Mad Amos Malone

The Purl of the Pacific

A lot of folks don’t know it, but part of the Old West just skipped over the Great Basin region and the West Coast to land full bore in the Sandwich Islands. Different natives (same treatment) and even cowboys. The cowboys, in fact, are still there, hanging around Makawao and Wailea, discussing weather and cattle and posing for the tourists.

But a different group of indigenous folks were there first, with a very different and equally rich culture. Not that it would make a difference to Amos Malone.

The man is, after all, all business. Just what kind of business is sometimes hard to figure.

“Shark!”

Amos Malone glanced back over his left shoulder. The men on the whaler Pernod, out of Nantucket, were running along the rail, shouting and gesticulating wildly. One native harpooner was actually hanging off the bowsprit as he did his level best to draw the mountain man’s attention to something in the water midway between himself and the ship.

Malone dropped his gaze and squinted. Sure enough, there it was: a dark, sickle-shaped fin cutting the water directly toward him. A couple of the whaler’s crewmen had rifles out and were frantically trying to load and aim. Malone hoped they’d take their time. They were as likely to hit him as the fish.

Tiger shark, by the look of it, Malone decided thoughtfully. Fourteen, maybe fifteen feet. It was still a ways off, uncertain what to make of this unprecedented intrusion into its home waters. In its piscine bafflement it had been preceded by company both common and illustrious, for Mad Amos Malone constituted something of an intrusion no matter where he went.

Leaning to his left, he peered into his mount’s eye. It rolled upward to regard him, its owner’s dyspeptic temperament much in evidence.

“Shark over there, Worthless.” He casually jabbed a thumb in the direction of the oncoming fin. “Just thought you’d like to know.”

Beneath him the enormous stocky steed of mightily confused parentage snorted once, whether by way of acknowledging the warning or indicating its contempt for their present mode of travel, one had no way of knowing. Transporting them both, the stallion was swimming easily for shore, Malone having decided not to wait for the first boat to be lowered. He was anxious to see this new cattle country, even if it was as hot as the Brazos Valley in July and twice as humid.

The water above the reef was refreshing, though, and the island lay close at hand. The bustling whaling town of Merciless Sun lay before him, cloud-swathed green mountains rising sharply behind it. A brilliant rainbow arched over the heavily eroded gullies that flayed the slopes, looking for all the world like a gigantic advertising sign raised by elves. Or in this instance, Malone reminded himself, Menehunes. Dozens of vessels, mostly whalers like the Pernod, swayed at anchor in the Lahaina roads behind him, their masts representing entire forests transported to the open sea.

They looked hot, too, Malone reflected. Everything hereabouts looked hot.

The Pernod’s captain had sympathized with his passenger’s desire to get ashore but was dead set against any attempt to do so without the use of a boat.

“Most of these ships stink of whale oil, Mr. Malone, sir, and the great-toothed fish that ply these waters are always ready for a handout in the most literal sense of the word. Furthermore, if you will not be insulted by my saying so, no matter how well your animal may have weathered the journey from San Francisco, it is no seal, sir, to easily swim this distance to shore. Especially with a rider so large as yourself seated astride its back.”

Malone had smiled down through his great, unfurled nimbus of a beard. “Now, don’t you go worryin’ about ol’ Worthless, Captain. He’s a right fine swimmer and takes to the water like a fish.”

In point of fact, Malone’s unclassifiable steed had once swum Lake Superior from the American side to the Canadian at the height of a ferocious autumn storm. The captain would not have believed that, either, unless he happened to be familiar with a unicorn’s extraordinary powers of endurance, which he was not. With his horn kept cut down and filed flat, Worthless’s true lineage remained a necessary mystery to all who encountered the exceptional, if ill-dispositioned, creature.

The shark was quite close now, not even bothering to circle. The men on the boat were frantic.

Worthless turned his head, located the shark, and kicked out all in one swift motion. A portion of the lagoon foamed. His left hoof caught the fish beneath its jaw and knocked it clean out of the water. It lay there belly up, floating and dazed. The frenzy aboard the ship was instantly transformed into stunned silence. A dozen or so sharp, pointed teeth, forcibly ejected from their intimidating loci, spiraled lazily down through the crystal-clear water and came to rest on the sandy bottom, but not before being thoroughly investigated by half a dozen spotted butterfly fish, a couple of Moorish idols, and one humuhumunukunukuapua’a (one humuhumunukunukuapua’a being more than enough).

