Peace. Kolabati had searched for it all her life, and it had been a long life. She looked thirty, perhaps a youngish thirty-five, yet she had been born in 1848.
She had decided that she would cease counting her birthdays after the one hundred and fiftieth, which was fast approaching.
A long time to be searching for contentment. She thought she'd found a chance for it a few years ago with a man named Jack but he had spurned her and the gift of longevity she'd offered him. She'd left him sitting in a pool of his own blood, dying. He was probably dead, and the thought of that saddened her. Such a vital man…
But I'm different now. The new Kolabati would have stayed and helped Jack, or at least called a doctor for him despite the cruel things he had said to her.
Maui had helped make the difference in her. Maui and Moki. A place and a man. Together they had given her what peace there was in this world.
Here on Maui, clinging to the breast of Haleakala, the world's largest dormant volcano, she had all of the world within reach. If she tired of watching the valley below, cloud-dappled on sunny days, or lashed by rain and speared by lightning when storms marched through, she could travel to Haleakala's windward east coat and visit the jungles above Hana; further around on the south slope she could pretend she was in the savannahs of Africa or the plains of North America, grazing cattle and all; or she could travel across the valley and wander among the rich Japanese and American vacationers in the resorts at Ka'anapali and Kapalua, or travel into the Iao Valley and beyond to the rainforests of the second wettest spot in the world, or return to Haleakala itself and walk the floor of its crater; there in the heart of desolation, she could wander among its thousand-foot cinder cones and imagine she was exploring the surface of Mars.
Wonders were close at hand too. Directly below the lanai her silversword garden grew. She had transplanted the seedlings from her wanderings on Haleakala's slopes and was perhaps unduly proud of her collection of the rare spiky clusters. Each would grow for twenty years before producing its one magnificent flower. Kolabati could wait. She had time.
She glanced down at the cup in her hands. Oh, yes. And coffee from the big island's Kona Coast—the richest coffee in the world. She sipped.
No, she could not see herself tiring of living here, even if she didn't have Moki. But Moki was here, and Moki gave meaning to all of it.
She could hear him in the back now, working in his shop. Moki—her kane, her man. He carved driftwood. Together they would scour the beaches and the banks of Haleakala's countless streams and waterfalls, searching for branches and small trunks, the long dead pieces, bleached and hardened by time and the elements. They'd bring these gnarled, weathered remains back to the house and set them up around Moki's workshop. There he would get to know them, live with them for a while. And gradually he would see things in them—the wrinkles around the eyes of an old woman's face, the curve of a panther's back, a lizard's claws. Once he had spied the form hiding within, he would bring his small ax and array of chisels into play, working on the wood and with the wood to expose the hidden form to the light of day.
Moki was modest about his work, never taking credit and refusing blame for the nature of the works he produced. His stock phrase: "It was already there in the wood; I just cleared away the excess material and set it free."
But he deserved far more credit than he took. For Moki wasn't content to leave his work as simple wood sculptures. They were Hawaiian wood carved by an almost full-blooded Hawaiian, but that wasn't quite Hawaiian enough for Moki. When each was finished he shipped it to the big island and carried it to the fiery mouth of Kilauea, the active crater on the southeastern slope of Mauna Loa. There he trapped some of the living lava, poured it into a shape that complemented his sculpture, allowed the lava to cool to a point where it wouldn't damage the wood, then set his sculpture into the gooey stone.
Kolabati had first seen Moki's work with its intricate cuts and swirls and unique lava rock bases in a Honolulu gallery. She'd been completely taken by them and had asked to meet the artist. She commissioned a piece, and visited Moki many times during its fashioning. She found herself as taken by the man as she was by his work. His intensity, his passion for living, his love of his native islands. He was complete. In that sense he reminded her a little of her dead brother, Kusum.
Moki wanted her, but he didn't need her, and that made him all the more attractive. Theirs was a relationship of passionate equals. She didn't want to own Moki, didn't demand all his passion. She knew some of his passion had to be funneled off into his art and she encouraged that. To dominate him, to possess him would risk destroying a wild and wonderful talent. Instead of having all of him, she would wind up with less than she had begun with.
Moki needed his art, needed to be Moki, and very much needed to be Hawaiian. He would have loved to have lived and worked on Niihau, the forbidden island, oldest of the Hawaiian chain, but had not been able to wrangle an invitation from the last of the pure-bred Hawaiians living there in the old, primitive ways. Like most Hawaiians, Moki was not pure-bred—he could find traces of Portuguese and Filipino in his bloodline.
But he remained pure Hawaiian in his heart, dressing the part around their hale or house, speaking the old language and teaching it to Kolabati. And together they moved to the side of Haleakala where he carved and sculpted his wood, and braved the heat of Kilauea to fashion his pieces.
The results, the graceful and the grotesque, were scattered about the islands, in galleries, museums, corporate offices, and on every available surface in their house. Kolabati loved the clutter, which was unusual for her. As a rule she preferred an ordered existence. But not in this case. The clutter was Moki. It put his stamp on their home, made it truly theirs. For there was no other place on earth quite like it.
And Kolabati did not want that to change. For the first time in her many years the persistent voice of dissatisfaction was silent within her. For the first time she no longer hungered for new people, new sensations, new feelings, the Next New Thing. Continuity—that was what counted most now.
"Bati. Hele mai!"
Moki's voice, calling from his workshop, telling her to come to him. He sounded excited. She started toward the rear of the house but he was already coming her way.
The old Kolabati used to tire of a man after two weeks. They were all the same; so few had anything new to offer. But even after two years with Moki, the sight of him still excited her. His long, wild, red-brown hair—he was considered an ehu, a red-haired Hawaiian—his lean, dark, muscled body, and his eyes as dark as her own. An artist, a sensitive man, as attuned to the mysteries of the wood he worked as to the mysteries within her own psyche. And yet he still retained an untamed quality, as witness the brief, loincloth-like malo he wore now. No two days were alike with Moki.
Which was why Kolabati called him her kane and allowed him to wear the other necklace.
And she loved his lilting accent.
"Bati look!"
He held out his left palm to her. A ragged red line ran across it.
"Oh, Moki! What happened?"
"I cut myself."
"But you're always cutting yourself."
She looked at the cut. It was barely bleeding. He'd done worse to his hands before. What was so special about this?
"Yes, but this was a bad one. I slipped badly. I thought the chisel went half way through my palm. Blood started spurting a foot into the air—and then it stopped. I squeezed it for a few minutes, and when I checked again, it was half healed. And in the time it took me to come in from the workshop, it's healed even further. Look at it. You can almost see it closing before your eyes!"