The Night Marchers and Other Strange Tales (18 page)

The sun was low in the sky. He’d have to hurry and find her before the crowds and darkness made it an impossible task.  

Rushing to the beach, San edged his way through rich families, well-manicured couples holding hands, and long-haired, wide-eyed young people adorned in croc tooth jewelry and bright colors that were supposed to mimic that of the nighttime jellies. 

The smell of grilling fish, roasting pineapple and nuts made his stomach grumble, but he kept on looking for a glimpse of Marika. 

He asked the cake man selling fruit brownies. Big Rog working his grill. He stopped to buy a pack of Marika’s favorite cigarettes at the Henderson’s stand. Mr. and Mrs. Henderson had not seen her, though Mr. Henderson smiled and clicked a mock photo of him with his hands. Sweaty and exhausted, San patrolled the two strips of beach.  

He thought of the smiling face of the croc beneath the water and glanced up to the blindfolded croc-men statues. A female form moved in the shadows of the cave mouth. A slender arm rested on the leg of one of the croc-men. Marika? She couldn’t be in the temple. The thought was so absurd. It was irreverent. Exactly the sort of thing Marika would want to do. It was what she wanted to do last year. 

The last bit of the sun sank below the waves, and a hush spread over the beaches. Deep drums sounded from the trees. Sparks of orange flickered through the bay full of jellies, mimicking the departed sun as the procession of elders appeared at the tree line. Marchers wearing big paper-mache croc heads of bright orange, yellow, and purple stepped in time. San pushed his way through the crowd. The pungent smell of festival incense wafted above the aromas of cooking food. Flag bearers carried poles trailing green, blue, and red streamers. San knew one of them was Tal. As if in response, the jellies in the bay ignited in a burst of color. Vibrant greens and oranges radiated through the bay like a million submerged fireflies. Bursts of primary reds and yellows and blues spontaneously appeared to the cheers of delight from of the crowd. New-agers edged closer to the shore, anxious for the blessing to be done and to be the first into the supposedly restorative waters.  

San wished he were watching with Marika. The waves of color were hypnotizing, and it occurred to him he had never seen it from this vantage. But he raced to the pavilion and stole away unnoticed through the door leading into the heart of the temple. 

The murmur of the crowd was muted inside the dim passage. The lights leading into the temple chamber were out, but he hurried, his hand on the rusty rail, expecting to come upon Marika, sitting a few feet back from the mouth of the cave, smoking a clove, taking solitary delight in her privileged view of the bay. He would quietly slither up behind her and snake his arms around her… 

The thrashing rustle of leather on stone met him. Guttural growls and heavy breathing echoed in the room. It was coming from the center. The altar. 

“Marika,” he called out, and squinted, his eyes not yet adjusted to the faint light reaching in from the mouth. 

He struck a match. In the sulfur glow he made out a monstrous form on the stone slab. A huge, ridged tail sprouted from the back of a man, thrashing side to side as he mounted someone on the altar. Two slender female legs wrapped around his mottled back. 

The match went out. Was it Marika and one of the costumed men? The moans intensified. He lit another match. The woman had mounted the croc-man. 

San stepped forward to see better, but he didn’t want to. As his match sputtered he saw Marika’s face. Her eyes met his and she smiled, her mouth full of huge, jagged crocodile teeth. 

An animal roar filled the darkness mixed with Marika’s cries—no longer of passion, but of rage. San heard the awful sound of fists connecting with flesh, like a butcher tenderizing a fish. The croc-man roared in pain. 

He didn’t know what kind of gods the outsiders had, but he hoped Harat was strong enough to wrestle with them and prevail. 

San ran to the altar and fumbled for another match. He stumbled, dropping matches, screaming Marika’s name. He wasn’t sure if he should be rescuing her or stopping her. The moaning stopped and the rustle of clothing and footsteps replaced it. 

Outside, the muted cries of delight gave way to a horrendous, unified scream. 

San struck another match. The figures on the altar were gone. The room was empty. Was he feverish from lack of sleep? He inspected the altar. Dark, blue fluid, like crocodile blood, stained the altar. 

He ran to the cave mouth and pushed through the nets and streamers. The new-agers who had waded into the bay were frantically pushing each other over to get out. 

