Islands of Fire Page 27
There are dozens of them, dark forms like the afterimage of a moon shadow, wielding shadow spears and clubs like mockeries of their former lives. Now that they are closer, Kina can hear their hissing and cackling.
Urging her legs into motion, she doubles her speed toward the waterline. The shadows are faster, and they catch up with her just as she approaches the line where the sand meets the trees. She slashes at them with her spear, but whenever it cuts through one of the cackling silhouettes, the spirit simply reshapes itself once more. They claw at her with terrible, freezing hands, tripping her and tugging the spear from her grasp. She kicks and screams, managing to beat a gap between them long enough to flip over and crawl back to her feet. The spear is gone, and it was useless anyway, so she ignores it and covers as much distance as she can before they catch up with her again.
This time, they pick her up and fling her around, engulfing her in their dark forms. Kina can feel her flesh sizzling where they touch her, leaving black marks on her skin with their long, foul fingers. Some of them gnaw at her flesh like ghouls, ravenously hungry for the warmth and life of her pulsing blood.
They have her pinned down and are leaching the life from her. Kina can feel her own essence being sucked out through her flesh, a feeling like pins and needles, an icy void filling her bones.
A loud boom is followed by a wall of water that blasts across the beach. Kina is tossed by the waves, rolled over and over through the sand, and then sucked partway out to the waterline as the great wall of seawater retreats. She barely has time to register what happened and heave out a lungful of water before the water is gone. Soaked, she spits and coughs, then notices an object left behind in the foam.
The chittering shadows have rallied and race back down the beach. Kina rises with Mother Ocean’s white pahi in her hand and, summoning as much strength as she can muster, cuts through the ghosts as they swarm around her. They slice easily, substantial as spider silk, screeching in agony as the pahi vanquishes them.
Another of the phantoms rushes at her, taking advantage of a gap created by its retreating brethren. As it comes, Kina hears her voice as though spoken by the wind itself. To her horror, she recognizes the form before it reaches her: Motua.
The shock of seeing him this way freezes her in place long enough for him to slam into her, knocking her to the sand hard enough to steal her breath. His silhouette presses down on top of her, mouth seeking her own. For a moment she imagines he wants only to kiss her, something she is sure he always wanted in life, but when his lifeless mouth touches her she feels him eating her essence, just like the others. Several of his brethren have seized this opportunity and are trying to pry the pahi out of her hands. Kina jerks it from their claws and cleaves Motua’s shadow in half. And just like that, he is gone.
Somehow, she is able to right herself despite the relentlessly howling, biting shadows. She tries to cut them away but there are just too many of them. Some grab hold of her arms, others take her legs. With a powerful yank, Kina plunges out of their death grip and finds herself wading into the water. She welcomes the familiar, warm surge of the waves at her legs, dropping down so that she can immerse herself fully.
When she comes back up, she is neck-deep in seawater. The pahi is gone, dropped the moment she hit the surf, returned to Mother Ocean’s safekeeping. From her position, she can see the shadows clustered around the beach like a dark fog clinging to the sand. They race back and forth, trying to reach her but unable to progress beyond the edge of the land.
Kina loses consciousness.
When she wakes, she is floating in a dark void. She can see nor feel nothing, other than the currents of the water around her. For a moment she thinks she is being called back to Mother Ocean’s deep bosom, but then she feels the pressure of the sandy ocean floor under her back and realizes she is merely floating offshore, perhaps not far from where she escaped the shadows. Not for the first time, she marvels at the feel of breathing water — it is like taking in a long, syrupy gasp of sluggish air, the brine adding a sharp tang in the back of her throat.
The surface isn’t far overhead. Kina rises slowly, so as not to announce her whereabouts in case the shadows are nearby. In the deep night she can see nothing; even the island of Keli`anu is no more than a silhouette, black on black.
She follows the coastline until, hours later, she catches sight of Toko-Mua’s torches. The drums still sound through the jungle. It seems they have kept it up all night. Can the ghosts of the dead somehow relay news of their success or failure to the drummers? She guesses so, for how else would they know when to stop drumming?
At least the shore is quiet. Kina slowly crawls, nude, from the lapping waves, her hair trailing like seaweed. When she reaches for the coral pahi, it is there, ready to meet her grasping fingers.
Canoes on the beach, no sign of guards.
Kina remains low in the water, only her eyes above the surface, for a long time. Eventually she sees a guard — unadorned, so probably not a Burning Warrior — pass through the area on patrol. For every guard seen there is surely another two in hiding, she tells herself, so when he is gone, she creeps out of the waterline and makes her way to the canoes. They provide enough shelter that she can renew her vigil. Sure enough, not far away, a guard rests in the darkness.
He is so surprised at her appearance, this wild, soaking wet and naked woman wielding a sword of coral, that she is able to cut his head from his shoulders before he makes a sound. Making sure no one else noticed, she leaves the beach and walks quietly through the empty, sleeping streets on bare feet, the pahi held to her side.
