The Girl from Everywhere (17 page)

“I have his artistic bent. My father can’t draw a square on a grid. But . . . how did you know about my uncle’s death?”

I stumbled; he steadied my arm as I tried to think of an answer. “The . . . the newspaper, I think it was.”

“Must have been a very old newspaper,” he said, looking at me sideways.

“I . . . yes. It was . . .” I tried to think past all the curse words. “It wasn’t the newspaper, I remember now. My father and yours are discussing a business venture, and he mentioned your uncle’s misfortune.”

“So you’ve met my father?”

“Well . . . no. It was a mutual friend who is making the introduction.” Damn damn damn. “I don’t know anything about their business,” I added in an attempt to forestall any more questions.

“Something to do with the captain’s excursion today, no doubt!”

“Difficult to say,” I said weakly.

But he was smiling. “Well. That’s good news, especially
if it means you’ll be in Honolulu awhile. Ah, here we are.”

He pulled me into Nolte’s Coffee Saloon. Billie knew better than to follow; she wandered off after a departing patron holding a biscuit. Blake ordered coffee and scones, and we sat at one end of a long table occupied by a few other patrons: a young gentleman reading the paper, two sailors staring bleary-eyed into steaming cups, an old man warming his gnarled knuckles. Blake added enough cream to shade the brew the color of maple, while I took mine black and hot.

I blew over the cup and then stopped, reminded of my father, and tried to gather my thoughts for a new attempt. “So. Your uncle was an artist as well?”

“We have a great many of his paintings hung in the house. My mother admired his work. I can show you at the ball if you like.”

“Oh, yes, I’d love to see!”

“Are you a connoisseur of the arts?”

I laughed a little, remembering what Kashmir had said at Christie’s. “No, I am no expert.” He gave me a quizzical look and I cringed internally; I should have lied. Why else would I have sounded so eager a moment before? “I mean, I like art,” I stammered. “I just don’t know much about it.”

“Well,” he said with mock resignation. “I suppose that explains your kindness about my sketchbook.”

“Not at all!” I protested, hoping I wasn’t blushing. “Your drawings really are lovely. Especially the maps. I know about maps.” I ran my finger along the chipped edge of the saucer; I’d seen my opportunity come back again. “Did your uncle also draw maps? As you do?”

He stirred his coffee. “Not that I know of.”

“Oh.” I tried to keep the disappointment off my face. We both reached for our cups simultaneously; the silence felt long.

“You’re very keen on maps,” he said when he set his cup down.

“Well, of course I am,” I said quickly. “They’re useful to a sailor.”

“To an explorer too.” He gave me that secret smile again, and I couldn’t help but return it.

“So . . . not only an artist?” I said, teasing. “Do you hope to follow in the footsteps of Dr. Livingstone?”

“And go to Africa? No. Hawaii has enough mystery to occupy a dozen Dr. Livingstones. At least for now,” he added, his eyes darkening.

Nervous, I picked up my cup again. It clattered on
the saucer. “Times are changing?”

“That’s one reason I record what I see. Things disappear otherwise.”

Surprised, I looked up at him; my hands stilled. “I’ve noticed that very same thing.”

“Have you?” He tilted his head, studying my face, but even under this scrutiny, I wasn’t nervous anymore. “You must have seen a great many things in your travels, Miss Song, but having known nothing else, I can promise you this island is unique in all the world. And everything unique is worth preserving.”

“And worth seeing!”

“Yes.”

I stared at him, and the thoughts of reconnoitering fell away. What might I learn if I spent even a day on the island, instead of mining for information on this damned map? But my smile faded, and I swirled the gritty dregs in the bottom of my cup. “I never stay long enough to learn a place’s secrets.”

He sat back; his eyes seemed to reflect my sadness. Then he nodded, as though making a decision. “Finish your coffee and come with me.”

I pushed the mug aside as he stood. “And where are we going?” I asked, following him out the door.

“Miss Song,” he said, throwing a grin back over his shoulder, “I’m going to show you your country.”

An answering smile crept unbidden across my face. It fell away, though, at his next question. “Can you ride?”

I stopped in my tracks. The horse seemed much more intimidating than she had an hour before. “I don’t know.”