The entire bay was alight with rapid patterns of red and fiery oranges, the brightest he had ever seen. Three dark shapes weaved through the jellies. Crocs. Ripples of dark violet and blue jellies in their wake. 

White froth splashed at the net line. Hundreds of others were pushing to get in. They breached the waves as if some invisible signal had them frenzied. 

Then San saw the cloud of red. Blood. Someone had been bit. He knew he should run down and help, but he had to find Marika. 

The apparitions in the Temple had to have been a delusion. But the blood, the ridges on the croc-man’s back were so real. Seeing Marika, he would know. The town bells were ringing. The fire alarm was blaring. He could hear the roar of panic from the bay. He ran for the hotel. 

The gate to Ruby Shores was open and unattended. San darted in, dashed through the lobby and into the elevator before the lone woman staffing the desk could stop him. 

The elevator rose slowly. San jabbed at the tenth floor button over and over. The doors slid open with a hiss. A teenage boy in a Ruby Shores uniform, someone’s son that he knew but whose name his frenzied mind couldn’t remember, sat in the plush sofa playing solitaire on the coffee table. He looked pleased to see San. 

“Finally, you came,” he said. 

“Where is she?” 

“Easy, easy. She ain’t here.” 

“I checked the festival. She’s not down there either.”  

“Don’t kill the messenger, mon.” He shoved a thick stack of documents next to the playing cards towards him. “She left this. For me to hand to you and no one else.” 

San ruffled through the papers. There was a passport with his name and picture inside. Travel papers. A valid visa. A plane ticket with all exit fees paid for. Everything was paid for. These items were so hard for a man like himself to obtain. He’d wished for them so often when Marika had left last year the memory of the yearning was like the touch of an old friend. He tore open the envelope beneath. It was full of US hundred dollar bills. 

“Don’t worry. It’s all there,” the kid said. “She paid me well.” 

**** 

Jellies evacuated the bay with the rising sun and the low tide. The reporter from yesterday spoke into her microphone while the cameraman panned the bay in the background. 

Tents were set up under the palms. People scurried to and fro attending to the wounded and shocked tourists as best they could. 

“News of this is going to be all over the world,” Tal said. 

Charlie came barreling down the beach on an old bicycle. He hit San over the head with a rolled up USA today. 

He opened it to a big picture of Marika at the Henderson’s cart. 

“Stuff like this doesn’t keep people away for very long. Everyone’s going to want to come here now,” Charlie said. “You okay?” 

San shook his head. “In the Temple, I saw…” He didn’t know what he had seen. His tired mind was capable of anything. Perhaps his desire for Marika had finally made him crazy. 

“Listen,” Charlie said. “I thought I saw a lot of things in San Raphael. Your wife she come to have a taste of native life and then she go. That’s all it is. I’m sorry for you, but you’ve seen it happen all the time.” 

“It was no costume or paper-mache,” San said. “The gods had come alive and had their way with her.” 

“Or she with them,” Tal said. “She is a servant of the gods of the outsiders. Whether she knew it or not, and whether she meant it or not, she came to lure you away. Every one of us could be the lynch pin soul. The one, that if taken away will cause the rest of us to fall.” 

San riffled through the stack of hundreds. It was more money than he could earn in two seasons. He yearned to see Marika. But if Tal was right and he left now, there might be nothing to come back to. Only another dirty, washed up San Raphael.  

“She left me a plane ticket and a fistful of cash,” San said. 

“Holy smoke,” Charlie said. “You gonna go?” 

“If I’m gonna catch the plane, I have to head to the mainland soon.” 

They watched the reporter at the edge of the messed up beach. Debris floated in the bay water. 

“She’s already left a hole in us,” Tal said. “A hole big enough for an old toothy one to swim through. You can’t leave now.” 

“Are the crocs gone?” San asked. 

“Big man at the hotel say so,” Tal said. 

“Which means there are probably dozens and dozens of them still out there,” Charlie said. “The nets are ripped up real bad.” 

The hotel frameworks loomed over the grim scenes playing out on the beach. The shadows of the heavy crossbeams cast mottled shapes over the tents for the wounded. He could leave right now and never see the artificial landscape these skeletal giants would mature into. 

“Goodbye,” he whispered, then threw a load of tackle and wire into his dugout and paddled for the nets. 