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.”

With a hop and a jump, Malone was soon standing, and then sitting, across the fire from Hau. The native glanced in Worthless’s direction. “You do not tie your animal?”

“Tie Worthless? That’ll be the day. Don’t worry, he’ll stick around. Ain’t nobody else would tolerate him, anyways.” The unicorn glanced up and with great deliberation and malice aforethought turned its head and sneezed directly onto Malone’s saddlebags.

“What’s a kupua?”

“The child of a god. You can recognize them by their great strength and beauty. Or by their great ugliness and the terror they inspire in others.” Hau studied Malone’s face. “Possibly one can be both strong and ugly.”

Malone grinned. “Thanks fer the compliment. I think.”

“I am an ali’i, a noble.” Hau sat straighter. “I will always tell the truth.”

“And what is the truth tonight, Hau?” Malone picked up an unburned stick and casually toyed with the fire.

Hau leaned closer. “What do you know of Lahaina?”

Malone considered. “It’s hotter than the hinges o’ Hell, the whalers ’ave made it the liveliest port in the Pacific, and they’re always going at it hammer an’ tong with the missionaries. On t’ other hand, I understand there’s a real school above the town.”

“Lahainaluna, yes. A copy of your New England schools and almost twenty years old now. A very good school that teaches both haole and local children modern ways.” His voice dropped. “That is why Kanaloaiki hates it.”

“Somebody hates a school? Thet ain’t right.”

“Not only the school,” Hau continued. “He hates everything about Lahaina and what it has done to the people. Since King Kamehameha III moved the kingdom’s capital to Honolulu, Kanaloaiki’s ire has only increased.”

Malone nodded. “Tell your friend things’ll settle down. There’s fewer whales this year than last, and so fewer whalers. There’ll be fewer still next year and the year after that. But the school should stay. It’s a good school, I hear, and a good school is a good thing.”

“Not to Kanaloaiki. He has vowed to destroy it, and all of Lahaina, and all who share in its life. He makes no distinctions. All are to die: haoles, missionaries, and local people alike. The town will be razed to the ground. Not even a breadfruit tree is to be left standing.”

“I see.” Malone considered the stars. “This Kanaloaiki, he’s a powerful chief with a lot o’ warriors who’ll follow him?”

“Worse.” Hau shook his head. “He is a kahuna ’ana’ana, a sorcerer who practices black magic. For more than a year now he has been gathering the materials for a great spell that he plans to cast on a certain mountain.” The ali’i pointed into the darkness. “That mountain.”

Turning, Malone could just make out the dark ridgeline of a nearly six-thousand-foot-high peak.

“That is Pu’u Kukui. It has been asleep for as long as we can remember. But the island is not. Less than seventy years ago there was a modest eruption far to the south of here, on the slopes of the House of the Sun.” He smiled. “I know this because I have been to the school. I know it did not happen because Pele was angry. It was geology.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Malone murmured. “This Kanaloaiki, he thinks he can reawaken the old volcano?”

Hau nodded solemnly. “Lahaina lies at its foot. The town will die, buried beneath fast-flowing superhot aa. Nothing will remain. The school, too, will be buried, and the ships offshore will go away and not come back. So Kanaloaiki intends. Thousands of people will die.”

“You can’t stop him?”

“Nothing can stop the spell. Not now.” Hau brooded over the fire. “Kanaloaiki began last week. Once begun, it can only be countered after it has started.”

“What about your local kahunas? Do they all support Kanaloaiki?”

Hau looked up. “No. Most are against what he is trying to do. But they are all afraid of him. His power is very great. But you are not afraid of him, haole kahuna.”

Malone shrugged. “Haven’t met the old boy. Don’t see offhand what I kin do, though. How d’you counter a spell that can’t be countered until after it’s begun?”

“I have been told there is a way. There is a tool. A special tool. The wisest kahunas say it still exists, but none believe them.”

“Except you.”

Hau nodded. “I would use it if I could to stop what Kanaloaiki intends. But while I am ali’i, I am not a kahuna. I do not have the power to use such a thing. If it exists. But another, one not afraid of Kanaloaiki or under his sway, might do so.” He looked searchingly at Malone.

