Dash in the Blue Pacific (25 page)

A yellow flash near those huge feet caught
Dash’s attention, and he had to blink his crusty eyes to focus on
the small bird perched on Willy’s pinky toe. The bird preened,
stretched its delicate wings, and then froze with its head cocked
toward Willy’s face. Another flash of yellow and the bird landed on
the fantastic creature’s brawny shoulder, head tilted to inspect
the dangling appendage in front of those awesome teeth. The bird
was tantalized by the lure’s herky-jerky motion, and the fleshy
bulb pulsed brighter, as though Willy was working all the angles to
draw the creature in. The bird made sideways steps, edging toward
the bands of iron neck tendons for a better shot at the mesmerizing
prey. It was the hunter being hunted, as the bird coiled its
toothpick legs and tensed for attack. The bird flung itself upward,
legs unsprung, wings beating in a bright flourish.

Willy’s mouth snapped open and shut. The bird
was simply no more. Dash watched the muscles in Willy’s neck work,
might have heard bones crunch.

“
Dinner is served,” Dash told the
air where the bird had been. Perhaps the god, if he was one,
cracked a smile.

The water bucket was long dry and Dash didn’t
bother with the remaining coconuts. He hadn’t seen the stone he
brought to pry them open, assumed it went overboard with the
paddle. He only watched the billowing smoke until the southern tip
of the island was visible over newly sprouted whitecaps. The
heavenly airplane seats were there behind his tide pool, and good
old Manu had brought a greeting party of four strapping young
warriors. The five brown men in funny underpants waited patiently.
No one shifted from foot to foot. No one pulled a pocket watch from
a dirty waistband to frown and shake his head. They were all on the
Volcano God’s time, knew Dash would arrive soon enough.

Someone will have to go for a paddle if they
want to get this thing back to the lagoon
, he thought guiltily.
The one he’d lost probably took days to carve, and even though he
hadn’t summoned the shark, it was his fault for stealing the boat
in the first place.

And then Dash saw Willy’s mighty hands squeeze
hard, as if bracing for impact. Willy’s knuckles turned the same
color as the skiff’s bleached wood when the bottom struck the rocky
shelf, spinning sideways in the surf. The next wave was larger, the
sun suddenly eclipsed by Dash’s scrawny legs as the skiff rolled.
He watched Tiki’s little amber disk go airborne and tumble into the
foam.

The noise of the locomotive was overwhelming as
the train dragged him down and ran him over.

D
ash tumbled across the
jagged lava, spinning and rolling with the rushing water. Wave
after wave pushed and pulled, and he barely managed gulps of air.
He heard shouting over the thunder, and glimpsed muscular brown
legs beating against the tide. Strong hands under his armpits
lifted and then lugged his limp body, the tops of his feet bumping
along. His shins burned and blood ran from his elbows. The other
men charged past, probably to recover the skiff.

He was carried to Manu, where they set him down
on bruised knees. Salt water released from his sinuses, gushing
over his mouth and off his chin. He coughed hard and spit bloody
foam onto the rocks.

“
Ocean is bad place for you,
Cracker. She keeps chewing you up, spitting you out. Maybe you
taste bad.”

Dash tried swallowing, wanted to tell Manu that
you didn’t have to be a drunken old chief to be visited by a
Volcano God. Hell, he’d even gotten up close and personal with one
of her bootlicking minions dressed in a shark suit.

Fuck you
, he wanted to say more than
anything.

“
Every man must strive for freedom.
So many of my people died because I did not understand where real
freedom lives.” Manu put a hand on his bony chest and tapped. “I
did not know to listen to the gods. To respect their will. To
accept sacrifice with an open heart.”

Dash mouthed the word ‘sacrifice’ and wanted to
laugh. His father used the word a thousand times. At least it
wasn’t part of his final letter. That would have been a little too
rich. Manu squinted, leathery face filling with deep wrinkles,
perhaps mistaking Dash’s disgust for revelation. The old man rubbed
his chin and nodded.

