Chapter 1

A Chapter by Stephen Geez

Rochelle at 13

Squeezing her eyes shut, Rochelle tried to picture her mother, to make real again the reassuring smile that reminds a loving daughter she belongs, but a single image slammed into her, wrenching her loose: the undeniable truth of a broken and lifeless body, smears of darkening blood, a battered and broken face, every trace of belonging drained from her mom’s lifeless eyes.

Pressing her footied feet against the gnarly plank floor, she hugged the wadded bed sheet and dared to peer about the room. Fading glimmers from a gas lantern confirmed her banishment to this desolate hovel halfway around the world. Muffled murmurs through crude slat walls hinted at ritual incantations, those primitive boys somehow content to dwell in this forsaken place.

She felt for the pulse at her throat, and she wondered how the girl from school could endure the gradual end of too many pills, yet somehow keep clinging to the illusion that trifling hurts can possibly ever matter in the fullness of a lifetime. That pathetic girl had given purpose to her own passing, the implication of blame, a determination to leave others to wonder with guilt and regret. Rochelle simply had no choice, no way to live, for she understood that even halfway around the world no place exists where she could ever stop being the girl who killed her own mother.

The lantern flickered and winked out, the onrush of darkness barely stanched by a pale curtain of moonlight washing the stone window-sill. An insect chirruped through the screen while intermittent breaths of warm breeze swirled about the room. She tried not to cry, but her eyes blurred, her face all tears and snot. The urgency of what must come tugged at her tummy, yet she persisted in dread, now trembling and afraid. Only an instant of violence might bring relief―a deep slash, a measured plunge into the void.

And even as she lay back and felt herself falling, Rochelle cried as a child needing to be held, a teen now accepting that she had lost the only one she ever counted on to hold her.

“Haole-girl,” summoned a voice in the night. “Howww-leee gir-ull.”

“Rochelle,” whispered the other one, young Mikalu, both boys now standing right outside the door. “You okay in there?”

She buried her face in the damp sheet, determined to keep quiet, to feign sleep.

“Haole-girl!” Pocomea called louder, this time rousing grumbles from his sleeping grandfather, the old Hawaiian who’d agreed to let Rochelle live here while her own father flew to Chicago and dismantled the only life she’d ever known.

“You be okay,” Mika soothed, summoning all the reassurance a twelve-year-old could muster.

She tried to ignore them, pushing the sheet away as she turned to gaze out the window. Tropical fronds and bloom-drenched foliage stirred in the night’s wan light, dancing to the rhythmic hum of trade winds gusting up through this isolated valley along the coast of a remote island.

Poco called her again. “You come, Haole-girl. You come say mahalo.”

“That is meaning thank you,” Mika explained, his mouth right up to the door jamb.

“You come call your makuahine,” Poco insisted, “―your mama.”

“Go―go away,” she said, her voice breaking.

“Please,” Mika begged. “It is good you come with us. We say mahalo for my mama, too, and for Poco’s poppy.”

“My mother’s dead!” she shouted, curling into a ball as those relentless swells of grief rose up to pull her over the edge.

“But now she looks for you,” Poco insisted. “She must come to Coulée Makai to watch over you. Moon is full now, the best time. You burn papala with us; show her where to find you.”

“This is true, Rochelle,” Mika promised. “I never lie to you. Please come. Please?”

She wanted to believe them, but ancient legends and ridiculous superstitions grant no absolution. Still, these two immature boys were trying to help, their simple faith challenging her to prove them wrong.

She found them waiting expectantly in the hallway, both barefoot, clad in shorts and tank tops. Pocomea studied her with dark and penetrating eyes peering from pudgy folds of bronze skin, absently scratching his thatch of ink-black hair. A full head taller than Rochelle, with a budding sumotori’s enormous bulk, the oversized eleven-year-old native Hawaiian turned and headed toward the door.

“I bring flashlight for you,” Mika offered earnestly, the skinny boy’s sapphire eyes sparkling beneath a shaggy mop of frizzy blond hair.

“Haole eyes, they see okay in moonlight, brah,” Poco called back, lumbering out to the screened lanai.

“You change clothes?” Mika suggested, his tan cheeks blushing furiously as he averted his eyes from her brief nightgown and fuzzy footies.

Rochelle hesitated, then sighed and stepped back into the room, firmly closing the door. She quickly donned walking shorts, then ankle-protecting bobbysocks and tennis shoes. Slipping from her nightie, she reached for the new petite brassière that only weeks before had made her feel so grown up; but she hesitated, then stuffed it back into her suitcase before pulling on a simple t-shirt.

Finding Mika still waiting patiently, she followed him out to where Poco stood clutching sprigs of berry- and blossom-laden vines, a bundle of wooden spears hoisted to his shoulder. Mika retrieved a rolled sleeping mat―“lau hala,” he explained―and they stepped outside to an eerie scene awash in the translucent glow of full moon.