“Whoa, now. I’m just here t’ look over the cattle-raisin’ prospects fer a friend o’ mine. Course, I don’t much like the idea o’ standing by while a few thousand innocent folk get burned and buried alive. Never much did. I just ain’t sure I kin do anything about it.”

Hau considered. “If I show you the best land for cattle, will you consider helping?”

“It’s sure enough a good cause. All right, I’ll see what I kin do. Now, where’s this here good grazin’ land you’re talking about?”

“It’s very interesting, but the place you are talking about and the place I am talking about are in fact the same place.”

Malone grunted. “Don’t say? And whut place might thet be?”

Hau turned and nodded to his right. “You will see tomorrow, Amos Malone. Tonight it sleeps beneath the blanket of night. Tomorrow I will take you to the House of the Sun.”

The House of the Sun, or Haleakala, as the natives called it, rose to a height of more than ten thousand feet, completely dominating the entire island. It wasn’t its height that impressed Malone, who had seen far taller mountains elsewhere. It wasn’t even its breadth, which allowed for a slope so gradual as to be almost imperceptible.

No, it was the weight of the mountain, which plunged another twenty-seven thousand feet to the ocean floor. Composed almost entirely of cementlike solidified aa, the mountain was massive enough to dimple the earth’s crust beneath it. Unlike many mountains, which were simply magnificently decorative, this one had a presence you could feel. Malone sensed it as the light broke over the distant summit, and commented on it to Hau.

“It is the House of the Sun,” the native replied simply. “No one may go there save ali’i, and none may live upon its upper reaches but kahuna. You can go there. I cannot.”

Malone reined in Worthless. Hau had been walking alongside the entire way, refusing to ride behind Malone or even alternate in the saddle with him. He was, he assured Malone, quite comfortable walking.

As they ascended, villagers came to gawk at the huge haole and his companion ali’i. The two travelers were offered food and deference in equal quantities, and the locals marveled at Malone’s appetite. A few of the children, grinning and giggling, tried to play with Worthless. The great black steed generally ignored them, even when they swung from his tail or tugged on his mane. He munched fruit in quantity and reacted only once to the juvenile attention.

One of the older youngsters stood directly in front of the stallion and reached for the patch on its forehead, intending to pull it loose and see what it concealed. The next moment he was running and crying for his mother, who was unable to determine exactly how he had been struck in the eye by a flying mango pit.

As the two men climbed, the air grew steadily cooler. About three degrees for every thousand feet, Malone reckoned. More than adequately protected in his buckskins and boots, he marveled at the nearly naked Hau’s ability to withstand the increasing chill.

At four thousand feet Hau pointed out excellent high grassland suitable for grazing cattle. At six thousand they entered and passed through a solid layer of cloud. At ten thousand they encountered isolated patches of icy snow.

Then Malone found himself gazing down into a black-streaked, rust-brown crater big enough to hold all of Manhattan Island.

Hau pointed to a distant cinder cone within the crater. “Down there, my friend, there is said to be a cave. In the depths of the cave is a tool. Only the truest of kahuna can recover it. Others have tried; none have succeeded. Whether anyone can even make use of it I do not know. I know only what the kahunas here tell me: that it is the only tool with which Kanaloaiki’s terrible plan can be foiled.”

Malone nodded. “Maybe it’s a big hammer that I kin whack him on the head with.” So saying, he flicked Worthless’s reins, and together man and unicorn started down into the barren, nearly lifeless crater.

Silversword grew in isolated bunches, thrusting their highly specialized leaves into a pristine pale blue sky. Exotic carmine, yellow, and emerald-hued birds fluttered in and out of the crater on air currents that rose from the volcano’s rain-forested eastern slopes, each exotic flyer more brilliantly colored than the next. They reminded Malone of a rainbow’s tears. Occasionally a pueo, the native owl, would dart low as Worthless’s hooves disturbed a mouse.

The browns and blacks and russets and rusts of the crater seemed endless, but eventually Malone found himself approaching the cinder cone that had been singled out by Hau. Trotting around its base, he skirted the edge of an undistinguished depression in the crater floor. According to what Hau had been told, the cave was to be found on the far side of the cone.

