Ocean: The Awakening (9 page)

Chapter 16

In the past few days, Gwyneth had been wondering if she should invite Dr. Halberton to learn more about her cherished secret world. He seemed like a very nice man, and she wanted to trust him.

Thus far she had only provided him with a couple of clues, and he’d been excited by them. The afternoon before, he’d said to her, “What does a blue circle mean? And ‘H
2
O’? A blue circle of water? Or, a circle of blue water? Do you mean the ocean that makes up most of the world? Is that what you’re trying to say? You do have a picture of a whale on your wall.”

She had not answered, but had been impressed that he’d interpreted her clues correctly, and had come up with the correct answer, though it was no more than a framework on which to hang much more significant information, if she chose to do so. But should she go to the next step with him? Could this doctor be trusted with what she had to say about the ocean, her dire predictions? He seemed to be concerned for her and well-intentioned, but what if he didn’t do the right thing with the precious information? What if she wasn’t taken seriously?

Gwyneth didn’t think the information she had developed, and her calculations, would alert national security authorities against her if it got out, or cause anyone to harm her. But in the wrong hands, the ocean information could be interpreted as further “evidence” that she was not of sound mind, and that she needed to be medicated more or sent to another, even more draconian facility. At least she was beginning to understand this place, and getting used to it. She had developed a regular routine, some aspects of which she actually looked forward to—such as kicking a ball around the exercise yard and chasing it wherever it went, within that enclosure.

Today she had eaten her cafeteria lunch quickly and had hurried out into the exercise yard, noting the staff attendant who shadowed her, a man in a gray smock who watched her all the time when she was out of her room, making notes about her in his hand-held electronic device, taking pictures of her sometimes, and transmitting all of it to his superiors. She had not seen Dr. Halberton today, and his normal visits to her had been replaced by nurses and an elderly instructor in math and the physical sciences, a woman who knew far less than Gwyneth about those subjects.

The weather was brisk, as cold as it was on many mornings when she came out here after breakfast, although the courtyard-like area did provide some shelter from the winds. Today she wore warm trousers, a sweater, and a jacket, along with dark sunglasses, because the sunlight was bothering her. She’d heard a doctor say that autistic people didn’t like bright lights, but this was something she did not always feel. At times, she enjoyed being in sunlight without hiding from it behind dark glasses. It made her wonder about the diagnosis of autism that had been placed on her, a diagnosis she carried with her like a stigma.

On the grass of the compound, there were a number of rubber balls of different sizes and colors. One was blue like the ocean, but to confuse the people monitoring her, she selected one that was yellow instead, and gave it a hard kick that sent it airborne for a good, satisfying distance. It bounced off one of the stone walls and caromed wildly to one side, where she chased it.

As she was playing, she noticed a young patient who had smiled at her that day in the cafeteria, though she’d heard others saying how foul-tempered he was, and emotionally unstable. Now he was striding around a track at the perimeter of the yard, being monitored by another attendant; a big, burly man who might have a weapon under his smock. Gwyneth wasn’t sure what the young man’s mental diagnosis was, but did know his name: Beavan DeLorean. Tall and heavy, he had a cherubic face, but the eyes were dark and distant, suggesting torment and perhaps even electroshock therapy—a cruel and primitive treatment that Gwyneth feared herself, for the harm it would surely do to her wondrous mind.

Again, DeLorean smiled at her, and waved casually, then continued on his way, finally going through the main doorway that led back into the building.

Gwyneth almost felt free when she was running in the compound, at least as free as she could physically, because for the most part it was her
physical
self that was confined and controlled—and it was her mental awareness that she kept away from people, to the extent possible. Yet her mind contained important information, things she could not keep to herself forever, things that she
should not
keep to herself. Too much was at stake. The planet was at stake, because if the ocean was imperiled, the Earth itself could die. Almost 71% of the world’s surface was ocean, containing around 97% of the water supply. Plant forms growing in the seas provided more than 50% of the oxygen on Earth.

The ocean was
deep
—an average depth of around 12,000 feet worldwide, with marine life forms at a range of depths, all the way down to 35,800 feet in the Mariana Trench. Gwyneth had run mental calculations to determine what a huge volume of water there was in the seas, in comparison with the space available for life on land. She had also calculated damage from oil spills, sewage dumping, toxic waste dumping, plastics in the water, and other human intrusions, and could predict approximately how many marine animals would die in the coming year, and beyond.

