Sunset,
skyset – every day there went forth that orb to both boil and die now, over the
western hills, slopes where both beauty and tales seemed to rise in earnest
from the Pacific. Mitch stood quite
tired, feeling a little grizzled, looking up at where a mass of land and
foliage rose further east, wondering again why he should be here, at this
place, near this town, thinking of climbing such a peak as the steep as the
sight ahead. The land here seemed made
of tree roots for a small ways, grabbing, holding thick to his untested
boots. Still time for a quick peek, a
road beer, or even make it down to one of the clubs before the city rolled its
sidewalks up for the night, he thought, trudging upwards.
He
snapped some pictures of the locals, debating his next course. For this was Kau’ai, and though he wasn’t
here for long, he had been happy to find the north shores and mountains as
charming as its inhabitants were gorgeous, youthful. It had been hard enough to make it this far,
in such a short time, as there had been several wonderous sights to distract
him.
The
first had been a lovely rum garden carved out of some old townhouse on the
lower flank, with views out over a small garden, vineyards flowing out to the
north. Then had been an actual park
on the lower slope, with fascinating dancers, the heat of the fleeting sun,
with enough reds and pinks and long legs to bewilder a mind. God, they were cute he thought, snapping a
few pictures of the near clouds now seeming directly at eye level, but also too
a few shots of the cuter ones frolicking near.
One
of the taller girls noticed though, flipping her hair, clearly suggesting to
her friend in some form of French that they move on.
Damns,
how his luck never seemed to hold.
Something similar had happened back in the town yesterday, and on the
beach this morning; he did his best to ignore it.
Best
to go up then, move on.
His
legs had been a bit tired wandering through the town all day, true, checking
out the best of the Hanalei street stalls, nibbling on quality food, and
wondering now that everyone seemed to be wearing hats, midriffs showing seeming
everywhere. Yet his eyes had not grown
tired of the sights, or the beauty shown around in a hundred unnamable forms
that flowed around. Waioli Beach, the
surfers - scantily clad locals. Steps
and steps that spread out at all angles, the shadow of a dragons back of the
mountains rising high all around them.
Hell,
even the graffiti was lovely, petering out as he rose, into imagery of gold,
and beauty, and curvature everywhere, ceaselessly.
Oh
how he loved sunsets, too; the turn of the colors upon the green, the rock. He had missed seeing one yesterday when he
arrived, seeing as the shades from the rental car depot, realizing far too late
that it was well over a two hour ride to the West side of the island. But not today. Though he was not much of a
hiker, he was smitten by the little paths that branched ahead of him now,
figuring that the best shot for a picture lay above, the greatest stories might
lie somewhere there through the bows. He
passed several large figurines made of palm fronds and extra large coconuts,
doing his best to click away as he passed.
Best to keep moving though - now it was time for up, no more
distractions, and to check another point off of the list. Passed where the graffiti lined even the bark
of the nearest trees.
The
greatest change on this trip had been in the type of maps he read. Yes, there were the historgrams, the travel
recommendations, the pictograms, all, certain to go along with hordes of
attractive people bragging again and again to themselves. Everywhere seemed to be murals and
icongraphy, and face paints of bronze figures paddling nearer to shore, of long
legs and wide rivers, but little that remained as truly curved, truly natural. Now however, as he trudged up, he attempted
to read the squiggle lines of topography, extrapolating upward and outward all
the sideways lines cutting thickly across a page, he was struck by the beauty
of the place. It had been a chore to
learn the topo, sure, the curves that seemed at once familiar and obscene to
his Scandinavian roots. The hill in
front of him had dozens of small switchbacks, almost invisible in the thickness
of the brush.
Schlossburg. What a strange name for a hill – he would
have to look into its history more later, but for now struggled with the steep
quality of the paths, pushing past all the lounging locals and tourists on his
way up up up. He had seen a vantage
tower on both the tourist map and his mobile attraction map, and it looked
quite promising, all told. Another
lovely spot to watch what was sure to be a spectacular sunset, and to add to
his own collection of endless images for few hapless souls back home to click
at, to possibly share, gain a bit of interest, intrigue. Behind him, he could see the shadows of the
waders grow long, fingerlike.
Yet
what was this?
