The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(42)

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.”

“Are you having fun with me?”

“Not at all! Myths reveal the history of a place. I mean, who are these warriors? What do they protect? Why do they wander? I know the Hawaiian chieftains never suffered commoners to look them in the eye—I read that once, but . . .” I stopped myself; I was gushing. “Well. I’ve never had a tour guide.”

“I would gladly teach you all I know about the islands. I’d need some time, of course.”

“A few weeks?”

“A few years!”

I laughed. “Maybe I should just look over your sketchbook.”

“Oh, Miss Song. It’s so much more than what you could read in a book.”

A red bird flitted across our path, and the trees opened up into a clearing where flowers winked from the edges of the undergrowth. The sun warmed the grass beneath Pilikia’s hooves, but the air was quite cool and as soft as a kiss. In the distance, rushing water whispered about where it had been.

“Is this it?” I asked.

“Oh, no, we’re not there yet. This is . . . well. You can see the places where the grass is growing a bit thinner? That’s because the earth was packed down under the hale pili—the grass houses. There was a village here when I was a small boy. The signs are faint, though.”

“Where did they go?”

“They died.”

I gasped. “How?”

“Foreign disease. The least dramatic type of slaughter.”

The path continued on the other side of the sunny clearing, but it had grown narrower, and the trees lower; green and yellow guavas hung from lichen-gray branches that wove themselves together at a height just above our heads. Blake stopped Pilikia and swung down from her saddle. He offered me his hand.

“We have to continue on foot, but it’s not much farther.” I took his hand and slid from the saddle; my shoes sank into the loamy earth. Blake removed his own shoes and socks. He grinned when he saw me watching.

“How do you think I keep them clean?” He threw his jacket over the pommel of the saddle. “Come.”

I followed him along a path no wider than my feet, lined with feathery ferns and drooping pink ginger. He pushed ahead of me, through the branches, bending them out of my way.

“What is this place?” I stepped under his arm as he held open a fall of vines like a curtain. The roar of water grew louder, and the fresh smell of crushed greenery filled my lungs.

“I told you before. It’s a sacred place. A secret place, where the water comes out of the caves in a fall so powerful it turns to mist and drifts in clouds down into a healing pool. Please,” he added with a grin. “Try not to lure me in and drown me.”