Island Song
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Chapter 1
A FULL MOON
RISES FROM THE SEA. Strands of silver light reach across the
vast Pacific, caressing an old man’s face as he sits in the
bow of an outrigger canoe. The old man studies the moon until it
hovers well above the horizon, a radiant beacon lighting the
way. He lifts his left arm and signals to move ahead.
Songoree, the young man in the stern, digs his paddle into the
dark water, driving the canoe through the channel and beyond the
mouth of Neue Bay. A fresh wind drifts over the bay from the
northeast. It whispers as it moves over the canoe and falls
silent as it flows back over the channel. The only other sound
is the splash of the paddle gliding in and out of the water.
The old man signals to halt. Songoree lifts his paddle, waits.
The boat slows and begins to drift with the tide. He watches the
old one taste the air, feel the wind caress his cheek, note
which direction the boat moves. Songoree’s gaze shifts to the
water. He listens.
Up ahead, he hears the faint splash of sharks as they pursue
their prey. He sees the phosphorescent wakes the night hunters
carve through the inky water. Neue Bay is a safe place to swim
during the day, he knows, but at night the big sharks, the
really dangerous fish, swim over the reef to hunt close to
shore. These fish have no fear, but they are feared by
everything that swims.
The old man smiles. He motions in a direction slightly east of
the boat’s heading. Songoree glances over his shoulder to
check the position of the dim glow of lights far off the stern.
He digs his paddle into the water, makes the adjustment in
course.
Moonlight
silvers the strong lines of Songoree’s bare chest and
lean torso. His hair shines blue, and sweeps back over
his shoulders, held in place by coconut oil and a wreath
made of fragrant maile leaves. A single-strand pink
coral necklace hangs around his neck, and a blood-red
tapa cloth hugs his body from waist to knees. The dark
cloth blends with the shadows in the boat, making it
appear as thought Songoree is an extension of the canoe,
some bizarre sea creature hunting the perimeter of the
reef.
Over the wind’s murmur comes a faint sound, a pulse,
which announces they are nearing their destination.
Songoree sighs. The tedious journey has his arms and
back burning. He has kept a fast pace until now, to
prove his mettle to the old man, but he knows he can’t
maintain his bold tempo much longer. The growing sound
of surf renews his hope that his strength will last.
This mission, Songoree thinks, is impossible
even for an extraordinary man much less for mere
islanders like us. But I have no choice and neither does
Grandfather. We have stepped onto the path, and our only
option now is to take the next step, even though failure
is certain.
Grandfather has the insane idea that a man with a pure
vision, a Gandhi, can change the entire human
experience. It’s true that Grandfather is remarkable.
He holds knowledge passed down from generations of
island shamans, but he is still just one old man—and
perhaps a crazy old man, at that.
Songoree tries to lift his spirits, reminding himself
that the mission will soon be over, that they will
perform the ceremony and that will be the end of it. But
a stubborn fear lodges in his heart. The weight of it
crushes him, making it difficult for him to breathe. It
is more than fear of failure. Failing will prove once
and for all that his years of training with his
grandfather were wasted, that the old man is no great
shaman, merely a sham.
Songoree shakes the thought from his mind, but the fear
remains locked in his heart. He grits his teeth, digs
his paddle into the water, leans on it, drives the canoe
towards their destination.
Songoree
paddles another thirty minutes before the sound of
breakers boom like thunder. He knows that landing the
canoe in huge surf is hazardous even in daylight, and he
has never attempted such a feat at night. If they
capsize, he will need to pull the old man through the
breakers.
He comes alert. His fatigue dissolves. Beads of sweat
coat his face while his teeth chatter. He fights to
maneuver the canoe through the swells and over the
fingers of reef clawing at the water’s surface.
Suddenly, the boat’s aft rises on a huge wall of
water. Now the canoe is almost perpendicular, and
Songoree paddles a frenzied pace as they speed toward
shore. Water sprays his face. The salty mist blinds him.
He maneuvers on instinct alone while the wave, dying
around him, rushes towards the sand. He blinks his eyes
until his vision returns.
The old man sits in the bow, still as a statue.
Songoree beaches the craft just below a rocky point that defines the northern crest of the island. As he bounds from the boat he steals a glance at Grandfather’s face, expecting some recognition of his skill, but the old man shows nothing.
Hauling
the outrigger onto a patch of sand, Songoree takes the
old man’s arm.
“Let me help you, Grandfather.”
Grandfather strains to a standing position. He pauses
for a moment while his body adjusts to movement again
after sitting for so long a time.
Grandfather has deep-set eyes the color of black coral,
and his face is cracked like the glaze on ancient
pottery. A feathered cape covers his thin body, its
brilliant colors dulled by the dim light. His silver
hair falls to the middle of his back. Around the old
man’s neck hangs his ceremonial necklace, a simple
piece of carved jade bordered by a string of sharks’
teeth—trophies he had ripped from the mouths of his
prey in his younger years.