Far to the east, the first inklings of dawn are beginning to show. It won’t be long before the fishermen of this village rise to take their canoes out for the morning’s haul, and the women wake to do their chores before the heat of the day drives them into the shade. Kina knows she is short on time, but this is a task that must be done. It is long overdue.
The drums have been hauled out of the temple and set up on a platform just outside its southern door. There must be fifty drummers there, taking turns pounding out a rhythm on the stretched tan skins. The drummers seem to be in some kind of light trance, their eyes half-lidded and staring while their hands pat the drumheads. There are ten warriors around them as a line of defense. But a long night with little activity has dulled their senses. They hold expressions nearly as vacant as the drummers. Of Nakali or her kupuna, there is no sign.
Kina strides out of the shadows of the buildings, no longer seeking a hiding spot. The drummers don’t seem to notice, but a couple of the warriors jerk to attention, raising their spears and clubs.
“There she is!” one shouts. He is the first to fall.
Kina carves her way into them, severing spear shafts and human arms with the razor-sharp pahi, driving it through exposed chests, slashing it across naked skin. The warriors are well-trained, but the combination of fatigue, her unshaken confidence, and the honed edge of the pahi combine to drain the fight right out of them. Within seconds, the ones left uninjured and alive turn and flee the platform, abandoning the drummers.
Kina knows they are going to warn Nakali. As much as she relishes the idea of that confrontation, she is much more concerned with rescuing Pupo and Mai, assuming they are still alive.
But first, the drums.
Now that the guards have fled, the drummers seem to be growing aware of a problem. A few stop beating the drums and rise in terror. Their brethren join them, and before long all the drummers are scrambling off the platform, leaving the drums in a line. Kina goes from one drum to the next, slicing open the human skin that forms their heads. Surely this will ruin them, she thinks, and by the time she has finished the last, she knows it for a fact. Upon breaking the magic bound in each drumhead, a sort of sigh emerges from the round, deep hollow of the wooden shells.
Nearby, Kina can see two figures in the village square. She stands frozen near the last of the drums, trying to make out the shapes in the sputtering light
of the burned-down torches marking the perimeter, hoping she is wrong. But when she hops down from the platform and strides into the square, she knows her worst fears are true. Both Pupo and Mai are impaled on long spikes and lifted into the air, their bodies already cold.
“Warriors! She is in the square!” comes a shout. Kina recognizes the voice as that of a temple kupuna. She turns toward him. He has come out of the temple, wiping sleep from his eyes.
There is nothing that can be done for her companions. She softly whispers a prayer for their speedy delivery to the Lands Beyond, then raises the pahi into the air.
She must make a fearsome sight, her skin seared black by the horrible claws and teeth of the shadows, her blade and her naked flesh splashed with gore, for the kupuna seems to suddenly rethink his confrontational approach. He turns and ducks back into the temple.
Kina plucks one of the torches from a pole at the edge of the square. With it in one hand and the pahi in the other, she strides toward the temple. She climbs the steps and stands before the archway, then holds the torch to her own body. Instantly, she is engulfed in flames, the Burning Warrior tattoos doing their work, keeping her from being burned while forming a halo of fire around her whole body. She tosses aside the torch and walks up to the temple.
As soon as she touches its side, the dry thatch catches fire, palm leaves curling and blackening and then igniting like wicks. Kina watches for a minute to make sure the temple is well engulfed before she strides in.
There, in the center of the room, is the stone slab and the frame where, seemingly so long ago, Kina and Motua stole the obsidian pahi. Now its cousin, the black shield, is propped up there in its stead. Kina starts toward it, but stops short when a line of Burning Warriors pour in through the far door.
Among them is Nakali, her eyes narrowed with rage.
“You destroyed the drums,” she says, more a statement than an accusation.
“Please step aside,” Kina says to the warriors. “I don’t want to kill you. I only care about her.”
“They’ll do no such thing,” Nakali replies. “You have killed many of our people, stolen our sacred artifacts, and made a mockery of our customs. They won’t let you live.”
Kina looks at her in outrage. “You paint yourselves as victims, when it has been your Cult of the Ebon Flame that has gone far afield, kidnapping and murdering all who you encounter. And for what? To bring back a forgotten, sullen goddess who seeks reprisal on behalf of Mother Fire?”
“Say her name once more,” Nakali says, “and I’ll cut your blaspheming tongue from your face.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” Kina says. “I have a goddess to kill.”
Nakali’s face is twisted in rage, and she shouts, “Destroy her!”
The guards come in from all sides, surrounding Kina. Her pahi cuts through their weapons easily. They back away, perhaps surprised at their own failure, giving Kina enough time to rally. She comes at them, swinging and thrusting, and all the while Nakali is shouting frenzied orders at them. But they are unsettled, doing battle with one of their own, ever mindful of the roof burning over their heads and dropping bits of burning thatch, and their distraction is enough to give Kina the edge.
In moments, the last three flee out of the temple, and Kina turns slowly to Nakali.
