Something was wrong.
"But they work like this now," Moki said, a wild light in his eyes. "Watch."
That was when she saw the wood knife in his other hand. He jabbed it through the skin on the underside of his left forearm and into the tissues beneath.
"No!" she cried. "Moki, don't!"
"It's all right, Bati. Just wait a minute and I'll show you what I mean."
Wincing with the pain, he dragged the blade upward until a four-inch wound gaped open. He watched the blood spurt for a moment, then squeezed it shut. He smiled crazily at her for a moment or two as he pressed the skin edges together, then he released it.
The wound had stopped bleeding. The edges were adhering as if they'd been sutured. And the light in his eyes was wilder than before.
"See? The necklace has made me almost indestructible. Maybe immortal. I feel like a god—like Maui himself!"
Kolabati watched in horror as Moki cavorted about the great room. First the sun, then the wind, and now this. She could not fend off the feeling of impending doom. Something was happening, something had gone terribly awry, and the necklaces were responding. Their powers were increasing, as if in preparation for…what?
And then she heard it—the ceramic tinkling of the wind chimes on the lanai. She turned and hurried to the railing. Thank the gods! The wind! The wind was back!
But it was the wrong wind. It blew from the west. The trade winds came from the east, always from the east! Where did this wind come from? And where was it blowing?
At that moment Kolabati knew beyond a doubt that the world was beginning a monstrous change. But what? And why?
Then she felt rather than heard a deep seismic rumble. The lanai seemed to shudder beneath her feet. Haleakala? Could the old volcano be coming to life?
THURSDAY
WPLJ-FM
Hey! What's going on up there? It says here sunrise was late again this morning. C'mon, sun! Get your act together. You were over fifteen minutes late this morning. Get a new alarm clock already!
1 • THE VILLAGE OF MONROE
Bill barely recognized his home town.
He stared in awe as he cruised the morning-lit Monroe harbor front in Glaeken's pristine old Mercedes 240D. There were new condos on the east end, the trolley tracks had been paved over, and all the old Main Street buildings had been refurbished with nineteenth century clapboard facades.
"This is awful," he said aloud.
In the passenger seat, Glaeken straightened and looked around.
"The traffic? It doesn't look so bad."
"Not the traffic—the town. What did they do to it?"
"I hear lots of towns are trying to attract tourists these days."
"But this is where I grew up. My home. And now it looks like a theme park…like someone's idea of an old whaling village."
"I never saw a whaling village that looked like this," Glaeken said.
Bill glanced at Glaeken. "I guess you'd know, wouldn't you."
Glaeken said nothing.
Bill drove on, shaking his head in dismay at the changes. At least they'd left the old bricks on Town Hall, and hadn't changed the high white steeple of the Presbyterian church. He noticed with relief that Crosby's Marina was still there, and Memison's was still in business. Some of the old town was left, so he didn't feel completely lost.
But he'd come here today hoping for a burst of warmth, for a sense of belonging, a place to call home. He knew now he wasn't going to find it in Monroe.
Still, it was better than sitting around waiting, letting the unease within him bubble and stew. Probably nothing he could do would block out completely the growing dread, especially after hearing that sunrise had been late again this morning.
"I still don't know why you need me along, other than as a driver," Bill said.
He was uncomfortable wearing a cassock and collar again. The clothing fit him fine, but only physically. He no longer considered himself a priest, not in his mind, not in his heart, not in his soul.
"Your mere presence will help me."
"But you're going to do all the talking and what am I going to do? Stand around and look holy?"
"You may say anything you wish."
"Thanks loads. But I'll be afraid to open my mouth because I don't know what's going on. You're playing this too close to the vest, Glaeken. You ought to know by now you can trust me. And maybe if I knew a little bit more about what we're doing here, I might be able to help."
Glaeken sighed. "You're right, of course. I don't mean to keep you in the dark. It's just habit. I've kept so many secrets for so long…" His voice trailed off.
"Well?"
"We've come to Monroe for the Dat-tay-vao."
Bill had to laugh. "Well! That clears up everything!"
"The name is Vietnamese. In truth, the Dat-tay-vao has no name. It is an elemental force, but it has wandered around Southeast Asia for so long that it's convenient to refer to it by the name the locals have used for centuries."
"Dat-tay-vao" Bill rolled the alien syllables over his tongue. "What's it mean?"
"Loosely translated, 'to lay a hand on.' There's an old Vietnamese folk song about it:
It seeks but will not be sought.
It finds but will not be found.
It holds the one who would touch,
Who would cut away pain and ill.
But its blade cuts two ways
And will not be turned.
If you value your well-being,
Impede not its way.
Treat the Toucher doubly well,
For he bears the weight
Of the balance that must be struck.
It has better meter in the original language."
"A bit ominous, don't you think?"
"The song is a celebration and a warning. Twice a day, for an hour or so at a time, the one who possesses the Dat-tay-vao—or is possessed by the Dat-tay-vao, depending on how you look at it—can heal wounds, clear cancers, and cure illnesses with a touch."
Not too long ago, Bill would have scoffed. Today he remained silent, listening. He scoffed at nothing anymore.
"The Dat-tay-vao came to Monroe last year and became one with a local physician, Dr. Alan Buhner."
"Sounds vaguely familiar. Wasn't he associated with Dr. Alberts for a while?"
"Possibly. He's on his own now. Out of practice since the Dat-tay-vao enabled him to heal with a touch."
"That's it. People did an article on him last summer. Hinted that he was a charlatan."
"He wasn't. And isn't. His cures were very real. He lives with Sylvia Nash and her adopted son now."
"Out on Shore Drive, you said?
Glaeken nodded. "Two-ninety-seven."
"The high rent district."
The Hanley mansion was out on Shore Drive. Bill repressed a shudder as memories of the horrors he'd witnessed there in 1968 flashed within his brain like distant lightning.
"The estate is called Toad Hall," Glaeken said.
"Never heard of it. Must be new."
But as soon as he saw Toad Hall, Bill knew that it wasn't new. Only the brass plaque on the right-hand brick gatepost was new. He recognized the place as one of the Preferred North Shore's most venerable mansions: the old Borg Estate. Three acres on the Long Island Sound surrounded by a stone wall and dense, insulating stands of white pines. The house itself was set far back, close to the water; a many-gabled affair, flanked by weeping willows. He hated the thought of someone renaming the old Borg place, but as he turned off the ignition and heard the briny breeze whisper through the swaying willow branches, he conceded that the new name might be right on target.
He accompanied Glaeken to the front door.
"It's a household of four," the old man said as they walked. "Mrs. Nash, Dr. Bulmer, a Vietnamese houseman named Ba, and Jeffrey, Mrs. Nash's adopted son."