Giants and Ogres (2 page)

I shrugged. “I don't think I pressed anything.”

My aunt went to grab me some water, and I wrote Mom a couple of lines to let her know my flights were all on time and I met up with Aunt Genevieve no problem. I held off on telling Mom about her sister's new tattoo plus her Madame Pele superstitions and witch doctor business. Mom was stressed out enough about the writer-in-residence gig.

After I finished my email and gobbled down my lunch, I lingered at the computer for a moment. The comet photograph screensaver had returned and
there was no sign of the other picture. Weird indeed.

That night, I had a hard time sleeping, and I doubt it had to do with the fact that my internal clock was five hours ahead. I swear I heard the sound of chanting. I stepped out of the guest room to see if my aunt was doing some bizarre form of yoga in the living room, but the rest of the house was eerily silent.

I heard the noise again as I walked back into my room, almost like a whisper that grew louder the closer I got to the massive pile of envelopes. Exhaustion was playing tricks on my mind. It had to be. One of the envelopes was open so I glanced inside at the lava rock and read the attached letter.

Dear Genevieve,

Please accept my donation and apology for wrongfully taking this lava rock as a souvenir. I thought the park ranger had made up the legend about the curse of Pele to keep people from defacing the park. But once I returned to Virginia, I broke my toe, lost my job, and my boyfriend of seven years broke up with me. I'm tired of my bad luck.

Thanks for being an advocate of Hawaiian traditions and for helping me return the rock,

Corinne

Several other packages were open, and I looked inside those as well to find many similar stories of bad luck, lost jobs, cancer scares, heartbreak, and regret. The chanting stopped, and I finally forced myself to get some shut eye.

Aunt Genevieve let me sleep the entire morning, and the place smelled like bacon and coffee when I woke up the next day. Her kitchen looked like a florist's shop given the piles of thick green leaves and fragile pink orchids scattered on the table.

“These are to make things right with Pele for my clients when we visit the volcano,” my aunt explained.

“Okay, sure,” I said, though I wasn't sure why or what or how. I debated about telling her about the chanting last night as I chugged down two cups of coffee and ate one of the best breakfasts, especially compared to the dry bran cereal Mom and I ate almost every morning. I decided against it to avoid confessing that I looked through the mail without her permission.
I volunteered to clean up and helped my aunt grab the leaves, flowers, and packages which we set in the back seat of the Prius.

The national park was a couple of hours away, and Aunt Genevieve played tour guide for me, pointing out macadamia nut and coffee plants. She clearly loved Hawaii. I couldn't imagine belonging anywhere the same way she did, native or not.

The plants near the volcano park grew thick and lush and my aunt mumbled something, perhaps another prayer. She pulled over to the side of the road close to a military camp. “This is one of the spots where we'll return a lava rock,” she said.

We walked behind a cabin, and then Aunt Genevieve wrapped a lava rock in one of the green leaves from the kitchen, a
ti
leaf for good luck she said, and set it on the ground with a beautiful orchid set on top as an offering to the giantess Pele. She chanted something in Hawaiian that sounded like an awful lot of vowels strung together, and then she patted the tattoo of the volcano on her chest. Her hand thumped against her ribcage.

Mom would've been seriously worried about her sister.

After we got back in the car, we made some small
talk about how my mom was doing and what my life was like in Texas, but I kept thinking of all the recent strange happenings. My mind felt fuzzy the closer we got to the Halema'uma'u crater. A thick plume of smoke billowed from the gas vent, and sulfur tinged the air.

“We'll stop at the observation tower at dusk for an amazing view,” my aunt said, and she drove us to a lava tube where she wanted to release two other bad-luck-stolen-lava-rocks.

The walk to the tunnel was otherworldly with giant ferns and other green plants towering over us. As I stepped on the wooden bridge to enter the tunnel, a bird screeched as if warning me. The ground vibrated.

“Did you feel that?” I asked my aunt.

“Feel what? The bridge is damp,” she said, “be careful.”

I walked on ahead into the darkness of the cave-like lava tube, imagining how molten hot lava pushed its way through the same spot hundreds of years ago to form this place. Electric lights hung from the top of the tube to illuminate the rock path.

“Why don't you go on and explore while I release these other rocks?” Aunt Genevieve said. “We can meet up by the bench on the other side of the tube.”

I wanted to cling to her strong arms, but I felt a pull tugging me forward. I entertained the idea that it might be Pele but dismissed it. Then the ground rumbled again, and the lights flickered.

“It's okay,” I said under my breath, hoping one of the nearby tourists didn't hear me talking to myself. They weren't phased by the light mishap or the ground quaking.

The texture on the wall looked like the lava rocks, yet smoother. The pattern was wavy in some spots and cloud-like in others. The shapes seemed to swirl and form a large gorgeous face. I went to rub my fingertips along the minerals on the wall to trace the shape of the face, but the lights went out completely.

Total blackness.

My heart strummed, almost to the same beat as the chant I heard in the room last night. “Pele?”

The ground quaked, stronger this time.

“Have mercy on me,” I whispered, still not sure what I believed, but my awe of this giantess, this goddess, had grown considerably.