ABNOBA. A white stone at odds with the green and
shadows rising all around, with one single word carved brazenly into its
side. Gods though, he felt buzzed. Likely, it was just the first moves of his
locked muscles, uncertain things begging to be used. The higher and higher he wandered, the more
unusual the sights seemed to become. A
giant cross of wood, double the height of a man emerging off on the right. Little playscapes, where children pranced
nakedly. Graffiti fitting the best New
York dens. A few fake tombstones, rotten
benches even, flat walls. Then this, now
directly in front of him.
ABNOBA. He wondered why this should stand out to
him, all in strait letters, looking so very Latin in its layout. It was on one of the cleaner stones, looking
well cared for, cept for this strange word or phrase that stood out of place to
the greens and the darks all around. It
looked like someone had tried to write the word ‘abnormal’, and then had given
up halfway through. He started to wander
on, doing his best. There had been identical
numerals painted on some of the bridges back in town he remembered, in similar
goofy letters. He snapped a few photos
of this one, to check for a match, just in case, then headed still higher,
flipping back. For some reason it spoke
to him, almost vibrated in a manner similar to the French girl down on the
beach.
He
shook his head, to clear himself. He had
to keep going though, had to push a little harder if he was to catch the
sunfall. Still more up, then the tower.
Hell,
now there was a bridge ahead of him!
Always something, it seemed. It
was an old thing, and had clearly been rotted out for quite some time. The main central ties had all collapsed from
the frequent jungle rain, leaving only some metal, and some side supports in
its place. It too was covered in the a
similar graffiti that decorated the long boards in the town below. Hell, it even looked like these symbols were
similar to some of the others throughout the town, him feeling a bit annoyed he
hadn’t noticed earlier. He flipped
sideways through the reams and reams of pictograms that made up this sliver of
his life – sure enough, similar patterns, twirls, runes. He looked again at his mobile, then up to the
sky ahead, wondering what other challenges the gods might still throw at him,
or if his luck might hold.
The
hell with it. He clutched his pack a bit
tighter, moving closer to the steel. He
knew what Kate would have said, and so started forward with a small smile
before he knew what he was doing. He
almost slipped twice as he threaded his way across, cut himself mildly on one
of the neater struts, thinking of tetanus.
He made it across with no real trouble though passed that first spell, and
after pouring some rum on the wound, realized it wasn’t much more than an
abrasion after all.
Ah,
there he was! After a bit longer than
the map had shown, there was a burst of change.
The trees had flown suddenly back, revealing a sandy grey partner
amongst their midst. Ahead was conical,
tubular tower that bent in a way he almost recognized, all of shining steel,
sharpened fingers of the edges plunging their sharp barbs up into the sky. Symbology had found these twigs too, but no
matter - on all sides, the island started to glow in a fever pitch of greens
and reds. He snapped more photos
greedily.
Ascending
of the tower proved a chore, but worth the view. The city blossomed below him, little tendrils
of streets and water falling away at all angles. The bright of the Pacific too seemed all
around, the island teeming as an inverted bowl to his tired mind. It looked stunning in the cooling of the eve,
so pristine, and he wondered for a minute what would happen as fall truly fell
on this land, little leaves giving way to sandy air. Again and again he snapped photos, doing his
best not to get to close to the edge.
Strange
though. He had expected to see more
people up here though, or else other photographers clicking way, having to
jostle for the best view. The tower was
lovely in a way that made it a picture man’s dream, asymmetrical, with little
side-booths where people could mingle, frolic, kiss under the moonlight. Leave it to the locals to design something so
beautiful, yet all out of proportion with the human body though – it hurt his
head just to look at it. So many things
were so very different here.
It
looked like the sunset would be a bust, too, its long fingers of clouds seeming
to come down from the north, a thick finger of stone threatening to obscure
everything. He flipped back through the
photos, admiring his talent with a camera.
Boom.
He
stood for a bit, mesmerized, the land sloshing out beneath him. Though he had heard the wine of piccolo music
most of the way up here, this new sound almost sounded drum like. It shook the tower a tad, even its reverberations
carrying some cry, an energy, a charge. Mitch’s
head began to swim at the thought, and he did his best to clear it with a swig
from his canteen, of a passing of a hand across his brows.
Was
this ground seismic? He recalled the
rebuilding efforts in that had gone on on the Big Island from time to time, as
Kilauea blew, but had no idea here.