Sadly, tragically, the ocean was dying. Of that, she had no doubt. She had run the data and calculations in her mind over and over to form projections, processing it all as if she were a supercomputer, and then reprocessing it, coming at the subject from different angles, from every conceivable angle. Within a margin of error of two years, she knew when the ocean would die, losing its oxygen and going sterile, after which the world would essentially end, because most life on the planet would die without healthy seas.

She knew all of this without any doubt.

The various life forms occupied niches, integral parts of a planet-wide ecosystem of land, air, and water. The seas were already perishing in sections, their oxygen levels depleted, and as this occurred, the original organisms that lived in those dead zones either died or moved away. Already, there were hundreds of ocean wastelands around the planet. For a time, replacement organisms would move in that did not depend on oxygen, such as jellyfish or chemical life forms. But ultimately, the living organisms would all cycle down and vanish, as the environmental niches—with all of their complex interactions of predators and prey—were wiped out. No matter how she examined the data, she saw an avalanche of species die-offs occurring, inevitably resulting in the extinction of all ocean species.

There were already signs of that apocalyptic future, dark and ominous signs. From the mysterious flow of data into her mind, she knew the exact life and death statistics on every species in the ocean, from the whales to the krill they ate, to even smaller organisms—and the numbers were not good. The trends were frightening.

Some life forms—perhaps the hardiest chemical organisms around deep volcanic vents or bacteria on the seabed, or amphibians that could take refuge on the land—might survive and begin the march of sea-creature evolution again if oxygen ever returned to the water, spanning millions and millions of years. But it would be even more difficult for them than it had been for their ancestors because of the damage done to the waters by humans. Nature had a way of healing itself, but there were limits to what it could accomplish.

All the seas of the Earth would die within the next two hundred years. It was much bigger than the signs that other people were noticing, such as dying coral reefs and fish species going extinct in modern times. And more than the survival of the fittest.

This was much, much bigger.

Secretly, Gwyneth went through additional calculations now as she ran around the exercise yard, kicking the yellow ball, but not laughing, not releasing the mounting stress she felt inside, the immense burden of responsibility for the information that had been entrusted to her. She felt like a caretaker of the vast amount of data, and, ultimately, of the ocean itself. All of it was in her safekeeping. She ran faster and faster around the yard until she had trouble breathing, while her mind kept speeding through its complex, disturbing cycles. Her emotions ran wild, from sadness to frustration, and increasing anger over what human beings had done to the beautiful waters of the planet.

Wherever humans go
, she thought,
they leave filth and destruction in their path. Humans are pigs.

As she stopped and took long, deep breaths to recover, she noticed two small gray gulls gliding toward her, and they landed on her shoulders, one on each. She saw their round, nervous eyes next to her own, and the beaks that could injure, or even blind, her. But these were friends, non-threatening.

Rummaging in a pocket of her jacket, she brought out a folded piece of bread, salvaged from lunch. She broke it into little pieces, which she fed to the birds, watching them grab the morsels eagerly, and actually share the treat. Finally, when she gave them the last of the pieces, the gulls flew off with food in their beaks, perhaps to share with others, or to find some water to wash it down. One of the remarkable things she had learned was that these shorebirds could drink saltwater without ill effect, processing it through the specialized organs of their bodies. It was but one of the many marvelous things she had learned about the ocean.

Hearing a bell ring, marking the end of her exercise period, Gwyneth left the ball and walked toward the double doors that led back into the building. Glancing back, she saw the attendant keeping pace with her, and then turning away when she reached her room and entered. The door locked automatically when it closed behind her.

Inside, she removed her sunglasses and saw Dr. Halberton awaiting her. He sat at the table in the center of room, with a tablet of paper and a thick black-lead pencil in front of him. “For your lesson today, Gwyneth, I want you to draw as many images as you can think of. Whatever pictures come into your mind.” He motioned for her to sit with him.