“
Sacrifice,” said Manu. “Sacrifice
brings freedom. I give my blood every time the white soldiers come.
My flesh and blood leaves on their boat.”

The skiff skidded across the rocks behind, and
Dash craned his neck to see if Willy was still aboard. He no longer
wanted inside the volcano, but to curl up alone in his
spider-infested cave. Sulfur was heavy in the air, the blue haze
even here where the steady breeze kept mosquitoes at bay. He tried
twisting from the iron grip of the men clamped to each shoulder,
but they held him down with ease.

Manu spoke in his native tongue, waved an arm
for them all to head back up the path Dash had crept along under
cover of darkness. The two men walking at his sides were now his
guards. Dehydrated and trickling blood from dozens of small cuts,
he imagined making a break for it. Unable to get away in a boat,
he’d tackle one of those big birds that nested in underground
burrows. Surely he was sufficiently emaciated for a piggy-back ride
to the nearest cargo ship bound for civilization. Wouldn’t a man
riding a bird be a more difficult target for rocks slung from a
volcano? Those bastard sharks could circle and snap their jaws all
they wanted while he prodded the bird with imaginary spurs. The
birds owed him, after all.

He was out of breath when the path opened to
the mouth of the lagoon, his heart pounding, chest heaving. The
guards allowed him to bend and grab his bloody knees. The skiff was
lowered onto the narrow strip of sand and given a once-over, four
hands running along the inner and outer surface. The men, who found
plenty to complain about, grumbled to each other and the
chief.

Dash noticed Willy lurking in the protected
water up to his thighs, twenty yards from where two women were
fishing with circular throwing nets. Willy was only half solid, the
breakers out beyond the reef visible through his upper torso. Willy
eyed the women at work, his muscular arms flexing, hands making
wide, sweeping motions. The women stood back to back, at a slight
angle, casting the nets out in identical spinning arcs. It took
Dash a moment to understand Willy’s strange, traffic cop motions,
as he was now signaling with his entire body, looking down over the
clear water. Willy was directing schools of silvery fish toward the
women’s outspread nets.

Manu handed Dash a six-inch section of bamboo
plugged at both ends and motioned for him to drink. The water was
hot from sitting in a sunny patch next to a pile of spare paddles,
but he opened and drained the container in two gulps.

Manu led the group along a jungle path Dash had
never seen. It was slightly uphill, even more cave-like than the
one connecting the village to the island’s southern tip. No light
penetrated and the heat was stifling. Dash could hear dozens of low
voices when they approached the bright opening of the compound, as
if an important meeting was going on instead of the usual busy work
of preparing food and fixing broken things. The children weren’t
screaming or laughing, or out of breath from chasing
balls.

The fresh air struck Dash’s sweat-drenched body
like a bucket of ice water, as Manu led them to the center of the
village where the entire population was gathered. They walked to
the spot where the Yule tree had been the night Tiki had given him
his gift. Dash frantically patted his mostly naked body, as though
trying to find car keys in a winter coat. His hands froze, and
again he saw the smooth amber disk disappear into the foam and the
surge that must have drawn it straight out to sea. Some fish would
bolt from the deep and swallow it whole, or a fucking bird would
snatch it in its talons to feed its young.

The guards had fallen back, and it was only
Dash and Manu who were enveloped by the hushed mass of brown flesh.
Dash briefly wondered if this was where the boat thief would be set
upon, torn apart by people who’d endured years of murder and
kidnapping by people whose skin matched his. Their faces gave
nothing away. There were no tight lips or furrowed brows, and no
smiles either. They weren’t his enemies, but he might very well be
theirs. Manu stood close, shoulder to shoulder, while Dash looked
from face to face, seeing the people, fifteen deep in places.
Children in the outer perimeter were jumping up and down for a
glimpse, little faces appearing and disappearing as if they were
riding pogo sticks. So many faces, all with calm expressions,
bright white eyes shifting from him to Manu, waiting for the
chief’s next order as the old man seemed to gather his
thoughts.