They started down the main walkway, but veered onto an ascending path overlooking the lagoon. Rochelle paused to study the tableau, entranced by how the shimmering panorama seemed to float in open space against a backdrop of star-sequined sky. Stretching to her right, a meandering stream stitched a zigzag seam up the velvety carpet of valley floor, a series of waterfalls rising toward the pleats of Volcano Kilauea before disappearing under a veil of highlands mist. The stream’s run-off spread wide where it spilled onto the horseshoe beach, glistening like molten glass as it riffled across obsidian sands before washing into the secluded cove. Moonlight reflected off intermittent breakers crashing through the narrow inlet a quarter-mile to her left, casting shadows across sheer faces of towering cliffs to reveal a cortège of sad expressions watching from amid the rocks, all waiting expectantly for Rochelle to pass. The scene whispered with patrolling crabs tracing lines in the powdery lava sand.

“Rochelle?” Mika said, shattering her reverie.

She looked up to see him waiting several yards along the trail, his brow furrowed with concern. Poco had gone ahead, a phantom floating up among the rocky crags toward the cliffs.

“I can’t go up there!” she gasped, the young teen who thought she wanted to die now suddenly very afraid.

“It is okay,” he assured softly, coming back to her. “It is easy path. I stay close, not let you fall. We go across to low part, stay there and watch papala. I promise.”

A breeze fluttered fitfully, then faded to nothingness, the humid air weighing heavily. She touched her face with both hands, then lightly stroked her long raven tresses, trying to make herself real again. The wind returned just as quickly, rushing up through the valley. She felt trapped in a colossal arena, surrounded by the bleacher-seat slopes of a living mountain, the only escapes an open slot toward certain death in the sea’s pummeling waves, or a lonesome road cut deeply through the lava bedrock of a distant rise.

“Will you try? For me?” Mika whispered, standing beside her now, fidgeting nervously, maybe afraid to touch her.

She gazed past him toward the escarpment, searching for clinging vines to grab in case she slipped; and she wondered if plummeting would feel like the dream, or if she could capture an instant of serenity in that moment of floating free before slamming to the jagged rocks.

Would she, at the last moment, think of some reason to live after all?

She grew dizzy, reached out to steady herself, and felt Mikalu take her hand, twining his fingers firmly around hers. They climbed slowly at first, her hesitations eventually yielding to a tentative confidence buoyed more with each conquered section of narrow ledge.

They found the bundle of spears on an outcropping over the mouth of the cove, maybe thirty or forty feet above the ocean’s waves. Poco appeared some distance up the slope behind them, ceremoniously laying the branchy vines of berries and blossoms on a higher ledge. They watched as he worked his way with surprising agility down the tortuous trail to rejoin them.

Realizing Mika still held her hand, she slipped free and crept toward the precipice, peering down at moonlit swells of frothy water surging along the rocks and up into the lagoon. She tried to imagine how it would feel simply to step out and disappear into the void. Suddenly terrified, she backed away, understanding she could never be so brave, grudgingly admiring the determination of that girl from school who’d chosen the slow escape of pills.

Rochelle flinched, startled by the sound of Poco chanting something unintelligible. Mika spread the lau hala mat and unrolled the bundle of spears, then tested the flame of a disposable lighter. She sat on the mat beside the curiously confident blond-haired boy, wondering what to expect.

“The papala strips,” Mika explained quietly, gesturing toward the spears, “they are soaked with palmetto oil, just as Pocomea’s ancestors practiced. They sailed them on the winds while people watched from canoes, celebrating holidays, saying mahalo to the gods, and to nā lapu, the spirits who come here. Lapu spirits, they are like my mama, who die during my birth; and like Poco’s poppy―his father―who drown when fishing boat sinks; and now like your mama, who is lost and needing help to find you here.”

“Do you really believe this stuff?” she whispered back.

Looking hurt, then sad, Mika admitted, “Sometimes no, but Poco, he is my best friend, and he believe very much. I do miss Mama, so even if she cannot come here, I am showing her my love all d’same.”

Poco stepped to the edge, calling toward the sky.

“What’s he doing?”

“He sing mele, chant of d’fathers; then he light papala to show them where we wait.”

Pocomea lifted a spear and set fire to the tip, then hurled it out over the lagoon, calling out, “Pocokai! Pocokai!” Remarkably light, the narrow strip of wood rode the trade winds and danced high into the sky, leaving a stardust trail glittering like fireworks. He repeated the ritual a half-dozen more times, then turned to Mika, who stood and joined him.

The smaller boy shouted, “Martina!” as he sailed his own spear into the winds, repeating the summons and flinging several more.

Rochelle found herself entranced by the magical effect, hypnotized by sashaying embers reflecting in the water as each spear faded to glowing wisps finally doused in the rippling lagoon. She decided there’d be no harm in pretending, if only for one night, that her mother’s spirit really could come here and forgive the foolish girl trapped in this place that exists only in some other world.