A few cinders slid away beneath Worthless’s hooves, tumbling toward the center of the depression. Each step sent a few more skittering downward. Before long the slide had become continuous. Just to be on the safe side, Malone urged his mount higher up the slope they were traversing.

But instead of ascending, Worthless, too, began to slide.

As steed and rider fought for stability, Malone saw that the sliding cinders were flowing rapidly toward the center of the depression, and not just from beneath Worthless’s feet but from all sides. It reminded him of something he’d seen before.

Despite the unicorn’s heroic efforts, they continued to slip. Finally Malone saw something else, something that at last brought back to him the memory of what they had encountered previously. This was very much identical, only on a larger scale.

A much larger scale.

Two projecting, curving, sharp-edged, sicklelike hooks, each taller than a man, clashed and clacked together expectantly in the exact center of the depression. The owner of those jaws would have been instantly familiar to anyone who had ever run across them in sandy, dry soils. They belonged to an ant lion.

An ant lion that, to judge by the size of the depression and its now-visible jaws, must be as big as an elephant.

What it subsisted on here in this barren crater Malone couldn’t imagine, but he understood now why courageous but foolhardy travelers who defied the old kapu to visit this sacred place never returned to their homes, and why even kahunas avoided the crater floor.

His first thought was to unlimber the Sharps, but even its fifty-caliber bullets would not be likely to have much of an effect on the slow-paced nervous system of the gigantic insect. Instead, as Worthless continued to slip and slide toward those expectant, waiting jaws, Malone began undoing one of his saddlebags. Fingering various vials and containers within, he sought hurriedly for the right one.

Those jaws, large and powerful enough to crack the bones of a man’s skeleton like twigs, were much too near when he finally found the vial he’d been searching for. Unscrewing the lid, he tossed the entire open container into the center of the depression, only to see it swallowed immediately.

For a few moments nothing happened, and they continued to slide lower and lower. Then the descent ceased. With Malone whispering in his ear, Worthless kicked and scrambled frantically to gain height.

The ground behind them began to tremble. It was an eruption, but not of Haleakala. With a violent, concussive roar the cinders and air behind them vomited skyward, forming a temporary but spectacular fountain. Malone held on to his wolf’s-head cap, his saddle, and his dignity as best he could as the wild rush sent man and mount flying out of the depression.

It had been, he reflected as he and Worthless picked themselves up and continued on their way, one hell of a sneeze. But then, the open vial that he had thrown into the pit and that had found its way into the ant lion’s mouth had contained absolute essence of cayenne, a substance useful in numerous spells and Tex-Mex cooking and not ineffective when employed strictly in its purest form.

In contrast to the encounter with the crater dweller, the cave in the cinder cone was very much an anticlimax, starkly unimpressive. Within, Malone found a few handfuls of bone tools, some old pots and desiccated baskets, and a frayed sleeping mat. Nothing more. Certainly nothing that on the face of it was potent enough to use against a formidable sorcerer.

Nevertheless, he knew from long experience that even the simplest object could be imbued with considerable power. Gathering up everything he saw, he secured it to one saddlebag and started back toward the crater’s rim, this time employing a different route. Being completely out of essence of cayenne, he had no wish to tempt the gargantuan ant lion’s energy and appetite a second time.

What was worse, he mused as he rode, was that now he was going to have to have his evening meal inadequately seasoned.

Hau could hardly believe it when Malone rejoined him just below and outside the crater rim. “You have survived!” the ali’i exclaimed. “No one has been to that place in living memory and returned to tell of it.”

“I reckon I know why.” Slipping down out of the saddle, Malone unpacked the artifacts he had accumulated. “Now, this ’ere basket, what’s it fer?” He passed a finely woven container to the ali’i.

Hau’s demeanor was less than reverent as he turned the object over in his hands. “Gathering fruit, I would imagine. It is a simple basket. What did you think it was?”

Malone grunted. “Never mind. How about this?” They went through every item in the mountain man’s perilously acquired inventory, Hau discarding one after another with nary a word. Malone was growing not just discouraged but angry, wondering if he’d risked his life only to recover some long-dead kahuna’s household goods.

So it was that when Hau’s eyes grew wide and his hands began to shake as he held up an ordinary-looking fishhook, Malone hardly knew what to make of it.