He laughed. “Don’t be nervous. I’ve named her Pilikia, but she’s quite gentle.”

“What’s
pilikia
mean?”

“Trouble. More what we get into than what she gives me.” He paused, looking at the saddle—Western, with the high pommel and the big stirrups with leather guards to protect the rider’s feet when going through thick brush—and then back at me, or rather, at my skirt. “Will you be comfortable on the saddle? We can walk if you’d prefer.”

“No,” I said firmly. “We’ll go farther on horseback.”

He knelt, cupping his palms down near my knees. I stepped into his hands and sprang onto the saddle, sitting with my legs both over Pilikia’s left side. I had a brief sensation of vertigo—the height was intimidating—but then Blake swung up behind me, steadying me with his arms on either side of my body.

“What would you like to see most?” he asked.

I considered all the places I’d been, most of them long gone. “Something I can only see here and now.”

Blake glanced up at the sun; it was high in the sky. “All right. We just barely have time.”

He put his heels to Pilikia’s flanks, and we set off through town, traveling atop our shadow. It took me a few minutes to get used to the motion of the horse, so different from the rocking of the ship. As we passed by, Blake pointed out landmarks—here, the Kamehameha Post Office, Hawaii’s only connection to the world beyond the shore; there, a grassy square where the king gave free concerts on nights of the full moon.

“He’s even revived the hula, and they dance on the grass while the missionaries avert their eyes.” His lips were just behind my ear as though it was a secret, and I heard the amusement in his voice. “What do you mean, revived?”

“It had been banned for many years before Kalakaua took power.”

“Too licentious for past rulers?”

“It scandalized the foreigners, who only saw what they were looking for. The hula tells a story, but they weren’t listening.”

“You admire the king?”

“You’re surprised?”

I bit my lip. Earlier, I had been nearly certain Mr. D had sent him to test me, but now I was not so sure. Unless, of course, it was just a ruse? Or perhaps this was only conversation, and my own involvement was making me paranoid.

“He has his faults,” Blake continued. “But love of his own culture is not among them.”

As we traveled south on King Street, a keening cry on the wind, like hungry gulls, resolved into the high, sobbing song of professional mourners. The smell of thousands of cut flowers was carried toward us on the humid breeze. “Iolani Palace,” Blake said.

“I had guessed.”

The palace was draped in swathes of black bunting that hung over the wide windows. Beneath the somber trappings, Iolani Palace was a grand structure: two tall stories with four corner turrets connected by wide verandas and lined with delicate columns.

“It’s very European.”

“The king toured Europe before he had Iolani built. Some foreigners expected a hovel, so he spared no expense. That was going to be the palace, over there,” he said, pointing across the street to a smaller—though still lovely—building
across the street. “The Ali’iolani Hale. But he put the government offices there instead.”

“Ah.” I licked my lips; my mouth was dry. “The treasury and so forth.”

“Yes.”

Beyond the palace, we passed rich town houses, including the black-draped windows of the home of the banker Mr. Bishop, Princess Pauahi’s widower. “This is the wealthiest block on the island,” Blake said. “Many of these families will be attending the ball, if you’re interested in that sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?”

“The comings and goings of high society.” I couldn’t see his face, but in his voice—was it a hint of scorn?

“Oh. Not generally.” Then I frowned. “Your father is . . . an important man?”

Blake paused before answering. “He has important friends.”

Traveling north, away from the sea, we emerged into cooler air as we climbed out of the city. The shops gave way to the mansions and manicured gardens; the breeze shivered in the leaves of lush ferns by the side of the road. “This is Nu’uanu Valley,” he said.

I sat up straighter. “My father once hoped to make a home here.”

“Why did he decide against it?”

“My mother died before he could.”

“Ah, is that why he took you to sea? If things had been but a little different, we would have been neighbors. That’s our house, there, on the left.”

I peered down a wide drive lined with chunks of coral that curved through an emerald-green lawn studded with flowering plants. Under a mantle of trailing vines rioting with flowers, I caught glimpses of a boxy white Victorian house with a deep veranda, in front of which was parked an empty calash and a delivery wagon hitched to a sleepy mule. It struck me then—I might be able to learn exactly where the map was kept. Pilikia leaned in toward the driveway, but Blake kept her on the road, pulling gently at the reins and, for a moment, bringing his arm close around my waist.

