The silence was replaced by several startled but enthusiastic cheers from the crew. Malone leaned forward and whispered in his mount’s ear.
“Don’t get no swelled head, now, horse. It were only a dang fish.” Beneath him Worthless blew bubbles in the salt water. Perhaps recognizing a kindred spirit if not species, several sea horses had attached themselves to his tail.
The town of Merciless Sun (or Lahaina, as it was called in the native tongue) certainly lived up to its name. Emerging from the water alongside the short stone jetty, Malone carefully unpacked his kit and removed his mount’s tack, spreading it all out in the sun to dry. Handling it as gently as a baby, he unwrapped his Sharps rifle from its waterproof oilskin holder. Not much use for a buffalo gun on an island with no buffalo, he knew, but the Sharps was as much a part of him as his beard or underwear. Or for that matter the great, white-dappled, jet-black, misogynistic stallion that stood nearby, nibbling at the exquisite tropical flowers that grew wild where the jetty met the land.
Not everyone glanced in Amos Malone’s direction when he passed, but most did. At six foot ten and a slice of homemade chocolate cake over three hundred pounds, he tended to draw the eye no matter where he went. Nor was the attire of a mountain man common garb in a seaport town situated in the middle of the great Pacific.
He’d come to this island as a favor to John Cochran, Esq., of Fort Worth, Texas. Père Cochran had been advised of the excellent prospects to be realized by raising cattle in the islands for export by ship to California, where there was an exploding market for beef thanks to the recent discovery in that territory of large quantities of a certain yellow metal. Never having visited this particular island and owing Cochran a favor, Malone had agreed to evaluate the possibilities in return for passage and expenses.
Certainly the town of Lahaina was booming. Among its statistics the 1846 census had listed 3,445 natives, 112 foreigners, 600 seamen, 155 adobe houses, 822 grass houses, 59 stone and wooden houses, and 528 dogs, among other items. But not much in the way of cattle, though Cochran had assured Malone that other entrepreneurs had started to run them elsewhere on the island, using españoles, imported Latin cowboys, known to the locals as paniolos.
Well, he figured to see for himself. Repacking his now-dry kit and securing it to Worthless’s broad back, he set out to find lodging for the evening.
As it turned out, lodging wasn’t the problem. It was finding a place where a man could sleep. Used to spending the night out in the wilderness beneath the open and silent bowl of the sky, Malone had been forced to endure for weeks the unending rustle of sailors and ship. Looking forward to a little terrestrial peace and quiet, he discovered he’d made landfall in one of the noisiest towns in creation. Whaler and sailor alike started partying early and in earnest, the magnitude of their merrymaking only intensifying with the lateness of the hour.
Giggling, laughing native men and women as well as hopefully hymning missionaries contributed to the boisterous ballyhoo, and it was about two A.M. when a restless Malone recovered Worthless from his stable and set off in search of a piece of ground where the stars could serve as silent company for the remainder of the night.
The shore south of Lahaina was rocky and difficult, but the trail that led to the central part of the island was well maintained from much use. When at last he came down out of the hills onto the flat, semiarid peninsula that divided the two mountainous halves of the island, he turned to his right and soon came to a beach of fine white sand. Slipping easily out of the saddle, he started forward in search of a quiet place among the kiawe trees in which to spend the balance of the night.
Not expecting to see any buildings, he was therefore much surprised when he found himself confronted by a six-foot-high wall of finely worked rock. Atop the solid stone platform stood a long, simple structure of wood posts and poles roofed with thatch. A small fire was burning at the near end, silhouetting the figure of a native seated cross-legged before it.
Malone examined the sky. Among the millions of visible stars were a few clouds. Rain, he had been told, fell in biblical quantities on the eastern side of the island but far less frequently in the west. Still, he had experienced one aqueous immersion already this morning and had no desire to spend the night saturated by another.
“Aloha, y’all,” he said, addressing the native. The man jumped to his feet as if shot. Malone immediately saw that he was clad in the simplest of raiment instead of the contemporary European fashion favored in comparatively sophisticated Lahaina by so many of the locals. The woven tapa around his waist was complemented by a simple yet well-made headdress. In his right hand he brandished a formidable club carved of koa wood studded on two sides with sharks’ teeth.
He started yelling in the local tongue until he saw by the light of the stars and his fire that his nocturnal visitor was neither demon nor commoner but something in between.
“Parlez-vous français?”
“I’d prefer English. I’m an American. Malone’s the name. Amos Malone.”
The man, who was quite large and well muscled but small compared to Malone (as was, for that matter, the great majority of the human race), stepped to the edge of the platform to confront his caller. After appraising the indifferent Worthless with a critical eye, he crouched low to study the animal’s rider.
“Malone,” he repeated. “I know English good. Learned in missionary school.” He gestured sharply with the club. “You come from Lahaina?” Malone nodded. “You must go away from here. This heiau is kapu.”
“Sorry.” Malone was properly apologetic. “Didn’t know. You reckon there’s a place hereabouts where a man could get a night’s sleep without bein’ disturbed by more hollerin’ and howlin’ than a pack o’ coyotes fightin’ over a dead buffalo?”
The man frowned. He possessed the exceptionally fine complexion of his people, and his eyes flashed alertly in the flickering light.
“Coyote? Buffalo?”
“Never mind.” Malone turned to leave. “I’ll just find another place.”
There was silence for a moment. Then the solitary supplicant called out to his visitor. “You do not like the sounds of Lahaina?”
Malone turned back. “Fine fer partyin’. Not so good fer sleeping.” He tilted his head back. “I prefer the company o’ stars to men.”
“Ah.” The local had a penetrating, piercing stare Malone had encountered before, but not frequently. “Come closer, haole.” Malone complied and met the other’s gaze evenly.
After several moments during which the only sound was the crackle of fire and the cry of a few insomniac seabirds, the man nodded to himself. “Yes, I can see it. You are a kahuna. A teacher, a sorcerer. But what kind?”
Malone scratched through his beard. “Depends on the moment. There’s folks think I’m a fairly versatile fella. You a kahuna, too, Mr. …?”
The native straightened, his coppery body glowing in the firelight. “I am… you could not pronounce my name. Call me Hau. In your English, that means ‘Iron.’”
Malone extended a hand, which the other grasped firmly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. Hau you doin’?”
“Hau…?” It brought a slow smile to the other’s face. “You are not afraid? Many haoles find the heiaus frightening.” He gestured at the temple behind him.
Malone gazed past his host to study the wooden structure and its imposing platform. “Places of power and reverence only frighten the ignorant. Or those with something to hide.”
Hau nodded solemnly and turned aside. “Please. Come and share the fire with me. If you are truly a kahuna, or perhaps even a kupua, you are more than welcome here. It is the help of just such a one that I seek.”