“You must have much mana, Amos Malone, to bring this out of the House of the Sun.”

“So I’ve been told in other ways.” Malone squinted dubiously at the hook, unable to discern anything remarkable about it. “What do we do now? Go fishin’?”

Hau cradled the object piously in both upturned palms. “Of course you cannot know what this is. But by its shape, which I recognize, and its design, which I well remember from the old tales, and by the picture writing on both sides, I know it for what it is.”

Malone was hungry. Behind him, Worthless whinnied impatiently. “A means fer catchin’ our lunch?” he asked hopefully.

Hau handed the artifact to his haole friend. “This, Amos Malone, is the Manai ikalani, the sacred fishhook which one of the god Maui’s ancestresses fashioned at his request from her own jawbone. Using it, Maui raised from the depths of the sea all the land that became the islands of my people and those of their ancestors. When Maui caught the sun here atop Haleakala, the fishhook fell from where it was tied at his waist. It has lain here ever since.” Without waiting to see if Malone would follow, he turned and started down the mountain.

“Come, my friend. With this even we may be able to stop Kanaloaiki from destroying Lahaina.”

Malone swung himself up into the saddle and followed. “How? By bribing him with fish?”

Hau looked up and smiled. “You do not fool me, kahuna. I know that when the time comes, you will know what to do. Now that we have a hook, we must find a line to attach to it. The strongest line imaginable. There is good rope in Lahaina, fashioned to sell to the whalers. We will find the toughest there is and buy, borrow, or steal what is needed.”

Malone considered. “That may not be necessary. You say we need a sturdy line?”

“The strongest that can be woven.”

“Will that little hook hold a big line?”

Hau looked back and said in all sincerity, “It once raised from the bottom of the sea all the islands of Polynesia.”

“Okay, I take your meaning. But I think I know where I kin find us an even stronger line than you have in mind.”

“Excellent. But we must hurry, Amos Malone. See that light on the far slope of Pu’u Kukui?” In the distance, on the upper slopes of the West Maui Mountains, Malone could just make out a fitful, flashing light. “Kanaloaiki has begun his evil work. We have little time.”

Malone sighed heavily. “In the wizardry business it seems like a man hardly ever does.”

“What on earth d’you plan t’ do with this ashore, Malone?” George Wilfong indicated the length of material Malone had sought to buy.

“You needn’t know, George. Better you don’t.” Seated next to the whaler, Malone pulled hard on his oar. Around them lights flickered from murderous ships riding innocently at anchor.

“That’s all well and good, I suppose. All I knows is that you’d better give me payment enough to satisfy the captain, as you promised, or there’ll be hell to pay.”

“There’ll be hell to pay this night anyway. Rest assured the captain will be satisfied with the trade I have in mind.”

Wilfong frowned. “He had better be, or he’ll have me keelhauled right here in the Roads. Malone, I don’t know what you’re up to this night, but one thing I am sure of: you owe me as well as the captain for this.”

“Fair enough, George.” Malone considered the looming bulk of the island and the tiny but intense light that was now clearly visible just below the shaft of the highest crag. “I hear tell you’re thinking of giving up whaling.”

“How’d you know that?” Wilfong looked startled.

“Sometimes a man thinks loudly, and I reckon myself a good listener. This is a sweet favor you’re doin’ me, so I expect it’s only just and fair that I slip you a sweet notion in return. The far side o’ this island is wet as any in the world, and the soil there is rich. Right now there’s a hunger for all kinds o’ seasonings in California and gold to pay fer them. Myself, I’m here to see to the possibilities o’ raising more cattle in this country, beef cattle t’ feed hungry miners. Someone’s needed t’ see to other items. It’s a known fact that prospectors are most all afflicted with the sweet tooth.”

“What are you saying, Malone?” Wilfong pulled steadily on his oar.

“Sugarcane, George. I’ve a thought that it would do well here. Why not try some on the well-watered side o’ the island?”

“Sugarcane?” Wilfong’s brows drew together in thought. “I’ve seen how it’s done in the Caribbean. But what would I use here to boil the juice? There’s no manufacturing in these islands, and I couldn’t afford to bring heavy gear over from the mainland.”

“Use some of the big blubber pots off any whaler,” Malone suggested.