Gwyneth nodded, but hesitantly. Taking a seat across from him, she felt like she wanted to tell him more, yet she was not certain how to phrase something so momentous, or whether to use words or symbols. So the teenager took the pencil, but just sat there with it, thinking, struggling to come up with a way of putting a thought into a word or combination of words, or a picture. A stream of images came to mind, but none were satisfactory. None of the pictures in her mind quite represented the next level of information she wanted to pass on to him—information about the ocean, and where it and the world were headed.

Sometimes pictures were easier for her, especially when she created symbols such as the blue circle representing the planet’s ocean, or wrote the formula for water. But this time the autistic girl was able to visualize words easier, and she envisioned them flowing across a page. They were
her
words, in her own private system, but would not come in any order that she could express coherently to others. They would seem jumbled to anyone hearing them, even to this doctor who was trying to help her, and who had been so perceptive in the past.

Finally, the teenager shook her head and put down the pencil, then looked at him apologetically. She found herself unable to convey anything more to him, not an image of any sort, nor a sound, nor any form of a clue.

***

Chapter 17

Alicia had her own car, a small Japanese import, but it was at the repair shop getting its steering and wheel alignment repaired, damage caused by the rough Wanaao-area roads. The Ellsworth Ranch had a small fleet of Jeeps available to her in the interim, all kept in good repair in the maintenance shop, adjacent to the horse stables.

Early in the morning, Alicia picked up one of the Jeeps and drove to the agreed-upon pickup point at Kimo’s fruit stand on the Wanaao Road, where he left his young friend Billie Hama to run the business. The vehicle had a canvas top that was on because it might rain, with the side zipper-windows open to let in the pungent air. She wore a khaki Australian-outback hat with the side flaps buttoned up, giving her a stylish appearance.

“As you can see, I’m a big-shot executive,” Kimo said as he climbed into the front passenger seat and pulled the door shut. He carried a small knapsack, which he put in the back. “I have people chauffeuring me around and running my store. It doesn’t get any better than this.”

With a grin, Alicia said, “Watch it, Mister, or this date will be over before it starts.”

He nodded. “Okay, I’ll be on good behavior. I promise. I brought some fresh papayas and bananas for us to eat. And something you might not like very much, a seaweed salad.”

“I’m sure I’ll love it,” she said, noting that it was in a small insulated container. “I brought spicy Hawaiian chicken from the ranch kitchen,” she added, “and guava juice.”

“We’ll feast like royalty,” he said.

Alicia put the Jeep in gear, and they rolled along the bumpy, washboard surface of the road. “If I saw your normal personality, instead of the ‘good behavior’ version, would I like you?”

“My normal personality, eh?” He thought for a moment. “Well, you might. I am kind of playful, and I like to tickle people.”

“Just anyone?”

“No, only cute
wahinis
like you.”

She did not find his comment amusing; considered it somewhat sexist. But she didn’t want to jump to any conclusions about him. He seemed a little nervous, and her own attitude was not helping the situation. “I see. Just hold off on that until I give approval, all right?”

“Sure. Sorry, I was only kidding.”

Alicia saw a red and yellow tour bus parked ahead, at a vista that was popular for looking out on the sea. The vehicle was a twenty-passenger model, with a canvas top, open at the sides. It was the largest bus normally used on these narrow, badly paved roads.

As they drew closer, Kimo said, “Pull up alongside. That lady boarding is my mother. She’s going to talk to the tourists, and we can listen in. She’s not a tour guide, but sometimes she’s asked to speak on various subjects that are of historical or spiritual significance. She knows many interesting stories about our area.”

“Sounds like fun.” As Alicia parked the Jeep she saw the large Hawaiian woman take a standing position at the front of the bus, where she held a microphone. Alicia had seen Kimo’s mother at the last town meeting, when she spoke of the need to stop polluting and plundering the ocean, and got into a horrible argument with Alicia’s grandfather.

“My name is Ealani Pohaku,” she said, to the tourists. “My family has lived in Wanaao for many generations, going back to the bygone days when Hawaiian royalty vacationed here. Some of my ancestors were warriors, and spilled blood defending our beautiful land. If any of you see me on another day, I may speak more of that. But now I want to tell all of you something that is very important. You must heed my words carefully, for your own safety, and for the safety of your families.”

Alicia looked quizzically at Kimo. He just nodded toward his mother, who didn’t seem to have noticed them there.