Eyes brimming with sudden tears, she felt Mika helping her up and showing her how to hold the papala. Realizing he’d led her to the edge, she held tightly to his arm, turning from the chasm and lifting her face to the sky. She caught the briefest glimpse of movement atop the ridge, the faint silhouette of a stooped and bedraggled old woman, an apparition holding the berries and blossoms Poco had offered in tribute. Rochelle tried to speak, but no words would come. She pointed, but tears blurred her vision, and she barely heard Poco gasp and breathe a single reverent word:

“Pele.”

The pounding surf roared anew, crashing waves filling her head and drowning out anything else he might have said.

She rubbed her eyes and looked again, but the woman had disappeared.

“Are you ready?” Mika urged, apparently unaware of the fleeting vision.

She nodded, fishing a tissue out to wipe her face.

“Call out your mama’s name when you throw the papala,” he advised, lighting the tip of her spear.

She shouted, “Gina!” as loud as she could, then hurled the flaming projectile flatly into the sea.

Mika showed her how to keep the tip up and push it into the wind, so she tried again, sailing the sputtering stick straight into the water. Frustrated and angry about failing her mother even with a silly ritual, she snatched more spears and screamed, “Gina!” again and again, flinging one after another as fast as he could light them, yet failing every time.

“Please slow down, Rochelle,” Mika implored. He placed a reassuring hand on her trembling arm.

But he didn’t understand. He didn’t realize that if her mother could come here, she could also rescue Rochelle and take her home.

She gazed into the lagoon’s rippling waters and imagined herself back in Chicago, peering curiously into Shedd Aquarium’s giant tank, great schools of iridescent fish swirling around a playground tropical reef, mercurial communities welcoming a mother and daughter to their spectacular realm; and she noted the cliffs rearing their mighty heads, monstrous dinosaur skeletons watching a young girl roam the Field Museum’s great halls, guided by her mother’s encouraging hand; and she cast her eyes to the sky, the sparkling dome of Adler Planetarium transporting her beyond the horizon, her mother whispering of summer nights watching the stars from a cushion of soft meadow grass in the beloved French countryside; and she listened for the Chicago Symphony Orchestra performing a matinée children’s concert, trade winds strumming chords in the branches of swaying trees, a rousing melody echoing from the clifftop balcony, her own pulse a backbeat while ocean waves cymbal-crashed along the rocky mezzanine.

Rochelle closed her eyes and savored the warm breeze caressing her face, her mother’s gentle breath kissing her good-night, and she remembered Mika’s reassuring touch. She opened her eyes, and this time discovered a new spark of hope flaring at the end of her papala spear, so she took a chance, gathered her strength, and dared again to call out, “Gina!” while heaving the fiery invitation with all her might . . .

And watched helplessly as it faltered and dropped into unsympathetic waters.

Only one papala remained, and she understood that it would fail her, that it would finally prove she had lost more than just her mother. She must accept that Gina would never come back to her, that she would never find her way home.

She lifted the last spear, resigned to showing Mikalu and Pocomea that neither ancient rituals nor superstitious chants could ever summon a lost spirit, but she trembled too much to hold it firmly. Giving up, she lowered herself to the ground and cried.

“Please, Rochelle,” Mika whispered, his voice quavering. “It is okay; we go now.”

She shook her head, gasping for breath, desperately trying to summon the courage to tumble forward, to feel for an instant the helpless terror she’d inflicted on her own beloved mom.

She felt Mika pulling gently at the papala still clutched in her hand, but she held tightly, suddenly furious with herself. She leapt to her feet, stood poised like a goddess destined to pierce the heavens, paused only long enough for him to light the tip, then called out, “Mommy!” and hurled the papala with all her might.

The flaming spear lifted high into the sky, caught the winds, and twirled and looped and danced higher and higher, spraying sparkles this way and that, moving slowly up beyond the cove as if searching the entire valley for something or someone who might, just possibly, someday be found.

She watched the last embers fade into misty moonlit sky, then noticed Mika’s eyes glistening, too, and Poco staring raptly up at the ridge behind them. She followed his gaze for another glimpse of the old woman, and this time the hazy vision looked back before shimmering into the shadows and disappearing.

Poco chanted a few words without turning, then pronounced, “Your mama, she will find you here.”

Rochelle nodded solemnly, holding her breath.

After a moment, Mika broke the spell, insisting, “We go now.” He quickly rolled the mat and hoisted it over his shoulder.

Rochelle wiped her nose and accepted the blond boy’s hand, following him down the trail, those faces in the cliffs watching as if they knew some never-spoken truth.

She looked back to where Pocomea stood at the precipice, enshrouded in swirling mist, his arms stretched toward the sky―

Swaying unsteadily, entranced―

Leaning forward―

“Poco!” she cried.

Without warning, he stepped out . . .

And disappeared into the void.