FIREWALKER
by
Eleanore Stasheff
Copyright © 2011

Sharon was lost—totally, utterly, and completely lost.  She climbed onto a large boulder for a better view and took another look at the trail map.  Although the trails were mapped clearly, the areas around them were not, and Sharon had somehow wandered off the path.

Taking a deep breath to calm down, she set her small backpack beside her and rummaged around for something to eat.  She had planned to be back by lunchtime, so she only had a light snack with her.  Her pack delivered a meager meal of a small trail mix bag, two bottles of water, and a banana.  Her stomach growled as she opened the trail mix, then munched on a handful while chugging water.

The Pacific rainforest was muggy and hot, but Sharon was from the Midwest.  If she could take Central Illinois in the middle of August, she could take pretty much anything.  There were a lot more trees here for shade, at least.  The morning drizzle had left the trees looking vividly green, and she spotted some bright pink flowers along the overgrown path she had been following.

With half the bag of trail mix gone, her hunger had subsided, and Sharon pondered whether to eat the banana now or save it for later.  She glanced at the bright pink flowers again, admiring their delicate panthers’ shape, then frowned at something moving in the forest behind her.  She wasn’t prepared for a panther attack.  Were there any in Hawaii?

Sharon breathed a sigh of relief as an elderly woman came into view, hobbling up the path in a short shuffle.  She was dressed in a long white muumuu with short sleeves, and her wavy black hair was streaked with gray and pulled back in a loose bun.  By the clothes, the hair, and the small lei strung with red flowers and wooden beads, Sharon guessed the woman was a native Hawaiian.

The woman glanced up at where Sharon was perched.  Quickly Sharon shoved the rest of the food in her backpack and climbed down with a smile.  “Aloha.”

“Aloha,” the woman replied, with a scowl which deepened the wrinkles in her face.  Her dark eyes were full of fire.

“I am so completely lost,” Sharon explained, as she pulled out the map.  “I was following this trail up to the Kilauea crater, but I must have made a wrong turn because I’m clearly not on the labeled path anymore.”  Sharon took a breath and looked at the woman pleadingly.  “I don’t suppose you know the area and could help me get back to the right trail… could you?”

The woman titled her head back, trying to look down her nose at Sharon—but since the stooped woman was several inches shorter, it did not have the desired effect.  She seemed to ponder the question, then smiled slightly and a twinkle appeared in her eyes.  “I was on my way to Kilauea myself.  I have brought an offering for Pele…” she held up a small bottle of gin, “but no food.  It’s taken me longer to walk this trail then I remembered.”

Sharon thought of the food in her bag, and hesitated briefly, not knowing when she could get food again… but the woman was old, the day was hot, and she was probably as hungry and thirsty as Sharon had been.  So she quickly opened her pack and pulled out the banana and the last bottle of water.  “I don’t have much, but you can have these.  We can share the last of my trail mix if you want.”

The woman grinned slowly, revealing a surprisingly beautiful set of teeth that would put a supermodel’s smile to shame.  She grabbed the food, swallowed the banana almost whole, and drained the bottle dry.

Sharon watched, slightly stunned.  “Wow, you were even hungrier than I was!”  She pulled out the trail mix and handed it over.  “Know what?  You can have the rest.”

The woman took the bag and devoured the contents just as fast, then turned away and started up the trail, towards the volcano.  Then she stopped and looked back at Sharon.  “You coming?”

Sharon smiled and hurried to catch up.  “I’m Sharon.”

“I'm Hina-hanaia’i-ka-malama,” the woman replied.  She had to repeat it several times before Sharon could pronounce it, and in the end they settled on “Hina” (as the old woman could not bear to hear her Hawaiian name being pronounced with a Midwestern twang).

They walked together for a long time, chatting amiably about the differences between their homes and customs.  Gradually they left the rainforest and the greenery trailed off as they came closer to the drier land around the volcanic crater.

“What did you say the gin was for?” Sharon asked as they stepped around earth blackened and glazed from previous eruptions.

“For Pele,” Hina replied.  “The Goddess of this land.”

“Pele,” Sharon repeated.  “That sounds familiar.  There’s a painting of her in my hotel.  She’s the Goddess of Fire, right?  The one who lives in volcanoes?”

“That’s right.  Madame Pele is very important to us all.”  Hina suddenly quickened her pace and Sharon, who had been walking slower to match her steps, almost had to jog to keep up with her.  “She protects the islands.”

“It’s a place worth protecting,” Sharon agreed, quickly but carefully picking her way around the petrified lava flows.  They were beautiful in a dark, surreal way.  “I wish I had brought an offering too.”

Sharon stopped and dug through the remaining contents of her backpack which consisted of the trail map, two empty plastic bottles and other assorted trash (she didn’t want to litter on the ground), her wallet, and a Hawaiian-English Dictionary, which she pulled out and held up.  “I don’t suppose Madame Pele likes books?”