“Never, never take a piece of volcanic rock off any of these islands, not even the smallest fragment, or it will enrage Madam Pele—the goddess of the volcanoes—and she will put a terrible curse on you.” She paused, amid nervous murmuring and tittering among some of the passengers. “This is no laughing matter. Believe me, Madam Pele will hunt you down wherever you are, and your family, too, and awful things will happen.”

“My grandfather put up signs in the hotel warning about that,” Alicia said to Kimo, in a low voice. “I made them for him.”

He looked surprised, then said, “I am pleased to hear he did that. It shows respect for our traditions.” Then he leaned close, and added in a low voice, “That portion of the Madame Pele story might not be authentic, but my mother likes it anyway, because it teaches outsiders to respect our beautiful islands.”

Ealani proceeded to tell a number of anecdotes, which she insisted were true, including the story of a child who took a pebble back to Cincinnati and was then killed when a car veered out of control and hit him while he was riding his bicycle. She also told of a honeymooning couple who returned to New York City and put a piece of volcanic rock on the dresser in their bedroom. They were unable to conceive a child until after they learned of the curse, and made arrangements to return the rock safely to Hawaii.

“What about volcanic dust on our shoes?” a man asked. “Should we clean our shoes thoroughly before boarding the plane, or leave our shoes here?”

Alicia saw Ealani smile. “You may keep your shoes without worrying too much. Madam Pele regularly sends winds to the mainland to pick up tiny bits of volcanic dust that wander away.”

“What if a person is not aware of the prohibition and takes a rock home?” a young woman asked.

Ealani nodded. “That is somewhat like the question asked of devout Christians, ‘Can a person still get into heaven if he has never heard of Jesus Christ?’ They would answer ‘no’, and so must I. Whenever a fragment of a sacred volcano is willfully removed, Madam Pele does not recognize nuances of guilt, or even ignorance. Anyone coming to the Hawaiian Islands carries a moral obligation to learn our customs. There are no excuses for not doing so, no excuses for improper behavior. It is a matter of showing consideration for our culture, and we take this very seriously.”

The Hawaiian woman then told a number of amusing stories about the
menehune
, little fairy people who were said to live in the Hawaiian Islands. Also called “night marchers”, they supposedly walked over rooftops at night, and played tricks on people as they slept.

When Ealani was finished (and the tourists applauded her), she stepped off the bus, where Kimo greeted her and introduced her to Alicia.

“It is very nice to meet you,” Ealani said. “Kimo has spoken of you. You are quite lovely.” As the big woman shook Alicia’s hand, Ealani held on for a long time before letting go. Her large hands were calloused but gentle, and her round, tanned face seemed to have permanent smile lines.

“Thank you.” Though Ealani was obviously of Polynesian blood, like Kimo, her face was wider than his, and her eyes, nose, and mouth were different, bearing no resemblance to him.

Alicia offered the woman a ride, but she declined, pointing to a footpath across the road that led into the dense jungle, with its vivid green tones on leaves and broad, leafy fronds. “Our house is only a short distance up the hill,” she said.

At the ranch stable, Alicia had already arranged for the horses, without giving Kimo’s name, so they were saddled and waiting. The stable boy handed Kimo the reins of an energetic black stallion, while Alicia took a smaller Morgan named Hula that she had ridden often, a pretty brown mare with a white face and chest, and white hooves.

“I assume my steed is called Diablo?” he asked, as the American saddle horse pulled away from him and neighed. Kimo held on to the reins, with difficulty.

“You said you were an experienced rider.”

“That doesn’t mean I can handle anything. I was cow-kicked by a horse the last time I rode—it hit me with a hind leg when I was standing next to it.”

“That hurts. I’ve had it happen, too.”

“I don’t think this horse likes me. Would you like to trade?”

“We could find you something else, but he’s not dangerous. His name is Sundancer, and he’s just testing you a little. He does that to every new rider. Give the reins a strong pull to show him who’s boss—but not too hard. You don’t want to hurt him.”

She watched as he did as she instructed, just one firm tug that caused the animal to settle down immediately.

“Sundancer has never thrown anyone, so don’t worry.” She put the food and several plastic containers of water into saddlebags on the horses.