Grandfather
bends to grab his staff from the canoe. It towers three
feet above his head, and carved into the dark wood are
faces of the island gods: Kane, Kanalou, Ku, Lono and
Pele.
The old man’s bloodline reaches back to the first
group of Polynesian settlers who discovered this fleet
of Pacific islands. His family migrated to this largest
and most southern island before even the first of the
great wars. They settled near the Paopao River in a
valley called Waimanu, a place known for its immense
spiritual power. Now the old man has gone far beyond his
eightieth year and has outlived Kushi, his wife of forty
years, his only son and one of his two daughters.
Songoree is now his sole companion and caretaker.
Only a few islanders know the old man’s true name, and
no one but Songoree knows his spiritual name. Songoree,
like everyone else on this part of the island, simply
calls him Grandfather.
Songoree
busies himself with lighting a torch, which proves
difficult in the damp breeze. Once lit, the red-yellow
flames dance on the wind. It casts a shimmering light on
Grandfather’s cape. The colorful feathers come alive.
The effect makes Songoree stare wide-eyed, mesmerized.
Grandfather lays a gentle hand on the back of
Songoree’s neck. “Focus.” His voice is firm. “No
monkey-boy business tonight. The fate of mankind hangs
on what happens here. You must stay focused or all is
lost. Now fetch my helmet.”
Songoree
retrieves a carved gourd from the outrigger. It is
adorned with feathers and shark’s teeth. The old man
dons the helmet and, except for the two gaping eyeholes,
it covers his head.
A sharp beak is carved between the eyeholes, and set
below that are two rows of shark’s teeth, upper and
lower, making him look like a cross between a huge bird
of prey and a menacing shark. Intricately carved lines
on the mask emulate overlapping feathers covering the
sharp angles of a shark’s facial structure. The lines
are simple yet forceful, projecting an image of wild
savagery. Only Grandfather’s long strands of silver
hair and his bony legs extending below the cape show his
humanity.
Songoree steps closer to examine the mask. It suggests
the outline of a primitive human face within its
structure, as if the mask were meant to reveal the
animal savagery within human nature, or perhaps man’s
temperament within nature’s most fierce predators.
Either way, he can’t quite dismiss the feeling that
the mask is a projection of his own essence.
“Quickly.” Grandfather grabs the torch. He hurries
across the beach and on to the lava beds. They travel as
swiftly as Grandfather’s legs will move. After a
considerable distance, they stop where the barren rock
fields skirt the rain forest.
Honeycreeper
finches and hooting pueho owls call from the tropical
canopy. Grandfather takes the torch, nods towards the
trees. Songoree dashes into the undergrowth. He returns
a few minutes later carrying several palm fronds under
one arm and a bundle of sticks under the other.
Grandfather holds the torch low to the ground as
Songoree arranges the palm leaves so the tips all touch
at one point and fan out, creating a sizable circle atop
a smooth spot on the lava rock. He makes two more trips
to the forest to gather enough wood for the night’s
ceremonial fire.
He builds a pile of sticks in the center of the palm
circle and steps away while Grandfather buries the torch
in the pile. A flame catches hold. Grandfather passes
both the torch and his staff to Songoree before stepping
into the circle of palm fronds to kneel before the fire.
“I enter the circle of life. I bow to the light.”
Songoree
drops the torch and enters the circle from the opposite
side. With the staff held high, he echoes his
grandfather’s words. He looks over his shoulder to
insure that the bundle of firewood at the edge of the
circle is within easy reach. It is his job to tend the
fire throughout the ceremony.
He watches the old man check the position of the moon,
taste the air, listen to the breeze rustling the nearby
palms. Everything is perfect, Songoree thinks. Why
is he waiting?
Grandfather pulls a sharkskin pouch from beneath his
feathered cape. He opens it, grabs a handful of ground
roots and sprinkles it on the fire. Blue sparks erupt
from the flames while pungent smoke rushes on the wind
toward the trees.
“Let the herbs of this sacred land call the island
gods,” Grandfather says. He draws several offerings
from the pouch and lays them beside the fire—a flask
of rice wine, polished seashells, sweet candies, a
handful of rice, a folded leaf holding a purplish mound
of poi.
“Great Kane, god of all that is, and Pele, fiery
goddess who shapes these sacred islands, accept these
gifts.”
The
firelight glows on Grandfather’s helmet. It shows the
mask’s intricate carving and makes the old man’s
eyes gleam red behind the two black eyeholes.
Grandfather begins to slap the smooth lava beside him
with his right hand, thumping the hard rock with a
particular rhythm. He nods at Songoree. Songoree lifts
the staff and brings it down on the rock, again and
again, copying the same rhythm Grandfather makes with
his hand. Once the proper beat is established,
Grandfather stops, but Songoree continues to pound out
the cadence. This thumping, he knows, is Grandfather’s
notion of how to attract the island spirits.
After twenty minutes, Grandfather signals him to stop
then tilts his head towards the rain forest, straining
to listen with every fiber of his being.
