Primitive Secrets (10 page)

Chapter 17

Storm had been startled by the upsurge of emotion that enveloped her. She had nearly shouted a protest to Maile's comment about her resemblance to her mother. Her aunt had meant it as a compliment. Family members who dared to bring up the subject of Storm's mother around Storm usually spoke of her beauty or musical ability.

Storm took a deep breath and forced herself to picture her mother. Her memories were still those of an insecure little girl facing adolescence. The sadness in her mother's dark eyes, the translucent pallor of her skin, the slenderness of her waist and wrists, merged into a fuzzy portrait. Storm found this image mixed with a sense of self-loathing.

Though superficially aware that she was, at five-eight, tall and handsome, when she was around other women she still thought of herself as clumsy and robust. She felt as if her hips and breasts were too voluptuous, her fingernails ragged, her feet too large.

In addition to her self-consciousness, she detested sitting in salons. She found herself intimidated by petite women who had perfect makeup and never sweated armpit rings onto their silk blouses, but she sensed she should try to look more like them. In her mind, they mirrored her mother's fragile perfection, an icon that Storm had no hope of duplicating.

People had admired and wanted to care for her mother. In the year before her death, neighbors dropped by with noodles and manapaa, those tender pork-filled buns, helped with the cleaning, or drove her to doctor's appointments. They sat and drank tea with her in the afternoons after the long nap that was meant to rejuvenate her fragile constitution. Storm remembered the disapproving moues of certain women when she got home from school and let the screen door slam behind her.

One of them, a willowy brunette—Storm now was convinced that she had maintained her stick figure with an eating disorder—snickered at the number of chocolate-covered graham crackers Storm had placed on her plate for a snack. “Eme, you're going to have to watch this child's appetites,” the woman simpered.

Storm's mother walked into the kitchen and poured two big glasses of iced guava juice, then sat with Storm at the table and ignored the woman who slipped into an extra chair with them. That day, Storm only ate one cracker instead of the usual five or six. Despite her mother's efforts, her mouth had been dry and the guava juice too sweet.

Her mother was a singer, the one-in-a-million lottery winner of talent who got to leave the islands to study in New York City. She was famous for her promise. One day she darted from the stage after the first song of an important recital. She wandered the icy streets without a coat for hours until she stopped to rub the muzzle of a mounted policeman's horse. It was a breakdown, people said. She was too high-strung.

Storm remembered singing with her mother. Eme had played the piano and encouraged her daughter's reedy voice. She blended her own rich contralto to Storm's in duets. Storm's voice would break with effort and she tried to believe people didn't cringe when she sat beside her mother on the piano bench.

Her mother didn't see it; she would hold Storm's hand against her stomach to teach her better breathing technique. Storm remembered her own dirty thumb next to the perfect one, rising and falling with the deep breaths.

She looked at her thumbs again. Still grubby, though the nails weren't as tattered as she remembered. In fact, they looked more like Eme's.

A rustle brought Storm to the present. “Aunt Maile?”

No answer. There were probably cattle grazing nearby, though she wasn't sure how far away the pasture fence was. Visibility was practically nil. She could barely make out the shape of a good-sized koa tree fifteen feet away. Its shadowy form wavered. A rustling sound came from the tree. Were the branches moving or was something behind the trunk?

Storm squinted and stood up. “Scram.” Her voice sounded uncertain in the foggy stillness. She hoped it wasn't an escaped bull.

Maybe only a branch had fallen. She sat back down with a glance up the path in the direction Maile had taken, then looked back at the tree and froze. Something large moved in the deep grass. Whatever it was glided away from the tree, then clouds veiled its form.

The shape was too small for a bull, maybe more the size of a calf. Storm let a breath go.

Momentarily, the mists thinned and Storm saw the shadow again. It stood with a posture like that of a sprinter at the starting block. A creature that stood nearly upright. Or did it? She frowned and strained to see. Clouds drifted between her and the animal, but its shoulders looked higher than its rump. Its arms appeared to approach the ground, though the creature didn't use them to walk. It looked more like a human than a bull.