“They’re not her favorite, no,” Hina replied with a smirk.  “Hand me a bottle, I’ll share the gin.”  Hina poured in most of the liquor, then passed it back.  “I’ll tell you what to do when we get there.”

By this time, Sharon realized they were getting very close to the crater itself.  She could see the red-hot gaping mouth in front of her, belching puffs of smoke and breathing fire.  “Uh… are we still heading for the tourist path?  I didn’t think they let people get this close.”

Hina turned her fiery eyes on Sharon again, but this time they were glowing with amusement instead of anger.  “Surely you’re not frightened by a local legend?”

“I have a healthy respect for nature,” Sharon replied.  “Especially volcanoes.  Besides, you believe in it enough to bring a sacrifice.”

“Live a little,” Hina said.

“I’d like to live a lot, actually,” Sharon muttered, “that’s the problem.”

Hina let out a bubbling laugh, and the volcano echoed with a deep rumble that Sharon could feel as much as hear.  The old woman continued on, and Sharon followed her with trepidation.  Before long they were standing near the rim, the searing heat so heavy in the air that it shimmered.  Breathing began to grow painful, and Sharon tried hard not to hyperventilate.

“Do as I do,” Hina instructed with a serious and ceremonial tone.  She took a long drink from the bottle of gin, then poured the rest of the liquid on the ground around her, tossing the bottle into the volcano with a final flourish.

Sharon did the same (although she took a much smaller sip), then poured the gin onto the ground and tossed the plastic bottle down into the crater.  There was a sizzle and a pop as the lava greedily devoured the sacrifice.  Sharon stared at the churning, writhing, bubbling liquid fire below.  She was concentrating so hard on being able to get the best view from as far back as possible that she never noticed Hina move.  But when Sharon looked up looked up again,  she saw the old woman was standing on the very edge.

Panic gripped Sharon.  “Hina, no!”  She tried to reach out for the old woman—then hesitated as a terrible thought crossed her mind.  “Wait… Pele doesn’t want human sacrifices, does she?!?”

Hina looked back at Sharon, and the fire in her eyes reflected the lava in the volcano.  “I am not a sacrifice.”

Hina suddenly thrust her arms to the sky and the lava erupted upward in time with her movements, as if she was the master and the volcano her puppet.  Sharon could only stare in stunned horror as a burst of flames engulfed the little woman… and yet Hina didn't scream, didn't move—and didn't burn.  Fire seared away the gray and wrinkles of age.  The muumuu was gone in an instant, blazed away to be replaced with a long red and gold shawl draped across her body, fastened at one shoulder.  Her hair, now black as obsidian, flowed around her, so long it poured into the fire at her feet.  She was festooned with rich red and bright golden flowers, from the wreath on her head and the leis around her neck to the woven bracelets and anklets that glittered in the shimmering heat.

Sharon was sure she must be hallucinating.  She had to be.  Whether it was the effects of the long walk, the hunger gnawing in her belly, the heat, or the gin, she didn’t know.  She was awestruck and terrified—and in that moment, she knew she would die.

But she didn’t.

The woman slowly lowered her hands and smiled at Sharon before taking a graceful step backwards and disappearing in a flash of smoke and fire.  Then a trickle of lava slipped over the side and ran down the crater towards Sharon—but stopped several feet away, curved to the right, and flowed on down the earth.  Some inner instinct told Sharon to follow it, and the glittering stream of living lava lead her back under the forest canopy, snaking slowly through the dense trees, until it finally ended… at the main hiking trail, and a group of surprised tourists.  They all stopped talking when they saw Sharon walking towards them, the tendril of lava pooling beside the path where she stopped.

The native tour guide looked at Sharon, looked at the steaming lava, then stepped over to her while everyone else started taking pictures.  He searched her face for the answer to his unspoken question. 

She willed her mouth to open, willed her vocal cords to work, but her brain had shut down and she didn’t say a word.  She simply nodded her head ever so slightly.

He looked down at the lava, then pulled a small hip flask from his pocket, uncapped it, and handed it to her.  She took it and stared at him.

“Gin,” he said softly.  “It’s her favorite.”

“I know.”  Sharon’s voice was rough and her tongue felt swollen in a mouth that felt like sandpaper—effects of the heat, she supposed.  She took a tiny sip, knelt beside the pool and poured in half the gin.  Then she handed the flask back to the tour guide, who did the same.  He carefully poured the last few drops into the cooling lava, which swallowed it up, then slowly melted back into the earth, leaving a long sliver of obsidian behind—like a long tendril of black hair.

Sharon returned to the hotel in a daze, washing and eating in a trace-like state.  She would sit on the little balcony outside her room and stare at the smoldering volcano for hours.  When her mind finally grasped the reality of what had happened, she began to become aware of her surroundings again.  By the time her vacation was over and she was headed back home, her encounter had faded into a dreamlike memory.

But she would never forget her walk with Pele.

THE END

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