During the fight, the high priestess moved over to the altar and now she is strapping the shield to her bad arm. Kina can see the severed stump of her wrist poking out of the straps.
“I’m going to take your other hand,” Kina says, pointing the pahi at Nakali’s ragged nub.
This seems to set off Nakali, who screams at her, “I’ll finish you right here, myself! You’ll die in this temple!”
Kina paces around Nakali, forcing the high priestess to pivot on the spot. Nakali has knelt down to snatch a shark tooth club from one of the fallen warriors, which she holds out to the side, ready to strike with it.
Kina says, “I tried to leave you alone. I tried to just go away. Your savage little cult could have kept right on going, pounding on your horrible little drums and dancing around your slave pits. You could have let me go and spared yourself all this trouble. But you brought this on yourself.”
Nakali scoffs. “How do you figure? We probably would have let you get away, but you had run off with one of our most sacred artifacts. Who are you to us? Nothing! You’re of less concern than a roach in the weeds at night. But you took something precious to us, little roach, and for that insult alone you have to die.”
“No drum for me, eh?”
“We’re beyond that, I think. Now I’m thinking I’ll have my master tanners make an armor out of your skin, something I can wear into battle. With your stolen tattoos, you’ll make a fine suit, I should think. Just imagine how you’ll strike terror into the hearts of our enemies.”
Kina looks up. The roof is now fully engulfed, and the huge wooden beams supporting it are sagging under the weight of their own burning mass. She steps to the side, trying to lure Nakali toward the center of the temple floor.
“So, what now?” Kina asks. Nakali must be kept talking. “Who will you go after now? More raids on the innocent from nearby islands? Or are you all going to go live on Howe`a with your beloved Puahiki? What does Tiamuta think of your divided loyalty, by the way? Surely she’s jealous that Mother Fire’s daughter is getting all the glory.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Tiamuta seeks to bring Mother Fire back and reunite her with her father. They will rule once more.”
“She betrays her own mother? How un-godlike.”
Nakali spits, “Who are you to question the motives of a god? Tiamuta has her reasons, and we obey.”
“So,” Kina asks, “she is using you to her own ends? Little tiny weapons in her petulant war? What could possibly motivate her, I wonder? Is she angry at her mother? Trying to drive a wedge between them for her own bitter purposes?”
“No explanation is necessary. When she asks, we obey.”
“You sound like good little tools.”
What was meant to be an insult strikes Nakali as a point of pride. Kina can see the woman swell with delight. “Humans are the instruments of the gods, and we gladly do her bidding.”
“Even if it means destroying Mokukai.”
“When Puahiki rises, she will reward us for our efforts.”
Kina says, “And Tiamuta will be given a greater domain than this diseased little island, no doubt.”
“Insult us all you want, but we have an army, we have magic, and we have Mother Fire’s own progeny on our side. We will win.”
“Maybe,” Kina replies, “But you won’t be there to see it.”
At that, Kina closes on Nakali, swinging the pahi for her exposed legs. Nakali knocks away the pahi with her black shield. Grunting in anger, Kina circles around for another blow, only to find this one blocked as well.
“I presume Mother Ocean gave you that sorry weapon? It is riddled with holes and looks no sharper than a broken shell on the beach. Is that what you plan to use to kill a goddess?”
Kina seethes with anger, coming in for several more blows, but is rebuffed each time.
“Yield, slave. You’ve already risen too far above your station. You aren’t meant to be involved in the important matters of priests and kings. Do as you’re told.”
Kina looks up again, taking note of a crossbeam that is slipping from its mooring. She sidles to the far side of Nakali, luring her to the center of the temple. “I notice,” Kina says, “that you don’t have any tattoos.”
Nakali looks at her, momentarily confused. “So?”
Kina steps in and spits fire from her mouth, feeling it first rise into her throat and then roar past her mouth into a narrow stream. Nakali is inundated, howling in pain as she backs away and drops the shield and shark-tooth club to the floor to bat at her flaming hair.
Once the gout of fire ebbs, Kina raises the coral pahi and cleanly slices off Nakali’s leg, dropping the high priestess to the floor.
A groaning sound comes from overhead. A rain of flaming debris thunders down on top of them, not heavy enough to do any damage, but creating enough of a distraction that Kina is able to snatch the shield and run out of the collapsing temple. She glances back in time to see Nakali trying to rise, clutching her bloody leg, just as one of the great beams holding up the temple crashes down upon her, crushing her body and burying it in falling ash.
By now, sparks thrown off the temple peak are drifting onto village huts. In the dim light of pre-dawn, townsfolk are pouring out of their homes with tapa cloths, batting at the smoldering cinders landing on the rooftops.
Kina doesn’t stop running until she is at the beach. She has forgotten the corona of fire around her body until she hits the water and hears it hiss and fizzle in the spray. Looking back, she sees the temple has become a cone of fire, and much of the town has caught ablaze. People run everywhere, their terrified silhouettes etched against the raw flames erupting all over town.