Better
to be down, he guessed.
Probably,
it was the altitude that made his head swim.
Partly too, it was from all the bodies and attractive forms that had
lined the way, or the curvature of the runescape below. Looking further, he tried his best to see
through the twigs down to the park. For
a good chunk of the way up he had heard actual fiddle music too from
down there, occasionally cello sounds or other hippie sounds drifting up
through the thick wood. Now, all he
could hear was his own simple heartbeat, his own ragged breath coming out in
occasional sputters, spurts. And the
reverberations of that boom. What was
it, exactly?
There
it came again, sounding more threatening than the first.
Boom
boom.
It
was when he was about halfway down the tower that he realized what had nagged
him at the summit. It hadn’t been the
light, nor the approaching clouds, but something so much closer to his lens
that he hadn’t been thinking about it, certainly not with his back mostly to
the town. Back home, such a sight would
have been covered with children, dog walkers, little people with snot clogging
their faces. People would have been
yelling obscenities, dealers in the corners stoned, looking for respite. Yet no humanly sounds could he here, no
cough, sputter, or gaseous intake to humble him.
This
was what triggered his thoughts on the way down.
He
looked out and round, gasping at the sights he could see, checking his
camera again, furiously. Though the
angle was wrong, and he could only see a few of the northmost streets, the digital
display proved him right.
What
of the town?
He
peered closer into the camera histogram, expecting to see the thick tendrils of
crowds milling about. People with jeeps
lining the streets, longboarders sailing as far out as they could to where blue
met blue. It was the end of the work
week, after all, and even with the heat of spring, and the thrill of vacations,
the streets should have been jammed. The
whole way up he had done his best to ignore the lines of bodies on the beach,
trying in vain to imagine what the old shores must have looked like.
But
no, the lens did not lie - they were suddenly all gone. White lights had begun to twinkle on, casting
ghost shadows where they fell, but the streets in his pictures were empty. Everything
seemed frozen.
For
a full minute, he thought himself cast back in time, looking at a dead place in
the growing blue of the light before. Even
the little river rivulets that crisscrossed the town seemed frozen. He was flipping again through his, debating
about calling the hotel, back home, anywhere, but then the beats started up in
earnest. Should he go up, above the
treeline, to ensure the cameras accuracy?
The validity of the thoughts streaming round?
No,
no point. It was time to get down, time
to forever get moving.
----
He
was just starting to get scared, just starting to feel the first slice of real
fear sliding into him when he damn near ran into a man, breathing out a sigh of
relief. The forest around him had begun
to grow quite dark beneath the canopy, the night noises coming through the
overhead. He was thinking of going for
his pocket torch, shocked at how dark the palm fronds made the twilight. Without warning though, he damn near ran into
an old man standing silently, almost expectantly. He bounced off one of his shoulders, both
annoyed and angry at the same time for the inconvenience, yet happy to see
another human in all this waylaid green.
“Hey,
sorry about that Mister,” he tried, forgetting for a moment what a state, hell,
which island he was on. He was dusting
himself off, was reaching to offer the man a hand.
“You might want to run, little man.” The fellow in front of him said, helping him
up a tad, speaking softly in a language he did not at first understand.
“I,
what?” Mitch tried, yet a fell boom in
the woods around him. They both looked
at once toward the sound, which seemed everywhere and nowhere at once.
The
old man ahead of him looked ashen faced now, his thin Polynesian beard
glistening with sweat. The ground moved a
tad beneath them, drumbeats sure and true.
“Time
to run, I said.” He wanted to ask, to
question, but the old man was running back behind him, up the very
slope, something glistening in his hand.
Mitch didn’t wait to be told, fleeing back down, down, to what he knew
not.
Ahead,
the trail branched out again.
In
his head, he could imagine fractals, spinning forever outward. He could see lines, processions coming round,
but then, but then, something else. The very ground had begun to pulse, the
dirt itself sweating sound.
For
which way now was true down? The trails
before him turned, squirmed around as living things, leaving his nerves a short
fork twirling round. His feet caught,
the ground itself threatening to opening up.
Oh God, he could feel the pounding, pulsing coming up from the
ground. The thrumming coming through the
very air behind him.