Wilfong brightened. “Blubber pots. Now, that’s a fine idea, Mr. Malone, a fine idea. It just might work, and Lord knows I’ve experience enough boiling things down. Sugarcane; yes, by God. I’ll give it a try, I think, and thankee.”

“Welcome.”

“But there’s still the matter of the captain’s payment.”

They were very close to shore now. Easing off on his oar while Wilfong did the same, Malone dug deep in a pocket and handed his companion a triangular-shaped object that seemed to glow from within with a supernal whiteness. On both sides were etched in black finely wrought scenes of whales, whalers, and whaling men.

“’Tis the biggest sperm whale tooth I’ve ever seen,” Wilfong admitted, “and the scrimshaw is excellent, but scrimshaw to a whaling man is like ice to an Esquimau. I’m not sure the captain will account it a fair trade.”

Malone’s tone was somber. “Tell him that so long as this sleeps in his sea chest, he need never fear that any ship he commands will come to harm. This ’ere were given to me by a fella name of Herman after I rescued him from the natives down in the Marquesas.” The mountain man chuckled. “Been writin’ about it ever since, he has.

“The scrimshaw on this tooth was done by a Maori fella called Quehquoag, who pried it from the hull of a capsized lugger out o’ the Fijis. Came from a white whale, he told my friend. Last I heard, Herman was still workin’ on a book about thet.” Malone turned thoughtful. “Ought to be out in a year or two, I reckon.”

Wilfong was still doubtful but willing to be convinced. “All seamen are superstitious, captains no less so than common sailors. The size of it…” He hefted the enormous white tooth in both bands. “It’s warm to the touch, as if still connected to the lower jaw of its owner.” He nodded to himself. “I think the captain will accept it. You must be badly in need of this”—he gestured at the cargo they towed behind them—“to part with so powerful a talisman.”

Once more Malone’s gaze turned to the mountain. “The world’s full of talismans, George, but short on good people and shorter still on good schools.”

Hau led the way up the western slope of Pu’u Kukui, which was steeper and brushier than that of Haleakala. They were guided by the baleful light of Kanaloaiki’s work, which pierced the darkness like a malevolent eye.

“There!” The ali’i pointed, and Malone found he could see clearly.

The old man was as wrinkled and bent as an old ohia tree, but his voice was unbowed. The fire into which he was casting ingredients and words blazed higher with each successive addition. Kanaloaiki took those from a pile off to his right, a pile that was growing smaller by the minute.

“See here,” Malone suggested, “why don’t I just ride on over and have a word with the old gent.”

“He is protected.” Hau was looking around worriedly.

“By what?” Malone searched the kahuna ’ana’ana’s immediate vicinity. “I don’t see anything.”

“If you do, you will die.”

“Pretty good protection,” the mountain man agreed solemnly. “How do we deal with guardians if we can’t look for ’em?”

“They will declare themselves. Listen for their presence. Listen for the chanting. The old chanting.” They continued to approach. Once Malone thought he saw Kanaloaiki glance in their direction and smile evilly before returning to his work, but he couldn’t be certain.

What he could be sure of as they drew very near indeed was the rise of a distinctive moaning, the echo of a dirge signifying the proximity of doom incarnate, and the smell of death drifting like black floss on the wind.

Hau shut his eyes tight and turned his back to the sorcerer’s position. “That is it; that is the sound of which I spoke! The Marchers of the Night! To look upon them is to die.”

Unperturbed, Malone spit to his right. A small spot on the ground sizzled. “Marchers of the Night, eh? What sort o’ outriders might they be?”

“The souls of dead ali’i. Only a kahuna ’ana’ana can control them, because his withered soul is given over to evil. Somehow we must get close enough to Kanaloaiki to break the spell the instant it has begun, but we must do so without looking directly upon him.”

“Kind o’ like workin’ in Washington.” Fumbling in a saddlebag, Malone removed a scratched, chipped, but still serviceable mirror. Pulling hard on the reins, he turned Worthless about. Using the mirror to scope their route, they resumed their ascent, Worthless following Malone’s guiding tugs on his reins while methodically advancing hind end first.

“A clever trick.” Hau kept pace by the simple expedient of walking backward alongside Worthless. “What made you think of it?”