After giving Kimo a few minutes to get accustomed to the stallion, she led the way through a wooden gate and across a sunny pasture, then headed up a grassy slope that was gentle at first and gradually grew steeper. They went through another gate, and reached a jungle trail that continued upward, at times zigzagging in shade and at other times going straight up the slope in the sun, over a path of pulverized lava. The horses were sure-footed, and walked at a strong, steady pace as they climbed.

She kept looking back to make sure Kimo was all right, and saw that he was leaning forward on the black horse, lowering his center of gravity as they went uphill and avoiding any overhanging branches or leaves. His instincts appeared to be good.

“We are still on my grandfather’s property,” she said. “It runs right up the side of the volcano, all the way to the top.”

“Ancient Hawaiian land grants ran from the top of the mountain to the sea,” Kimo said. “There are remnants of old rock walls around here that marked those old land boundaries, before the immigrant white families combined many smaller native plots into large parcels.” He pointed to a section of black lava wall.

She knew the story of such rock boundaries, had seen a number of intact, picturesque examples in the Wanaao region.

Partway up the slope, at around two thousand feet in elevation, Kimo said he’d been here before. He led the way onto a rocky side trail that went to a vista point where they could see part of the winding ribbon of road that continued up to the top. A number of bicyclists were speeding down the paved road, an exhilarating experience that Alicia had done once, and intended to do again. She could also see two young men on hang gliders, soaring out away from the mountain on thermals. Having lived in Hawaii for less than a year, she had not tried that yet, but was anxious to do so.

Kimo called out to her, and pointed to a side trail that went down slope into a jungle clearing, where there was a lookout. “There’s a nice picnic spot over there. Shall we?”

“Sure, why not?” She had lowered the flaps of her outback hat for more protection from the sun. Her horse fidgeted, moving its feet around on the rocky surface.

They negotiated the short trail. Then, after making sure the animals were tied up in shade and had water, Alicia joined him on a sunny lava promontory. He had set up a picnic cloth there, for the chicken, fruit, small bottles of locally-produced guava juice, and an unusual salad with pieces of kelp and leafy, dark-green seaweed. The lookout perch provided sweeping views of the pastures, homes, and roads below, with the vast turquoise ocean beyond. Alicia saw a cruise ship offshore, as well as a big oceangoing container ship and the smaller eclectic boats of local fishermen.

“The chicken is quite spicy,” she warned. I hope you like it that way.”

He nibbled on a piece to test it, nodded, and ate it quickly, followed by several more. Watching him eat voraciously she was glad she had brought a lot of food, but as the two of them talked, the supply dwindled quickly. Alicia found that she actually liked the salad he’d brought, which he described as “vegetables from the sea”. He said the kelp had been washed, cooked, and chilled, while the seaweed had just been washed. It was all mixed, with a delicious, creamy vinaigrette dressing.

“I like your mother,” Alicia said. “She’s quite an interesting lady.” She hesitated. “I hear your father is a fisherman?”

“No more, not since he became sick and bedridden.”

“Yes, I heard that, too. I’m very sorry.”

“They are wonderful, both of them,” Kimo said, “but I fear my father will not be with us much longer. He grows weaker by the moment, and my mother, even with her
kahuna
healing powers, can do little to help him now.”

“I assume he is getting good medical attention. Who is his doctor?”

“Dr. Wilson,” he said. “He’s new on the staff, but seems bright and helpful. Tiny also has many friends, and they visit him often, bringing him little gifts to keep his mind active, and his spirits upbeat.”

“That’s good.” Alicia wished something could be done to get Tiny Pohaku even better medical care, but there was so much animosity between the two families that she didn’t dare ask her grandfather to see if his personal physician could attend to the old fisherman. Dr. Taj Chandrapur was the town hospital’s chief of staff, and had a very select clientele that he tended to personally, including Preston Ellsworth. Dr. Chandrapur, well-known as a physician to the rich and famous in Beverly Hills, had moved his practice to Wanaao Town twenty years ago, deciding he wanted to live and work there instead of in the hectic Los Angeles area. Some of his clients flew all the way from the mainland to see him, and besides that a number of actors, actresses, and other famous people had either retired to Loa’kai island, or maintained part-time residences there. Because of Chandrapur’s status in the medical community, he’d been able to get wealthy donors to pay for the best medical equipment money could buy. He often said that he ran the “best little hospital in the world”.