Dash in the Blue Pacific (31 page)

Dash smelled his burning hair, saw the violent
creature below his feet blink. He didn’t know what was gumming up
the volcano’s plan for swallowing him. He only knew his head was
caught in a vise. And that he did not want to roast to death,
sizzling and then bursting into flames fed by what oily fat
remained in his skinny carcass. He tried wriggling free of his
purgatory, but there was simply no give.

He shifted his dangling weight and was rewarded
with a lung full of painfully hot air. He took a second breath, and
then a third. It was a dance to remain conscious, the blackness
coming close and then receding. His underpants slid off, fluttered
down and out of sight.

Good riddance. You can have my dirty underwear.
Enjoy.

In what he suspected was the boldest act of his
entire existence, he used his newly extended life to roll his
tongue and find the last bit of thick saliva. He gathered the ball
of phlegm in the middle of his tongue and drew a breath. He used
all his might to spit in the dragon’s eye, a tiny glistening speck
of defiance that evaporated almost instantly.

A small voice came from next to him. “It
hurts.”

He tried finding Tiki, but could only move his
eyes. She was alive at the edge of his peripheral vision, and he
realized she hadn’t let go of his hand. Hidden by the pain in his
head was the touch of her shaking fingers.

“
Tiki.”

“
I wanted to see Mama.”

“
I know.”

“
I miss her.”

Before he could console her, his neck was bent
backward, and there was a sudden rush of acceleration. Another
light appeared, although this one much smaller—a gentle glow rather
than a slice of blazing sun. It was familiar, as comforting as the
lightning bugs he chased across his grandmother’s manicured lawn as
a child.

The good light blinked, and then he was dropped
hard on his bare ass, Tiki uttering a sharp squeal next to him.
There was enormous relief when his head was released. He looked up
at the giant thighs, the bulging muscles of their
savior.

He rubbed the back of his sore head where the
former god’s steel grip had seized him. “Hey, Willy.”

Willy squatted to put a hand on Dash’s bent
knee. “You never believed I was real.”

The touch seemed perfectly human, warm and
caring. The villagers stepped back, as if to make room for
something they weren’t sure they were seeing.

“
That’s not true.”

Willy cocked his head.

“
Well, I always hoped you were
real,” he admitted, embarrassed because Willy knew
better.

“
You’re a tough one to figure out,
my friend. Most men would have knelt down and prayed for me to fix
their broken wang.”

“
Would you have done it? Would you
have fixed me?”

Willy made a scoffing noise. “You would have
found another dangerous crack to stick it in.”

Dash sighed. “You’re probably
right.”

“
I’ll miss you, Cracker. It can’t be
the same after I take the big plunge.”

“
What if it kills you?”

Willy glanced over the edge, specs of orange
fire reflecting from his black eyes. The light above his forehead
pulsed. “She can’t kill me. I’m pretty much indestructible as long
as there are people who believe in me.”

“
What about our friendship? What
about the airplane seats?”

“
There will be too many voices. I’ll
have to stick to coming around once a month when the moon is black
and humans can’t see me.” Willy looked down at Tiki. “Most humans,
that is.”

“
You really want to take care of
these people?”

Willy shrugged his mighty shoulders. “I will if
they want me to. They aren’t so bad. They just need their hope
restored. That’s second on my to-do list.”

“
What if it doesn’t
work?”

“
Oh, it’s gotta work. Who can resist
a good resurrection?” said Willy, standing back up and taking a
step toward the edge of the slab. He leaned out. “You know what I
see down there? I see the light at the end of the
tunnel.”

“
It’s lava, Willy.”

The enormous man turned and pointed at Tiki,
who’d scrambled to bury her head against Dash. “That one’s a real
cutie. If you take her away, there’s something you have to buy
her.”

Dash nodded. “A kitten.”

“
There are all kinds of good shots
for allergies. You’ll get used to having one around.”

“
I’ll buy her two. I
promise.”

“
I know you will, Cracker, I can
read your mind.”

T
he village was busy in the
sleeping volcano’s shadow. There was plenty of bickering at first,
everybody with an opinion over the design of their new totem. Manu
wanted the fish heads up as soon as possible; he was anxious to
keep their new god pleased. The hard part was the spiny dorsal fin
arching over the carved face, and all those needle-like teeth meant
raiding sticker bushes up and down the beach.

The haze and sulfur smell had lifted. Rain had
scrubbed most of the ash, refilled the cistern. The taro crop was
lost, but the fields had been turned and tubers planted. Fishing
had never been better, skiffs returning with hulls heavy in the
water and difficult to steer from all the whoppers that practically
jumped into the boats. The drinking circle was unusually animated
with tales of monsters that had gotten away, fish that dragged
boats and chewed through the sturdiest lines.

Manu declared their island’s new name was once
again its old name, words that translated to ‘No Hurry’ in
English.

“
Long live the people of Moku Siga,”
said the old chief, lifting a full cup toward the volcano, his
bloodshot eyes narrow and defiant.

As days passed under blue skies, time did seem
to slow. The pace of life on Moku Siga began to live up to its
name. Elders left the shade of their huts to sit cross-legged along
the edge of the soccer field for the first time. They squinted at
the mass of dirty children, crooked fingers pointing out grandsons
and granddaughters. The old people hooted and cheered even though
they didn’t understand the game.