“Old acquaintance o’ mine name of Perseus had to deal with a similar dilemma once. Involved a woman.” He adjusted the mirror. “Works better with a bronze shield, but it’s danged hard t’ fit one o’ those in a saddlebag.”

“Ah,” Hau murmured. The moaning rose louder around them. “It will still be difficult to get close to Kanaloaiki with so many Marchers about.”

“Actually, I had kind o’ another notion for dealin’ with them.” So saying, he extracted not from the capacious saddlebags but from a pocket a small tubular instrument. Placing it in his mouth and using the fingers of one hand to manipulate the notes, he began to tootle a winsome tune.

Hau winced. “A strange music but somehow attractive.” Malone could only nod a response, his mouth being full of instrument.

The moaning grew shrill and strident. Then, astonishingly, it began to mellow, harmonizing with and eventually chanting in counterpoint to the tune Malone was playing. Still backing Worthless up the mountainside, he played on until he had all the dead ali’i moaning in perfect time to his music. Gradually they drifted away, sighing softly and, Malone was convinced, contentedly. Only when the last of them had vanished into the all-absorbing night did he remove the instrument from his mouth.

“Reckon we kin turn about now. I expect they’re gone.”

“How did you do that?” Hau asked. Ahead of them Kanaloaiki saw that his protective spirits had departed and worked furiously to finish his spell.

“Friend o’ mine named Louie Gottschalk composed that little tune. It’s a cakewalk; they’re pretty much irresistible. This variation incorporates a little voodoo. Louie’s from New Orleans, and he doesn’t publish everything he composes. I figured an enchanted cakewalk was bound to work on any bunch o’ spirits called the Marchers. Jest weren’t completely sure it’d sound good enough on a kazoo. But they all seem to have cleared out right promptly.”

“Powerful magic!” Hau exclaimed.

“But not powerful enough,” declared old Kanaloaiki with a sneer, overhearing them. Stepping back and raising his arms, he pronounced the final words of the spell. As the earth began to tremble, the old kahuna ’ana’ana started to laugh. “Say farewell to all the evil that is Lahaina, for the earth is soon to take her back! Sprite of Pele, heed my call!”

For the first time since Malone could remember, Worthless lost his footing. The mountain man was thrown to the ground. Recovering quickly, he staggered to the unicorn’s side as the earth heaved and buckled beneath them. Hau didn’t even try to rise. Sprawled helplessly on his side, the ali’i looked on in horror.

In front of old Kanaloaiki the ground split asunder. An unholy refulgence bolted from the depths as a hellish yellow-red glow illuminated the sky. Slick and viscous, aa lava could be seen rising within the dilating cleft, bubbling and boiling, ready to pour down the mountainside and roar through Lahaina, incinerating and inevitably burying everything in its path.

“The Manai ikalani!” Hau shouted. “Quickly, Amos Malone!”

“I’ve got ’er!” Malone was fumbling with the saddlebags.

“The line,” the ali’i yelled, “what about the line? Do you think it will be strong enough?”

“I reckon!” Malone hollered back. “Figured since you said we were liable to be dealin’ with some serious heat, we’d want something that wouldn’t burn too easy!”

A mountain man must be self-reliant in everything, must know how to cook as well as shoot, repair leather as well as hunt, even has to know how to fix his own clothing when there’s nary a tailor within a thousand miles. So Malone had no trouble threading the line through the fishhook, though drawing one of the iron links through his teeth in order to make it thin enough to fit through the hook’s eye did set his mouth on edge a trifle.

With the hook securely fastened to the line, he began to twirl one end of it over his head, the sacred Manai thundering through the air like a hog-tied earthquake. What he was about to try was not unlike roping steers down in Texas, except that his target this time was at once larger and more difficult to hold down and the line itself was just a tad heavier than your ordinary lariat.

Not knowing if he’d have an opportunity for a second chance, he did his best to fling the hook straight and true. It soared across the expanding seam in the ground, trailing the spare anchor chain from the Pernod behind it. The iron links clanked above the roar of the superheated earth as they landed on the far side of the widening chasm.

The fishhook struck the earth… and stuck. With a sharp tug Malone set the hook. Making sure the other end was secured to the pommel of Worthless’s saddle, he swung himself up and slapped his mount on the side of his scruffy neck.

“Ready there, Worthless? Back, boy! Back ’er up now!”

