I peered down a wide drive lined with chunks of coral that curved through an emerald-green lawn studded with flowering plants. Under a mantle of trailing vines rioting with flowers, I caught glimpses of a boxy white Victorian house with a deep veranda, in front of which was parked an empty calash and a delivery wagon hitched to a sleepy mule. It struck me then—I might be able to learn exactly where the map was kept. Pilikia leaned in toward the driveway, but Blake kept her on the road, pulling gently at the reins and, for a moment, bringing his arm close around my waist.
“Isn’t your house included on this tour?”
“It’s in a bit of a state, with the preparations for the party,” he said apologetically. “You’ll see it soon enough. Just a moment.” He pulled the horse toward the opposite side of the road, where the trees drew in close. “There’s a natural spring here,” he said, dismounting and leading us into the trees.
It was only a dozen feet to the water, where Pilikia dropped her head and drank deep, but once inside the forest, the greenery wrapped around us like a soft embrace, and I could no longer see the road. “The island is peppered with them. There’s one farther up in the valley that the chieftains used to bathe in. Back then, commoners weren’t allowed to touch the water due to its mystic healing properties, on pain of decapitation.”
My ears perked. “Is it true?”
“What part? The healing or the head chopping?” he teased. “They believed it. And that’s what matters. I’m not going to risk it, anyway. Wouldn’t that be the worst way to cure a head cold? I have tried this spring,” he continued, nodding toward the water at our feet. “It won’t heal so much as a paper cut, although the water’s quite pure. Are you thirsty? Wait here.”
He disappeared into the thicket in a direction I’d have assumed he’d picked at random but for the certainty with which he went. The sound of his footsteps, muffled by the damp humus that lay like a down blanket on the earth, quickly faded, and for a few minutes, Pilikia and I were alone in the forest. It was an odd feeling, the rich green life pressing close around me, hiding everything from view—so unlike the open sea. The burbling of the stream, the call of hidden birds, and the susurration of the wind in the treetops were no louder in my ears than the sound of my own breath.
Then, as suddenly as Blake had gone, he returned, holding handfuls of mottled yellow fruits, each the size of my fist. He took a small knife from the saddlebag and sliced one in half to reveal pink pulp studded with tiny yellow seeds.
“Oh, guavas!” I said. “I’ve only ever seen them green.”
“Different species, I think.” He crouched near the water and rinsed the pulp from the rind, which he then filled with clear water and handed to me as though it were a teacup. The water was cool and sweet.
After I drank my fill, he handed me another few guavas and I ate them whole, the rind giving way easily to the tart and tender flesh. Juice dripped down my chin, and he flicked out his handkerchief. “Mmm,” I said, by way of thanks.
Blake scratched the horse’s neck and fed her a guava. “They grow everywhere up here, along with several stands of excellent rose apples. Bananas and mangoes as well.”
“Who planted them?”
“The birds. The breeze. The garden Hawaii resembles most is Eden.”
“Ah.” I handed back his handkerchief. “My father feels the same way.”
He cocked his head. “But how do you feel?”
I hesitated. “I’m not sure yet.”
“Oh? I must work harder to convince you. Here.” He handed me the reins and swung himself up behind me. “We’ve got to hurry a bit, but I’ll show you my favorite spot on the island.”
“I’m not pressed for time.”
“Ah, but I can’t bring you there near to dusk!”
“Treacherous footing?”
“No, the Hu’akai Po.”
I frowned. “That sounds like it means trouble, too.”
“Of a very certain sort. Haven’t you heard of the Night Marchers? The Hu’akai Po are the spirits of the ancient warriors of Hawaii. All the locals know the story.” He leaned forward, his voice low in my ear. “Legend says they march all through this valley. When the warriors are walking, the first thing you hear is the sound of drums, far away, and someone blowing a conch shell. In the distance, you’ll see their torches glowing in the dark. By the time you hear the sound of marching feet, you must throw yourself on the ground, facedown, to show respect, but also to shield your eyes, because if you look at them directly, they’ll take you and you’ll have to walk among them till the end of time.”
His breath tingled on the back of my neck. I shivered, and he laughed, low in his throat. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.”
We rode farther up into the rain forest of Nu’uanu, leaving the houses behind, and stepping onto a thin dirt track that wound through the tall rose-apple trees, studded here and there with enormous staghorn ferns, like fantastical brooches on the slender shoulders of society ladies. In the places where the path was steeper, he leaned forward to help Pilikia keep her footing. His chest was quite warm against my back.
“Have you ever seen them?” I said. “The Night Marchers?”
“I’ve never found myself facedown on the road surrounded by an army of ghosts, but . . . I have sometimes seen torchlight on the mountainside. Who can say?”
“Fascinating.”