The
bridge! Oh, how he had forgotten of that
stupid thing. In his head, all the
little lines, and the trail had become so jumbled. A boom reached his ears, sounding neither of
treefall, nor of firecrackers, wood splintering into the dusk. No, it sounded like a heartbeat from the very
bowels of the earth, coming up to shake his toes, nose all. He was glad for an
extra battery pack, happier still for his architectural memory of such twists
and turns at this stage. Kate would have
given him much crap for his forgetting, but he proved true.
Down
he went, further onward.
ABNOBA. He seemed to see the it everywhere now,
little flakes and tendrils rising round.
It had been carved into the very steel of the bridge he saw, the very
form of the bridge forming a giant letter “A”.
He could hear it in the beat in the air.
He pushed himself faster over the bridge, pausing at the halfway before
he realized what it was he heard amongst the song.
“Hello?” He paused for a second, looking back. He gave hope that it the old man, but
recoiled when he saw the first. Someone
was coming from back beyond, a long wave just visible in the darkness beneath
the jungle trees. He leaned back,
suddenly afraid.
“Hi!” said something below him, and he almost screamed
as he looked down. The little ravine
below was filled with figures, most with wavery hair. Something about them looked mossy, ragged,
and in moments the figures had started to ascend the very walls of the canyon.
He
ran flat out now, unsure of what to do, or where to go. He had gotten lucky that his memory of the
place was apparently quite good, luckier still that the trail was easier here,
the landmarks solid.
He
could hear the little tinkle of laughter coming from between the trees, though,
from the very bushes he passed on lefts and rights, gathering thick in the
growing darkness. His hand, his very
mind seemed to recoil from the true blackness of the shadows around. Left, right, down, down down. He didn’t have time to check the map,
everything becoming a blur. He thought
he could see eyes, and forms of many curves approaching.
Their
features all seemed slim, slanted, and he yelled at them to step back, step
away.
ABNOBA. Another sign passing, this one new, he was
sure. An arm jutting out of the dark,
from behind a tree, the same words cut into living flesh. Dodge, move, run. Run!
They
were whispering, saying something behind him.
Gaining, he was sure.
He
tumbled back and back, feeling the first of the thick tree roots. He was up on his feet, seeing in his own head
as the harpies, the wisps seemed to dance down the steep slope after him. He could hear sounds again, seeming far away,
of a cello, of clapping, of a fiddles cry in the night. The trees below the bridge had seemed to be
cast in white moonlight, though he remembered no orb as he ascended, what, half
an hour, maybe an hour before. His hands
were bleeding now, cut on the palm fronds smacking all around him. He waved his hands in front of his face, then
was tumbling down, down, forever down.
Something
was running down his hand now. He was
thinking of Kate for some reason, the warm glow she could have given to a
place, even a time like this.
He.
He
burst forth into the park, into the main street of the town, tanned bodies
suddenly everywhere around him, as if heeding his screams, his call. The sun did seem to have one last
little trick, sliding out for a moment to turn everything bright reds and golds
in the area around him, making him pause, making him fall. The effect on his tired eyes made them grow,
made them luster. The familiar sodium
lights were still blazing, still turning the figures approaching even stranger
colors than they really were. At first
he recoiled from them, seeing wide hands and gaping mouths that reminded him
too much of the forest for first glance. Their faces were too dark, him
forgetting that the sun was gone.
Yet
then a large figure, a true kahuna, was jostling toward him, reaching
for a kerchief. Then others too were
nearing, a look of concern upon their brows.
He waved again and again at them, but still the pressed onward.
As
the townsfolk neared, he collapsed, looking up at the strange sky that wheeled
overhead, listening only to the fading voices, the gasps of the townsfolk as
the pointed, gasped.
“There’s
something….something up…on the hill…” he tried, looking up, far too up into the
nearest face that approached him, realizing too late that they might be here to
help. In his rush he had forgotten what
little Hawaiian, English, anything could help him, resorting back to the
plainspeak of points and grunts to guide him.
The
sky was different, stronger out here, where the same constellations seemed
meaningless under a darkened sky. The kahuna
looked down at him, then up to the peak, where he (she?) made a sign to
themselves.
Cold,
so cold he thought, turning down, turning inward. Above, true night drifted in.
Meanwhile,
people did their best not to stair too long out their windows, at the sight now
filling the street.
----Fin.----