As Hau looked on in awe and Kanaloaiki in aghast fury, the muscular quadruped slowly began to back to the south, digging his hooves into the ground and pulling the anchor chain with him. The crack stopped expanding and began to contract as Malone drew it shut, binding up the wound in the earth as neat and clean as any surgeon would stitch up a wound. A few dollops of lava boiled out of the ground before the rift was closed completely. By the time Malone called a halt, the lava near the top of the vent had cooled sufficiently to seal the opening.

No ordinary horse could have managed it, or even an ordinary unicorn, but Worthless, for all his equine peccadilloes, was special indeed.

“Attaboy. Now stand!” Malone patted his steed on its neck as he dismounted. Worthless snorted and fell to cropping the nearest bush, breathing no harder than if he’d just pulled a wagon from a shallow muddy-bottomed creek.

Avoiding the site of the vent, where the ground was still too hot to walk on, Malone joined Hau in approaching the stymied sorcerer. The frustrated kahuna ’ana’ana did not try to contest their approach, did not even lift an arm to defend himself as Hau raised his formidable club.

Malone put out an arm to forestall the blow. “Easy there, Hau.”

The ali’i looked at him. “But if we let him live, he may try again.”

Malone shook his head. “I don’t think so. Take a good look at him. Can’t you see he’s done for?”

It was clear that the excruciating effort had used up the old sorcerer utterly. As he lay back, his breath came in increasingly difficult gasps. A grim-faced Hau stepped aside, satisfied.

“Summonin’ evil kin be exhausting,” Malone murmured.

At that the frustrated sorcerer turned to face him. “You are a great kahuna. I did not know there was such among the haoles.”

“Not many,” Malone told him. “Say, how come you can speak good English?”

“I, too, went to the haole school.” With obvious difficulty, the old man sucked air. “It is not haole learning I was trying to kill. Only haole culture. It overruns the land like a big wave. It is overrunning this land.”

Hau stepped forward. “I do not know about that, old man, but I do know that it is wrong to kill innocent people. I will have a kapu put on this spot so that none will come here and see what you have tried to do. No one will disturb the metal rope, and this ground will stay peaceful.”

“You will see,” the old man wheezed. “One day you will see. Or your children will.” His head fell back as he gazed into the star-flecked black crystal of night. “I hear the Marchers. They could not protect me, and now they come for me. Life is never just; death always is.”

With that he went away, eyes open to the darkness and unfulfilled.

“Reckon that’s that.” Malone began to secure both ends of the anchor chain, choosing volcanic spurs that were firmly a part of the solid rock of the mountainside. Hau tried his best to help, but though he was accounted a strong man among his own people, he could not move any part of the heavy chain, which Malone handled with apparent ease.

“You have done a good thing this night, Amos Malone. Give me the Manai.” Without word or objection, Malone removed it from the chain and handed it over.

“What’ll you do with that?”

“It is too dangerous to keep where others might find it. I will take paddlers and a canoe far south of here, to the southeast even of the big island, where the sea is very deep. There I will throw it into the ocean. It will fall to the depths and not raise any more land until it is safe.” A sudden thought made him look closely at the massive haole. “What will you tell your friend about our cattle lands?”

“That he’d better get here fast if he’s interested before these españoles already working the slopes buy up all the good grazing. And I reckon you might try to buy some fer yourself as well now that the king’s allowed as how private folks kin own their own plots. Me, I’d recommend acquirin’ thet beach where we met up.”

“Beach?” Hau made a face. “What would a man want with empty beach? You cannot grow anything on it or raise any animals. There is no good water there. Such places are worthless.” The unicorn pricked up its ears, whinnied querulously, and then returned to its cropping.

“Mebbe they are now.” Malone swung himself up into the saddle. “But take my word on it. Your grandchildren’ll thank you.” So saying, he started downslope toward the flickering lights of Lahaina, its raucous inhabitants blissfully unaware of the fiery death they had barely avoided.

Hau followed at his own pace, thinking hard as he descended the slope. Beach? What would any man want to own beach for? He decided that his new haole kahuna friend was joking with him. There was beach all around the island, most of it even more desolate, white, and sunstruck than the place where they had met. No one owned it because it was not worth a single American dollar.

And surely never would be.