Siren (7 page)

So the following morning before the sun rose, John followed the coast road to Honolulu Port. The storm being over, ships were coming into harbor, and they would pay good money for dock workers. There was plenty of work cleaning up damage from the storm, but that was for the natives, and white men would not be hired for that.

For three days he followed the road before dawn, worked until nightfall, then returned home to the small thatched hut he shared with Siren, she having refused Hiapo's too generous offer. They ate with the Islanders in the new fashion Hiapo had adopted from his king, of men and women eating together, since, as the old man said, the
Ali’i
who had ruled the Hawaiians for so long were no longer around to complain.

"Our king has not died of smallpox," Hiapo said, "and they said it would be his punishment for breaking
kapu
. The white man's disease—it would be fitting if the
kapu
mattered. They said his manhood would shrivel and fall off. Pele has not sent fire from the mountains down on him. Even our Namaka does not care. So you see? We will eat with our women."

When the night grew late, the drums beat a different rhythm, and the men began to dance. Virile and bold, their bodies told stories of wars and conquests, of taking women in wildly erotic ways. There was no secret hidden in their posturing or the masculine movements of their hands. John looked at the beautiful woman beside him and saw in sea green eyes a longing and hunger that matched his own. He hoped desperately the drums would soon stop, for his body thrummed with blood in a hot arousal.

Then the pounding ceased, so suddenly John startled. The drummers and their instruments disappeared into the darkness. The villagers quietly departed the big open platform made from lava stones. A nod to John from Kekoa and Hiapo was almost too small to be what he knew it was. With a hand to Siren's waist, he led her away. In minutes, they were back in their hut, nude and engaging in the wild love-making that had been fueled by the heavy beat of the drums that had vanished in the night.

When the white men came around the curve of the road to the village, they would find not a single drum, no scraps of leis made from ti leaves. No sign of the hula the missionaries and the law forbade. Instead, some of them would look in hut after hut, and disturb the Hawaiians in the middle of their rutting. And they would
tsk
to each other, having watched overly long, then return to Honolulu and report they found nothing. Maybe it had been thunder in the sky.

John had a different problem. He had to hide Siren from them. So when he heard them coming to his hut, he covered Siren's bright red hair with a woven mat, as if he concealed from the white men his native lover. They laughed at him and went away.

When dawn was coming, John dragged himself up to go back to the docks. Altogether, he'd had a pretty hard night. But it was not the white men's interruption that had worn him out. It was the time with Siren on his mat that had stretched nearly to the sunrise. Somehow, remembering their water gyrations that were like circus acrobats, he'd thought it had all been easier beneath the sea.

At the docks he worked long and hard, and when they took a few minutes to eat whatever food he had brought, John went off by himself. Less and less did he wish for the company of his own kind. He was different now, yet he could hardly say how. If they knew who he was, what he was. . .

He shook his head. It could not be said to anyone. With a frown, he attacked his meal with a new vengeance.

Chapter 10

When John returned from the harbor that evening, he held a gift for Siren behind his back. Spotting her, his heart tripped. Perhaps it had been a matter of destiny that they had met, or a kind of pre-destination that he would love her, but it no longer mattered to him. What he felt in his heart was no different. She looked up from where she worked with the village women pounding taro to make the poi, and she smiled.

His heart did a funny little trip again, but this time it was more a matter of trepidation. Her feet were so beautiful, so delicate. Even he hated to cover them. But he knew he must. So he held out the package to her.

She tilted her head to accompany her puzzled brow, and her radiant hair slung over one shoulder. He said nothing. She pulled the string and unfolded the brown paper.

"What are these, John Wall?" she asked.

"Shoes. For your feet. So you won't cut them on the sharp lava."

"Hiapo's wife does not wear these shoes. Kekoa's wife does not wear them."

"I know. But their feet are tough. They have been walking on the lava all their lives. You know it would not be good if you cut yourself."

It took all the persuasion he could muster before she finally agreed to put on the soft moccasin-like shoes.

"You see? You will get used to them."

"I do not like these shoes, John Wall," she replied.

He winced. He hadn't thought she would. He felt as guilty as if he had put a rope around her neck and led her around by it. The proud, free Siren, constrained by leather shoes. But he was not the one who had made the
kapu
against a Siren's blood falling on the earth. And he would not lose her to a careless, innocent accident if he could help it.

But even though she had promised him, twice he returned to the village and found her barefoot.

"I do not like the shoes, John Wall," she said. “I have walked here many times before. The rock is not sharp in the village. The waves have worn it smooth, a long, long time ago."

So John threw up his hands and made her promise to wear the shoes any time she left the village or went near the high cliffs that formed the slopes of the extinct volcano behind the village. Siren pursed her lips and walked away with an odd waddle, giving each foot a small shake as she lifted it, a subtle reminder that she had never been so encumbered any time in her life.

He had to smile, but wanly. She was Siren. She was not used to a man telling her what to do. But she did not understand her vulnerability. He had to protect her in her childlike innocence.

But her pout did not last long, and that night she was back in his arms as they made love with an exquisite slowness that seemed to go on long after the village fell silent. And John found it even harder than ever to rise before dawn and make his trek over the low pass to Honolulu Port.

He was more glad than usual when work stopped for the noon meal. He sat by himself as usual, and dined on yesterday's poi and a fresh mango.

