a mountainous swell that tossed Erik into the binnacle. Goose bumps erupted under his slicker, a chill he recognized, that internal call that had warned him off the Mississippi in high water or at the first inkling of approaching storms. An inexplicable urge compelled him to glance back at the receding island of Hawai‘i, its snowcapped volcanoes silhouetted by purple predawn light. High up in the following swell, protruding above its frothy wake, rode a small pale head with dark round eyes staring at him.

Erik squinted through the spray. Now what? he gasped, his heart racing. Apparition?

He twisted rearward from the wheel and peered over the aft rail. "What the hell do you want!" he blurted.

The ghostly face dropped into the swell.

The captain slid open the hatch and peeked out from the companionway. You call me, Ishmael?

Erik’s cheeks reddened. No, skipper . . . just cussing the wind.

The old sailor shook his head and returned to his berth. When Erik looked aft, the ghostly face, streaming with seawater, had returned, now only a boat’s length beyond the transom. Its sheeny eyes gleamed from inside a furrowed robe of moon-colored fur.

Taunting me for leaving the South Seas, are you? Erik muttered with disdain.

Another wave broke over the boat, drenching Erik in an icy shower. He wiped the saltwater from his eyes and glared at the face. Its probing gaze seemed not to belong to an animal, and yet reason told Erik it must be. Are you some kind of seal? he wondered. In these remote waters? That notion seemed almost as crazy as his first reaction.

"Auuooooooowaa!" the specter yowled in a low rumbling voice that raised more goose bumps but also brought to Erik’s mind the soulful, haunting hoots of the great horned owls that had greeted him on his nighttime journeys down the river.

You have some message? he replied.

The apparition rolled back toward Hawai‘i Island and vanished beneath the swell. Every few minutes Erik glanced back from the wheel to see if his ghostly companion had returned, but it never did.

The eerie mood of the passage dissolved with the rising sun and the need to call the captain and Manu back on deck to reef the mainsail in the strengthening daytime winds.

Anything to report? the captain said, taking the wheel.

Spotted some weird flotsam, that’s all. If I’d been drinking I’d have sworn I’d seen an ivory seal.

The skipper laughed. He knew that monk seals—oldest pinnipeds on Earth—inhabited these waters but rarely showed themselves. Ya sure it wasn’t a mermaid? he scoffed.

The unsettled weather persisted, and after passing the calmer lees of Maui and Moloka‘i, the Kaiwi Channel was almost as windy as the ‘Alenuihaha. In the daytime the ghostly specter did not reappear, and by nightfall, as the lights of Honolulu twinkled far to the north, Erik decided his imagination had just run amok.

Early the next evening, as the craggy volcano Diamond Head appeared off the starboard quarter, the three sailors chatted in the cockpit.

"I’ll be glad to be done with this boat delivery," the captain said, sipping a whiskey at the wheel, his whiskered face aglow in the day’s last light.

Manu nodded. Long passage, he said, relishing the first can of beer the skipper had allowed since they’d left Samoa, almost always against the wind.

And wet half the time, the captain added, what with that typhoon dancing around the neighborhood!

To say nothing about that strange crossing of the ‘Alenuihaha Channel, Erik thought, drawing deeply on his cigarette.

The old vagabond shook his head. "Why in hell anyone would name his boat Albatross is beyond me."

Why not? Manu said. It’s a splendid bird.

Aye, and there was a time when its appearance at sea indicated good fortune, but now that bird carries a mixed message. You don’t want an albatross around your neck, eh?

The Samoan shook his head. I don’t understand.

It goes back to an old Pacific yarn about an ill-fated voyage. The providential bird guides the crew out of the ice and fog off Antarctica, but the unnerved mariner shoots the albatross with his crossbow and all goes bad. As penance, the crew forces him to wear the dead bird around his neck.

Oh, I see, Manu said, a good sign not recognized turns into a curse.

The old sailor rattled the ice cubes in his glass. Yep.

Erik’s cheeks flushed. I’m with you, skipper, he said, dropping his cigarette butt into his spent Budweiser can. The sooner we’re off this boat the better, by which he also meant, the sooner I can earn some money and find my way back to the South Seas!

Three F-22 Raptors shattered the quiet as they soared high above the boat on their way back to Hickam Air Force Base. The other world, Erik thought, shaking his head. An hour later, in dusky twilight, the skipper spotted a Navy submarine setting out from Pearl Harbor. Captain Nemo would have sunk that warship too! Erik quipped, by then feeling his second beer.

The skipper grinned. "If it didn’t sink the Nautilus first."

Captain Nemo? Manu asked.

"Another renegade hiding out at sea. You’ll find that novel stowed in Vailima’s library, he said proudly, referring to his own little sloop anchored in Pago Pago. I’ll show you when we get back to Samoa."

That night Albatross moored under the gaudy lights of Waikiki’s Ala Wai Yacht Harbor, where its tired crew would wait on board for the sloop’s San Francisco owners. Between myriad tasks to ready the boat, Erik searched for work, checking newspapers and the employment bureau downtown. Bumper-to-bumper traffic, big-box stores, throngs of tourists, and the constant racket of new construction further darkened Erik’s mood. Here was Minneapolis with palm trees and shave ice!

He couldn’t believe all the people striding down sidewalks with cell phones at their ears or staring at texts and emails on their screens, oblivious to the tropical scene around them. He smiled bitterly, recalling how he’d ceremoniously tossed his own iPhone into the ocean off the coast of Niue during his first months at sea.

As the days passed, some new elements made urban Waikiki even more difficult for Erik. Homeless islanders he saw one day near the beach disappeared the next, swiftly removed by police as part of the city’s Clean Sweep Initiative. About time they got those vermin outta here! commented a fashionably clad yachtsman moored in an adjacent berth. Meanwhile, thefts—almost unheard of in the south islands—occurred regularly in neighborhoods near the harbor, and sailors warned Erik never to leave anything of value untended on the beach. It’s ’cause o’ da drugs, brah, said a local bartender, ice and heroin.

Most disturbing of all, the locals, even the Hawaiians long renowned for affability, had taken on a surly edge. Indeed, he sensed something unsettled in the O‘ahu air, like the early gusts before a squall, a feeling he picked up whenever he caught a tortured look from a local or noticed another DEFEND Hawai‘i graphic on a truck, T-shirt, or cap, its avowal accompanied by a drawing of an AR-15 assault rifle.

A week of job interviews passed without success, and Erik realized that his being a just-arrived haole—foreigner—didn’t help. He, too, grew surly, twice lashing out at Manu, who had only sensed Erik’s submerged anger during their weeks at sea. One Sunday morning Erik sat on Waikiki Beach cursing his bad luck when the classified section of the Honolulu Star-Advertiser blew across his feet. He snatched it off the sand and mocked each help wanted ad aloud—until he came upon a new state posting for a part-time job as a cook’s assistant on Mauna Kea. Candidates must be able to work with minimum supervision in a remote base camp 9,300 feet above sea level, read the ad, and be in physical condition to travel to the mountain’s 14,000-foot summit, two aspects of the job that no doubt explained its better-than-usual wages and benefits.

The next morning he mailed in the required forms with a letter pitching himself as a thirty-three-year-old deck hand just back from the South Seas, in excellent health and eager to work on Hawai‘i’s tallest volcano. He also boasted his solid cooking skills from several years of