The lights popped back on. I walked ahead looking around for my aunt or for any other tourists to check to see what they'd witnessed, but I was all alone.

I raced out of the tunnel, breathless, and stood near the bench waiting for my aunt, my nerves vibrating from the experience in the lava tube.

“Do the lights always turn off like that?” I called out as soon as I saw my aunt's crop of ashy hair. I nearly knocked her over out of relief.

She looked at me with surprise. “They've been on every time I've come here.”

I explained what happened, sounding like I was high from the sulfuric air.

“Madame Pele is calling you,” Aunt Genevieve said.

What in the world did that mean? Even my ultra-knowledgeable aunt had no idea. “I suppose you will find out, Dahlia.”

So much for reassurance.

When we got back to the car, the chant sounded again, though my aunt claimed she couldn't hear it. I knew this time it was coming from the stolen rocks and sand. I ached to return everything in the back seat of the Prius—Pele's precious property.

We reached the observation tower at the Hale-ma'uma'u crater at dusk, just as Aunt Genevieve had planned. The view took my breath away as the sky cast a golden hue over the caldera. A massive stream of
white gas vented from the crater as if it was taking part in an ancient dance. The earth throbbed with energy and life.

“Madame Pele's home,” Aunt Genevieve said as if she felt the force as well.

We watched as the sun dipped below the horizon and darkness overcame the heavens. The gas vent was no longer visible—the crater now flamed red from the lava lake churning below. As I stared in wonderment, the shape of a woman appeared in the red glow, this time considerably larger than the image in the lava tube. Her facial features were more distinct and fiery hibiscus flowers crowned her head, much like the tattooed flowers on my aunt's chest.

My aunt gasped, and I knew she saw Madame Pele too. “We've witnessed what very few have.” She whispered another prayer, and I bowed my head this time.

I wasn't sure what to do say or do. I called on her name. “Pele.” The top of my foot burned for a mere instant. My nerves registered the pain, and then I felt a calmness I've never known before.

I sat on the rock wall and offered up a prayer of my own, for doubting, for judging, to know more. The words tumbled out from my soul.

“I'm impressed you studied so much Hawaiian before your trip,” Aunt Genevieve said.

“I didn't.”

What in the world just happened? Had I actually spoken Hawaiian?

I traced my fingers against the rock wall, trying to understand. I still wasn't sure what all had happened, but I was determined to find out over the next couple of weeks and to understand my connection to the island, to the volcano, and Pele.

When I checked my foot when we got back in the Prius, the spot was singed a grayish black in the shape of a small lava rock. The mark felt painless and flat. Nor did it rub off when I tried.

“Pele has not only called to you, she's left her mark.”

Dumbfounded. There's another cliché, but no other word describes how I felt in that moment. Did this make me a
kahuna
of sorts? I wanted the answer to be yes.

The mark is still there, even after a couple of trips to the beach. Aunt Genevieve thinks it might be permanent. Mom is going to freak out if it is still there when I get back to Texas. The reality is I'm still freaking out about my tattoo and the entire experience.

At least my other promise to Mom will be true—I will return to the mainland and finish high school in San Antonio, and then who knows? Madame Pele's calling continues to grow stronger, and I haven't even left the island yet.

Jessica Lee Anderson
is the author of
Uncertain Summer, Calli, Border Crossing,
and
Trudy
as well as a dozen chapter books and several young readers. Jessica lived in Hawaii for several years as a young girl, but she calls Texas home now, and she lives outside of the Austin area with her husband, daughter, and two crazy dogs. For more information, visit
www.jessicaleeanderson.com
.

My name, Akemi, was the only thing my mother lived long enough to give me. My father left before I was born. And so I grew up on the streets, and I knew hunger. I'm not talking about the kind of hunger you feel in the morning when it's time for breakfast. This hunger was a constant, gnawing ache. It was the kind of hunger that takes over your whole mind, so you become obsessed by it. It was the kind of hunger that drives you to eat things other people would curl up their nose in disgust just smelling.

It was the kind of hunger that drives you to do desperate things.

When I was young, I lived for a time in the house owned by one of my uncles. When he died, though, the family dispersed, and I was again on my own.

For a time, I turned to begging, though my pride rebelled fiercely. There were many others like me, doing the same thing. One day a group of the other beggars, fearful of competition, chased me outside the village
gates, threatening injury or worse if I dared return.

So I went to the mountains, thinking that if I must die of starvation, I would at least die surrounded by beauty. I wandered for a time, sleeping in leaf-filled hollows, until I came upon a cave just off one of the paths. I made it my home. That summer I lived on berries and in the fall I gathered nuts. I was neither hungrier nor less hungry than in the village, but the surroundings were far more pleasant. The towering heights, the tall trees, and the breathtaking hurl of the waterfalls provided a backdrop of savage beauty. Yet the mountain had a dangerous side, because of the steep cliffs, the narrow paths, and the chasms that fell away into echoless depths that defied imagination.

People from all over the world came to walk the paths of the mountain I lived on, to witness for themselves this terrible beauty. When times became lean and the icy lash of the winter winds turned the land white, a thought came to me—there might be money to be made from these travellers. I was not proud of the thought, but I was again hungry, and it is said in our land that hunger is the mother of desperation.