“Isn’t your house included on this tour?”

“It’s in a bit of a state, with the preparations for the party,” he said apologetically. “You’ll see it soon enough. Just a moment.” He pulled the horse toward the opposite side of the road, where the trees drew in close. “There’s a natural spring here,” he said, dismounting and leading us into the trees.

It was only a dozen feet to the water, where Pilikia dropped her head and drank deep, but once inside the forest, the greenery wrapped around us like a soft embrace, and I could no longer see the road. “The island is peppered with them. There’s one farther up in the valley that the chieftains used to bathe in. Back then, commoners weren’t allowed to touch the water due to its mystic healing properties, on pain of decapitation.”

My ears perked. “Is it true?”

“What part? The healing or the head chopping?” he teased. “They believed it. And that’s what matters. I’m not going to risk it, anyway. Wouldn’t that be the worst way to cure a head cold? I have tried this spring,” he continued, nodding toward the water at our feet. “It won’t heal so much as a paper cut, although the water’s quite pure. Are you thirsty? Wait here.”

He disappeared into the thicket in a direction I’d have assumed he’d picked at random but for the certainty with which he went. The sound of his footsteps, muffled by the damp humus that lay like a down blanket on the earth, quickly faded, and for a few minutes, Pilikia and I were alone in the forest. It was an odd feeling, the rich green life pressing close around me, hiding everything from view—so
unlike the open sea. The burbling of the stream, the call of hidden birds, and the susurration of the wind in the treetops were no louder in my ears than the sound of my own breath.

Then, as suddenly as Blake had gone, he returned, holding handfuls of mottled yellow fruits, each the size of my fist. He took a small knife from the saddlebag and sliced one in half to reveal pink pulp studded with tiny yellow seeds.

“Oh, guavas!” I said. “I’ve only ever seen them green.”

“Different species, I think.” He crouched near the water and rinsed the pulp from the rind, which he then filled with clear water and handed to me as though it were a teacup. The water was cool and sweet.

After I drank my fill, he handed me another few guavas and I ate them whole, the rind giving way easily to the tart and tender flesh. Juice dripped down my chin, and he flicked out his handkerchief. “Mmm,” I said, by way of thanks.

Blake scratched the horse’s neck and fed her a guava. “They grow everywhere up here, along with several stands of excellent rose apples. Bananas and mangoes as well.”

“Who planted them?”

“The birds. The breeze. The garden Hawaii resembles most is Eden.”

“Ah.” I handed back his handkerchief. “My father feels the same way.”

He cocked his head. “But how do you feel?”

I hesitated. “I’m not sure yet.”

“Oh? I must work harder to convince you. Here.” He handed me the reins and swung himself up behind me. “We’ve got to hurry a bit, but I’ll show you my favorite spot on the island.”

“I’m not pressed for time.”

“Ah, but I can’t bring you there near to dusk!”

“Treacherous footing?”

“No, the Hu’akai Po.”

I frowned. “That sounds like it means trouble, too.”

“Of a very certain sort. Haven’t you heard of the Night Marchers? The Hu’akai Po are the spirits of the ancient warriors of Hawaii. All the locals know the story.” He leaned forward, his voice low in my ear. “Legend says they march all through this valley. When the warriors are walking, the first thing you hear is the sound of drums, far away, and someone blowing a conch shell. In the distance, you’ll see their torches glowing in the dark. By the time you hear the sound of marching feet, you must throw yourself on the ground, facedown, to show respect, but also to shield your eyes,
because if you look at them directly, they’ll take you and you’ll have to walk among them till the end of time.”

His breath tingled on the back of my neck. I shivered, and he laughed, low in his throat. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.”

We rode farther up into the rain forest of Nu’uanu, leaving the houses behind, and stepping onto a thin dirt track that wound through the tall rose-apple trees, studded here and there with enormous staghorn ferns, like fantastical brooches on the slender shoulders of society ladies. In the places where the path was steeper, he leaned forward to help Pilikia keep her footing. His chest was quite warm against my back.

“Have you ever seen them?” I said. “The Night Marchers?”