A hole in the fog drifted by. Through a tunnel of visibility, Storm caught a glimpse of the brown-furred animal. Its small, glittering eyes looked in her direction. She clapped a hand over her mouth with surprise and stood absolutely still.

Long, curved teeth gleamed against its dusky muzzle. It wasn't human, but it was definitely not bovine. The creature paused and swung its dark, boar-like head on muscular shoulders as if scenting the air. Lifting its long snout, it sniffed in her direction. Storm froze to her rock, unable to even lower the hand over her mouth.

The beast glided parallel to the path. It traveled several feet in the direction Aunt Maile had taken, without making a sound in the twig-strewn grass.

Fog wafted between them, obscuring the twenty or so yards between Storm and the creature. Storm drew a shaking breath. God, what was that?

The inside of her mouth was as dry as sandpaper. The back of her throat stung from the volcanic fumes, but she was too scared to even swallow, let alone move. She sat like a statue and prayed the animal's small porcine eyes couldn't see any better through the sulfurous vapors than hers could.

Storm stared into the shifting haze until her vision blurred. Something rustled again near the koa tree. This time, she dropped to the other side of the boulder and curled into the smallest ball she could manage. She strained, listening, but either the fog muffled the movement of whatever was there or it had left. Was it another beast, moving toward Aunt Maile?

Aunt Maile was out there, elderly and unsuspecting. Storm unturtled her head from the collar of her shirt and peeked over the top of the rock. Fog swirled around her; the meadow was unnaturally still. No cattle lowed, no birds chirped.

Aunt Maile might come down that path at any moment. Yelling a warning wouldn't help either of them. She had to get to her aunt ahead of this thing. They would be far stronger together than alone.

Storm crouched and peered around at the swirling mists. Her eyes burned with the effort of trying to penetrate the haze and her limbs tingled from fear and immobility. She felt as if she'd sat paralyzed for an hour, but she knew it had probably been only a few minutes.

The fog was still thick, but wetter and less sulfur-laden. An occasional raindrop splatted onto the top of her head and she felt moisture gather into drops heavy enough to glide down her forehead into her eyebrows.

Storm slowly stood. An aroma of gardenias floated on the next wraith of mist. It was a welcome scent compared to the sulfur from the volcano and she raised her chin in the direction it came. Now the perfume was cloying, too sweet, like a dying lei.

The odor wrapped around her with an insistence that made her take shallow breaths. She could practically taste it. Abruptly, she recalled the repeated tales of Aunt Maile's and Uncle Keone's friends. The yarns of people around campfires, folks talking story at family ll‘aa. The old Hawaiians had said, “If there are no flowers around and you smell gardenias, it's a warning. Get out, go away, leave it alone. Go, go!”

Fists clenched, too terrified to breathe, Storm bolted up the path. Once she stumbled on a rock and sprawled facedown in the dirt. Her knee slammed into the ground and she heard her jeans tear. Shakily, she got to her feet and darted ahead, too frightened to check her aching knee. The trail forked a few feet in front of her and one path disappeared behind a thicket of kiawe, the other wound around porous black boulders of volcanic rock to higher elevations. It led to thicker mists. Which way had that creature gone? Which way was Aunt Maile?

Storm paused and decided to head toward the thicket, where the fog was thinner. She took a few steps, then came to a standstill. Had the kiawe moved?

Storm froze, then saw a form behind the leaves. A dark figure, on two legs, smaller than the beast, she thought. Its arms were shorter and it stood more upright.

Storm smelled the flowers again, cloying, almost gagging her with their sweetness. She bolted for the uphill trail, winding through stands of wizened koa trees. Her chest burned with exertion and fear, but she kept her feet pounding along the trail.

The fog thinned. Gauzy wisps floated by, specters of the thick odorous stuff behind. Storm glimpsed the posts of a fence. Thick, flowering vines wound around the barbed wire between the weathered pickets. Koali, the morning glory that Aunt Maile had wanted. Storm sniffed the air. Nothing. The blue flowers were odorless. Nor could she smell the over-ripe gardenias.

“Aunt Maile!” Storm ventured a whisper. Her eyes scanned the fence line. Only the incline of the lava rock-strewn meadow stretched on both sides of the fence. She to run along its length, then stumbled to a stop. Something had moved ahead, next to the path. A lone cow on the other side of the fence lowed and ambled away from Storm. She moaned with relief.