Dash decorated the former love hut with washed
up treasures. His most recent score was a Mr. Potato Head with
eyes, one pink ear, and a mustache. Like the stars, moon, and the
rain, the toy was a link to home. Enough of one that Dash hadn’t
rebuilt the signal fire, at least not yet. His wang still failed
him, but he was no longer fodder for the volcano. With the pressure
off, maybe his wang would come around. Some of the new ceremonies
had turned pretty spicy, and he’d felt a definite stir down there
once or twice. He mostly steered clear of the drinking circle to
keep the rest of him from going numb.

Willy accepted gifts. Villagers left a bounty
of strung shells, woven vine wreaths, and lush bouquets of the
sweetest smelling flowers. They switched to coconut milk when jugs
of clap-clap were left untouched. Not a crumb of fresh octopus
remained once the ink sacs were removed—that was Dash’s suggestion.
And the people knew their virgins were their own to defile, and
that their mighty new god would never go for that human sacrifice
malarkey. This god had seen enough death, had no interest in any
more graves being dug.

Dash hadn’t spoken to Willy since being reeled
back in from the volcano. Willy had been right about things being
different. Gods heard too many voices to be lounging around in
washed-up airplane seats watching birds dive-bomb fish. Willy’s big
plunge had spoken volumes, had left no doubt where the real magic
could be found. He’d put all those Acapulco cliff divers to shame
with a quadruple twisting double backflip that elicited sounds of
awe, delight in a place it didn’t belong. No head-to-toe tumble
down the rocky interior; those giant leg muscles easily propelled
his mass out over the fiery pond. Villagers dropped to their knees
when the dragon’s eye went dark, the mountain’s breath having been
cut off. The earth stopped shifting and the clouds began rolling
away. A child whispered, “Weeleekonawahulahoopa,” and it was one of
the loveliest sounds Dash ever heard.

“
Weeleekonawahulahoopa,” Dash had
repeated. “My friend.”

Not many people bothered looking up when a boy
came charging out of the tunnel connecting the village to the
lagoon. Dash did, because he’d been raised to expect unpleasant
surprises, would probably never fully trust a higher being to watch
over him, not even Willy. But he knew these people believed in
their protector, had allowed peace to embrace them.

First the boy ran to the women at the main
cooking fire, but was sent away with a slap to the bottom. Next he
went to the women constructing the new fish head totems that were
still missing spines and lures. They too scolded the boy, who was
apparently told to knock off the tomfoolery and go play ball with
the other children.

Dash stepped down from his love hut home when
Manu emerged from his hut on wobbly legs. The chief looked a
hundred years old, obviously suffering from another late night of
hard drinking and long story telling, both shaky hands shielding
the midday sun. When the old man strolled over to join him, Dash
noticed Manu’s underpants were on backwards.

Tiki’s voice rose from the soccer scrum, firm
and more confident since the night on the volcano. He watched her
bend to pick up the ball, stopping the game around the frantic boy.
The kids were all huffing, dripping sweat on the dusty field.
“What’s your fussing about?”

The boy, also winded, took a half-minute to
catch his breath. He pointed to the tunnel, eyes wild, as if he’d
seen the devil. “They’re here,” he finally said.

The children were quiet enough to hear laughter
coming from within the dark vegetation. Dash could make out English
words spoken with an Australian accent, felt the hatred and
revulsion surge, but didn’t leave Manu’s side. And none of the
villagers stopped what they were doing. Not a single person moved
to the center of the compound to kneel down for the white soldiers’
arrival.

Tiki had the ball tucked under one arm, was
fingering her new necklace, a small coral carving of a strange
looking fish head hanging from a thin strip of vine. She spoke to
the children, who nodded and then dropped to their butts one by
one. She turned her back to them, and marched toward the sound of
boastful alien voices.

It was the first time Dash had seen the
soldiers, or whatever they were. They were dressed in identical tan
khaki shirts and pants, each with a rifle strapped over one
shoulder. The man in the lead wore a sweat-stained bush hat, its
loose cord bouncing against his Adam’s apple with each step of a
heavy black boot.

Tiki intercepted the men halfway to Manu’s hut,
stopping with her feet planted wide, ball on her hip. The lead
soldier towered over the girl as he stood looking her up and down,
wide smirk settling across uneven whiskers. He spit into the dirt
and pulled a green bandana from a back pocket, then removed his hat
to wipe his brow. He unfurled the bandana with a jerk of the wrist
and ran the tattered cloth through his red hair.

“
His orange hair,” Dash whispered,
feeling a hand touch his arm and take hold of his bicep. Maybe it
was there to hold him back, but more likely it was for
support.

“
Trust what you believe,” said the
old chief in a voice as numb and broken as Dash’s private parts.
“What will be, will be.”

The soldier was still smiling when he replaced
his hat and tucked away the bandana. Tiki’s hands clenched into
fists, and the ball dropped from her side. It rolled across the
dark spot where the soldier had spit.

“
I remember you, little one.” The
red-haired man squatted, rifle butt touching the ground by his
heels. “We could use a few like you to come for a ride in our boat.
How ’bout you introduce me to some of your pretty young
friends?”

A breeze tumbled dead leaves, made soft
rustling sounds that drifted across the sunbaked compound. The
villagers whispered, perhaps a new prayer, their backs turned to an
old god. The jungle paused, insects stopping mid-chore, snakes
forgetting their hunger, birds leaning close.

“
I have a brand new friend,” Tiki
said to the soldier, and Dash could tell from behind that her chin
was tilted up, and he guessed that she was smiling. “His name is
Willy.”

A shadow fell over the soldiers.

* * *