"Keeping to yourself a lot, Wall."

John looked up to see the American sailor who has accosted him in the tavern the night of the storm. He clamped his jaw so tight, he ought to worry about breaking a tooth. "Bartholomew," he replied with a growl.

The stocky American squatted down beside John without so much as asking if he might want company. John tensed his shoulders at the rudeness. But he couldn't tell if the man was like most of these stray remnants of civilization and was oblivious of social conventions, or whether he was up to something. John went on eating his mango.

"Heard you was living with the natives, Wall."

John made the mistake of lifting an eyebrow. He had wanted to give no reaction at all. "What do you want, Bartholemew?"

Nothing," the stocky man said with a shrug. "I guess what I was thinking is, seems strange. I mean, don't understand what you've got against your own kind."

John felt his teeth clenching and only forced his mouth open by telling himself he was going to take another bite.

"Heard you've got yourself a
wahine
there, now."

Teeth clamping ever tighter, John forced them open and bit into the mango again.

"Anyway, didn't mean anything by it."

"You got something to say, Bartholomew? I wish you'd say it."

The burly man's shoulders hunched forward, and John started to wonder, maybe something wasn't right.

"My cousin was on the
Telesto
."

Before he could stop his reaction, John flinched. "Who?"

"Caleb Cotton."

Telesto's
bos'n. "Good man. I forgot he was an American."

"His pa raised me after my ma died."

"Sort of like a brother, then."

"Any idea what happened to him, Wall?"

John shook his head, suddenly understanding the man's pain, and feeling remorse for his hard feelings. "Last I saw, he was in the last long boat headed for the coast. Then a huge wave rose, and
Telesto
broke up."

"Why wasn't you with them?"

"Too crowded. Figured they had a better chance without me."

"You think maybe they could of made it?"

"It was the Skeleton coast."

Bartholomew's shoulders heaved. "Yeah."

John echoed the man's sigh. "I would’ve died for him, Bartholomew."

"Yeah. He would of died for you, too. Now I think of it, I guess Caleb'd be mighty glad to know you made it if he didn't. Still can't figure out how you got here from there, though."

"Told you, I don't know. Nothing I remember is anything anyone would believe."

"Well, what? Where you been all this time?"

John shook his head, then with a frustrated pout, dragged in a heavy breath. Hell. "Living beneath the sea with a Siren."

"C'mon, Wall."

"I told you. What I remember can't be true."

"Yeah, well then, I guess if I was you I wouldn't want to talk about it, neither. Sea's a funny place ain't it?"

That was for sure.

"Well, I gotta git, Wall," Bartholomew said as he stood to go. "Be seeing you around. Try to be a bit more social, yeah?"

John smiled through thinned lips. He guessed he didn't have anything against a man who'd had the guts to apologize. If you could call it that.

Bartholomew took a few steps then turned back. "Oh, Wall, I got to tell you something."

With an expectant stare, John waited.

"They know about her. The red head."

Chapter 11

Before he could stop himself, John betrayed his thoughts in his dropped jaw and wide eyes.

"That woman you've got. Word is, she's a white woman."

"She's no white woman." But John was not about to admit he didn't know exactly what she really was.

"If you say so. Don't know any redheads that ain't white, myself, but it ain't my business. Just warning you, they ain't happy that a white woman's living with natives. Nor they can't figure out where she come from. 'Tain't seemly to them."

"The missionaries?

"The white women and their husbands, more like. The bankers and plantation owners. Not that they'd ever let her into their kind anyway, not now, but they think it's some kind of sinful. Sounds like they're gonna pay you a visit. I'd be careful if I was you."

"When?"

"Tonight, sounds like."

What if Bartholomew was lying to him? Or what if he wasn't?

"Guess I'll be heading home, then," John said. Bartholomew nodded back and went on his way.

John had to force himself not to break into a sprint as he walked down toward the beach road leading to Hiapo's village, but the farther away he got from the port, the faster he walked, until he was far enough from the sight of the white men that he felt he could run.

He was gasping as he neared the starkly rising conical cliff that separated the village from the long, narrow beach and harbor near Honolulu. He paused to catch his breath, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Bartholomew running up, his wind equally gone.

Damn the man!

"You hiding something, Wall?" Bartholomew said between gasps.

"Can't you mind your own business?"

The man shook his mop of dirty, sand-colored hair. "Not this time. There's something ain't good about them. Don't know what they want, but they got The Zeal, as Pa used to say. And I figure Caleb'd want me to help you out."

They had staggered to the crest of the road, and looked down at the village.

"Damn," said Bartholomew.

Damn, it was. Two black buggies with stamping teams were parked at the edge of Hiapo's village, and John counted three black-suited white men and two port men talking to Hiapo through his interpreter. Fear shoved itself into John's mouth and down his throat, sending his already rapidly beating heart to near spasms.

Just as he and Bartholomew walked up, Siren came down the path from the cliff, with Kekoa by her side. Her Titian hair glowed copper fire in the bright sun, and she wore the gaudily flowered
muu muu
given to her by Hiapo's daughter. A thick lei of flowers and ti leaves crowned her hair. Her feet were bare. She walked like a queen and looked the perfect Hawaiian
wahine
, were it not for her coloring.