“Aunt Maile?” Storm's voice wavered.

“Here!” Maile's voice was a distance away, but sounded strong. “Over here.”

She walked toward it, still gasping from the mad sprint up the hill. She searched the horizon, but saw nothing but a huddle of cattle. “Keep talking to me,” she called.

“Go straight until you see the stream bed, then turn right from the path.” Maile sounded close, but Storm still couldn't see her. “Down here.” The voice came from so close, Storm stopped and scanned the rise and fall of the landscape.

Between the intermittent banks of clouds, she began to make out the terrain. Twenty feet ahead of her, a thick hedge jerked erratically.

“Where are you?” Shrillness wove through Storm's voice.

A flannel-sleeved arm popped out of the bushes and Storm heaved a whoosh of gratitude. She began to rant to the waving plant. “I've been scared to death. The fog got so thick that I…I saw something very strange.” She made her way to the bush. “I think we should go home.”

Maile's head bobbed among the leaves. “I know.” Her head disappeared and the bushes shook harder. “Honey, I need your help.” Her voice got more muffled. “There were these plants I wanted, but someone left a pile of barbed wire and I'm stuck.”

A clot of vapors drifted between Storm and the line of vegetation. In its thick moisture was the sulfurous aroma she'd smelled earlier.

Storm skidded down the creek embankment and landed on her rear end in a mini-avalanche of gravel. She nearly collided with her aunt, who had one leg wrapped past the knee in spiky metal teeth.

She sat for a moment, gasping. At her aunt's knee-level, Storm could see rips in Maile's overalls and spots of blood dotting the denim. She pulled at a couple of strands of wire, but tightened a few others around Maile's calf.

“That's what I kept doing,” Maile said. She looked down. “I can't sit because I'd land on top of that tangle and never get up. I'm twisted around here all funny-like. You think you could reach the ties of my tennis shoe?”

Storm looked up at her aunt's face, which was perspiring with the effort to stay upright in her awkward position. The air had become heavy around them and wisps of acrid moisture drifted through the creek gully.

“I think so.” Storm snaked her hands into the nest of spikes and winced at the gouges, but kept going and snagged one of the laces. After it was untied, she held the shoe down while Maile wiggled her foot out. Storm kept her eyes on the mess in front of her and resisted looking over her shoulder, but the stillness disturbed her.

“Ouch, ouch,” Maile muttered. “Gonna have to use some of these plants on myself.”

“Aunt Maile, have you had a tetanus shot?”

Maile glared at her niece. “Of course. I believe in modern medicine, too.” She shook her head and made a snorting noise. “I'm not takin' any chances on that lockjaw disease. You think I'm stupid or somethin'?”

“Uh, definitely not. Let's just get you out of here.” Storm spoke to Maile's kneecap. It wasn't as grumpy. Her aunt's testiness was a welcome switch from the dry-mouth terror of twenty minutes ago, though the hairs on the back of Storm's neck still prickled and rain was starting to fall in earnest. Water crawled across her scalp and snaked into her eyes.

Her hands were occupied trying to push barbed wire in two directions. Maile leaned over and maneuvered her hands opposite Storm's. Slowly, the two women jiggled some of the teeth over one another and gave Maile's leg another inch of space. Storm picked ragged denim away from the catching points. With some hopping, flailing, and muttered curses, Maile wiggled her bare foot up through the tangle.

“Lordy, aawil” Maile rolled up her tattered jeans and looked at her skin. “Ouch.”

Storm lifted up the mass of wire to work the shoe free of the nest of spikes. She winced at the narrow rivulets of blood that tracked down her aunt's scratched and punctured calf. “Think you can walk?” she asked.

Maile grimaced and nodded.

“I'll help you. Let's get the hell out of here.” Storm stuck the shoe under Maile's bare foot and together they shoved it on. “Hold onto my shoulder,” Storm said and stood up slowly.

“Superficial cuts. They sting like the devil, but I can walk.” Maile stooped to pick up her basket and a number of plants that had fallen out.

Storm looked around them. Maile watched her.