The volcano spoke first with a low growl, the
sound of a dog’s bad dream. Then a gassy hiss from high above
followed, and a few heads turned for a peek. The smoke drifted
sideways from the mountain, turned the haze a deeper blue, the
stink of rotten eggs ten times worse. The volcano had its own stash
of hidden eggs, Dash thought, smiling as he recalled his dead
father’s bedtime story. Several people flashed toothy grins in
return, but only for a second.

The ground shivered and a flock of small birds
took flight from trees on one side of the village clearing. They
zigged and zagged with one mind, soaring over the crowd and then
finding safety in an identical tree on the opposite side.
Not
nearly far enough
, Dash could have told them, as he watched a
few stragglers join the rest. You’ll need to find a good warm wind,
one leading to a place that’ll hold together through a storm or two
and keep you out of the mouths of sharks and away from dancing
bait.

Manu cleared his throat for attention, and Dash
could feel the circle collapse farther inward. He could close his
eyes and count the people by heat and smell.

“
There will be no white baby to
offer the soldiers.” Manu’s voice was strong and convincing,
commanding respect, like that of an old-time news anchor, back when
television was black and white. No wonder he was chief. You didn’t
question that voice, just waited for the next order, prepared to
act without hesitation. It was the voice of a jetliner
captain.

The people pressed into Dash to hear the plan,
the volcano shaking their footing, ruffling the walls of their
homes. Hanging metal pots swung over cooking fires; the pigs in
their corral squealing for food or a chance to outrun the volcano.
The birds had vanished from the tree top, and Dash wondered if
they’d taken his advice.

“
The Volcano God speaks clearly of
her desire for sacrifice,” said Manu. “And she will protect us as
she has since our fathers were summoned to her shadow. We will
present her gift the night the moon is in balance and shows half
its face.”

Dash felt something creep along his injured
right hand with the probing legs of a spider. His three middle
fingers were encircled by Tiki’s small moist hand. He looked down
to see her tear-streaked face tilted up to the crowding villagers.
Dash was confused when Manu’s speech resumed—the words scrambled,
nonsensical—and then realized the chief had switched to his native
language. Heads nodded all around as Manu spoke faster, words less
measured. The crowd murmured, Dash sensing instructions were being
given and agreed to by the people.

Dash’s fingers were squeezed tighter when the
surrounding faces turned downward at Tiki and cast accusing eyes at
her doomed soul.

“
The Volcano wants me, too,” she
whispered up to him, as if reading his mind.

A
sliver of moon arced across
the cruddy sky, nearly invisible until the dull sun dropped below
the treetops. Dash knew it was a waning crescent from an intro to
astronomy course, knew it had been up there all day, leading the
sun across the sky’s dome even though it couldn’t be seen most of
the time. He never suspected the lesson would come to bear so much
weight on his existence.

The countdown would begin for real when the
moon rose in full shadow to follow the sun, then make a tandem
plunge into the western sea. It would mark seven days until its
white and black faces came into balance—what his professor called a
first quarter moon—and send him and the girl off a cliff and into
the volcano’s fire. He dared to hope another crescent would rise
that dawn, allow more time for a miracle, if only for the girl’s
sake.

He sat up in the former love hut, watching the
burly backs of two men guarding the opening. He’d listened to the
village sounds as days and nights dragged by. The casual, workaday
vibe changed, anxiety hanging in the air heavy as the foul stench.
Mothers scolded roughhousing soccer players in sharper tones; the
men developed short tempers, back from fishing or tending the taro
with chips on their shoulders, ready for a fight.

He listened to scuffles, the sounds of slapping
skin and animal grunts, and feet shuffling in the dirt for
leverage. The confrontations started and ended quickly, and he
decided these people were more comfortable being a society of
victims than fighters. Going to battle would never be in their
blood. But the bickering increased, regular arguments in sing-song
words, as the volcano kept the village shrouded in putrid
fog.