Songoree studies the old man’s degree of concentration
with awe. Grandfather signals for him to continue, and
he takes up the thumping once again. The vibration of
the staff makes a weird moaning noise when it strikes
the ground. With every beat, he feels a vibration run up
his arm and dissipate into his chest.
After an hour, Grandfather whispers across the fire,
“Don’t turn around. Power spirits have come.
They’re behind you at the edge of the forest.”
Songoree doesn’t believe it, but he hears the eerie
screech of a bird directly behind him. A shiver runs up
his spine. It takes all his will power not to turn and
look. He keeps his eyes focused on Grandfather.
“This is it,” Grandfather whispers. “Keep
thumping. Be ready for anything.”
Grandfather lifts his arms over his helmet and begins to
chant in an ancient dialect. His words come slow,
relaxed, as if he’s singing a love song. His baritone
voice is vibrant for one so old.
Songoree feels the mystical pull of the words. He
understands most but not all of the phrases. He still
has much to learn of the old language and ceremonies. He
understands enough to follow along as Grandfather
recounts the history of the island people, countless
generations migrating from the heart of Asia across the
Pacific to these islands.
The chanting continues for hours. As Grandfather sings,
his long, delicate fingers weave through the air, as if
they exquisitely form the words out of wind and mist.
Songoree, mesmerized by their movement, finally looks at
his own hand holding the staff. His are the hands of a
twenty-year-old—strong, yet awkward by comparison. He
wonders if he will ever command such grace.
The thought makes him realize that he is real, not
merely consciousness witnessing the ceremony from the
mist. He shakes his head to drive the thoughts away. He
reminds himself to focus. I can’t disappoint
Grandfather, he thinks, not tonight. This means
too much to him.
Time bleeds by. The pile of firewood dwindles. Out over
the eastern horizon, the stars fade before the growing
light. As Grandfather chants, he pulls a bone-handled
knife from beneath his cape and holds both hands over
the fire—one held high, the other gripping the knife.
The blade flashes in the firelight as Grandfather slides
the razor edge across his left palm. Blood streams into
the flames.
Songoree hears a noise close behind him. It sounds like
heavy claws scraping on rock. Whatever crouches behind
him is drawn by the smell of blood. Fear overtakes him.
He begins to beat the ground in a furious tempo.
Grandfather signals him to slow down, but he feels an
icy breath on the back of his neck. He drops the staff,
and it clatters on the lava stone.
Grandfather waves his bloody hand and hisses, “Pull
yourself together.”
Songoree can’t help but turn his head to see what’s
breathing on his neck. As he does, an immense shadow
lunges over his left shoulder. It lands thirty feet away
on a boulder. Songoree’s body takes a tremendous jolt.
He falls onto his back, shrieking.
Frantically, Grandfather signals him to continue the
thumping, but he can only stare in astonishment at the
shadow. He is not altogether sure whether the shadow has
leapt over him from behind or vaulted out of his body.
His body certainly felt something leap.
He stares intently with eyes wide open and sees a
blackness that doesn’t have any visible boundaries;
but slowly, a silhouette crouching on the rock begins to
emerge from the mass that is superimposed on the night
sky. It seems to be taking the form of a big cat—huge,
awesomely silent. The density of the shadow’s darkness
pales the night sky around it.
Grandfather slaps the ground with his hand again,
pounding out the same rhythm as before. Songoree manages
to fight through his fear. He scrambles back to a
sitting position, picks up the staff and resumes
thumping the cadence.
Grandfather begins to chant once again. As his voice
rises in volume, Songoree joins in.
“The
immensity is Kane,
Their
voices hush. The wind dies to a whisper. The dense
shadow dissipates, leaving no trace. Songoree wonders
whether he actually saw anything there at all, or did
fear create something from his imagination? He glares
across the fire at Grandfather, silently pleading for
help to understand what has happened. All he can see are
eyes within the mask’s gaping holes reflecting the
red-yellow firelight.
Everything is perfectly still, as if the entire universe
is holding its breath. A bird calls from the nearby
trees. In the distance, the sound of the surf rises in a
steady pulse, like the slow beating of a heart.
They wait.
A breath of wind flutters the nearby palms. Songoree
feels the growing breeze on his skin. Now the wind
travels in a different direction, from the rain forest
out over the sea. He smells the sweet odor of jungle
frangipani mixed with the slight stench of rotting
vegetation.
Grandfather struggles to stand. Songoree hurries across
the circle to help him to his feet. He hands the staff
back to Grandfather. He pulls the red tapa cloth from
his waist, rips away a long strip and wraps it around
the old man’s bleeding hand. Naked and exhausted, he
loops one arm around his grandfather, supporting the old
man’s weight. They turn back toward the beach.
“Fool! You almost killed us both. Never show fear in
front of power.”
“Sorry, Grandfather. Will he come?”
Grandfather removes his helmet. “We have performed the
ceremony. It is done.”
“But will it work? Will he come?”
Grandfather struggles to walk. “Your mind has too much
future, not enough faith.”
They stagger back to the canoe as the red dawn paints
their beloved island with sanguine light.