Maybe someday Marika, he thought. Maybe someday the tides will bring you back to me. But for now, the moments we had will have to do. 

THE NIGHT MARCHERS 

The Big Island, Hawai’i 

Steep cliffs rose from the jagged lava rocks that ringed Captain Cook’s Bay. Peaks of gray stone jutted from the lush green mountainside, the raw and exposed bones of the island itself. In the almost empty parking lot for the public dock, six Hawaiian teens stood around a weathered red pickup drinking beer. A few empty spaces away, a shiny rental car glared in the late afternoon sun. Across the lot, two younger boys sat on an old stone wall dangling their legs over the water. They faced out, towards the cliffs.  

A sarong-clad woman stepped around the snorkeling gear on the dock trying to take a picture of a chubby man climbing from the water.  

Max Ke Kumu watched them all as he walked into the lot. The sun shone on his bare back as if trying to coax life into his faded tattoos, angular tribal bars running from the base of his neck all the way down his lean body. When the teens saw him striding toward them they put down their beers and did their best to pretend they weren’t there.  

“Aloha, bruddah. Whaddsdascoups moke,” they nervously greeted him in pidgin. 

“Aloha,” Max said. 

He looked to the beers, then to the boys, then to the cliffs. The boys grinned. 

“Hel-lo. Ex-cuse me,” the woman in the sarong called in a saccharin sing-song. “Could you take our picture?”  

Instead of answering her, the teens turned to Max and wondered if today would bring another tirade or permission to make a buck or two?  

The woman walked over and handed her disposable yellow camera to Max.  

“With the nice mountains in the background if you can,” she said. 

Max’s face remained expressionless. 

“It’s going to be beautiful,” she said, sliding her arm around the chubby man’s waist. 

“The bay
is
beautiful,” Max said, softly.  

The couple held their smile. 

“Its name is Kealakekua. Which means pathway to the Gods,” Max said. “It is the place where Captain Cook arrived.” 

Max wanted to say Cook was also killed here, a year later, but the teens depended on these haole tourists for money. On any given day he had a hundred reasons to hate the haoles, and some of them good ones. Captain Cook’s gunboat diplomacy. The subjugation of Hawaii. That the best land, the royal land, was now mostly resorts for non-Hawaiians. But it was the presence of all these people swimming near the cliffs every day that burned him most. The bones of Hawaii’s chiefs rested in hidden caves in the cliffs and it was his charge to keep them secret and safe.  

The man squirmed and the lady cleared her throat. 

Max snapped the photo.  

“Uh, there is a small monument to Captain Cook up the road,” he said. “The boys can take you there.”  

The couple quickly gathered their gear and loaded their car. The teens watched and muttered to themselves. Max knew what they were thinking; even though he didn’t rant or lecture or scream this time he still managed to scare them away. 

Max walked to the two boys sitting on the shore wall.  

The brothers, Kenjo and Iwana, had grown since he had first seen them on the streets of Hilo running bump and grabs on locals and tourists alike. Kenjo was now tall and skinny and wore his hair in a long straight ponytail like Max. They were no longer boys but far from the confident teens who drank beer and surfed and vied for jobs at the giant hotels. 

“Howzit?” Max asked.  

“Good. Dakine,” Kenjo said, playing with his pooka shell necklace. 

“Did you have grinds?” Max asked. 

“Yeah, at da place by the new hotel like you said,” Kenjo answered. “Mrs. Nakamura didn’t make us pay.” 

Good, Max thought. Hawaiians taking care of Hawaiians. 

“If da snorkelers are gone for today, and nobody else is near the caves, why we still watch den?” Iwana asked. 

“Because it’s your turn until tonight, when I will come to take your place.” 

He grows bold, Max thought. There is so much I want to explain but so much to do.  

Max rested his big hand on Iwana’s scrawny twelve-year old shoulder. “It is an honor to protect the
alli,
your Kings,” he said. “You’ll understand better when you are older.” 

“I knew you were going to say something like that.”  

Kenjo’s forehead furrowed. “Do you really think King Kahmehamea is watching us?”  

“I know he is,” Max said. 

Kenjo looked down at the water. They all sat motionless, with only the sounds of the waves and the wind.