The House at Sandalwood (3 page)

Ito Nagata explained. “This little channel is one exit point of a genuine river.”

“I had no idea an island as small as this might have a river.”

“Indeed, yes. Not anything to match Kauai’s river, but it’s bigger than a brook. It cuts across the island, more or less from the northwest peak, the highest on the island, down through swampy areas, between the Sandalwood Heiau’s abandoned cabins that Stephen has taken over, and onto this spot on the southeast of Ili-Ahi.”

With stunning suddenness, the sun disappeared and we found ourselves landing at a small, rather unsteady plank dock, in the deep gray dusk. I put away my sunglasses. I had to blink several times to see anything behind and around that copper beacon light on the spit of land that reached out into the channel between Ili-Ahi and the Kaiana Bay. For a minute Dr. Nagata stopped moving. There were curious hushed little sounds around us, like sibilant whispers. Thickets very like those I had seen on Ili-Ahi’s parent island of Kaiana grew close along the shore. There was only this hundred yards or so of sand and coral outcroppings where the stream emptied into the sea. Not such a good swimming area here—the coral would cut up anyone’s feet.

As Dr. Nagata joined me, I noticed that he now carried a big flashlight. I laughed, pretending to be more amused than uneasy. “This really is a primitive place. Are there no lights on the road?”

“Yes and no. There are no roads as such on Ili-Ahi, though Stephen has a jeep and so do the Hawaiian villagers on the other side of the island. But there are lights on this path to the house. Just a little walk through those trees there. We’ll probably be met.” He reached for the copper cover of the lamp at the wharf and pressed a button inside the lamp stand. “Buzzer. It rings in the main house.”

I took up my make-up case. He lifted the heavier suitcase out of the boat and we started along the dark path toward the big house, which was still unseen. There were more light standards lining the dark, twisting way at infrequent intervals, and I found myself hurrying from one pool of light to the next with Dr. Nagata almost striding to keep up with me. A pungent, not unattractive odor of moist earth and bitter roots pervaded the lush, green growth. Now and then there were softer, flowery scents. One could almost sort them out individually, haunting little reminders of the plant life all around.

“Frightened?”

“A little. It’s this jungle, or whatever it is. The trees are so tightly laced together. And beyond the path...” I pointed out with my make-up case, “... it’s soggy and wet. All that moss and decayed wood. And, I suppose, thousands of insects and snakes.”

Ito dismissed this with a grin. “Nothing poisonous. There is so much rain at the higher altitudes that the stream spreads out all through this area. It’s mostly swamp, but by day you will see some of the most incredible blossoms and flowering trees through there. Don’t go dashing into the area, though. There are ways, trails—like this lava path. Ah! I told you it wasn’t far. Look ahead and to the right. Higher. The path rises steeply here for a minute or two, but at the top and on the right you can see the two screened
lanais
at the rear of Stephen Giles’s house, one on each floor. We’d have called them balconies back in L.A.”

I gaped at the sight. The view from those
lanais
plunged straight down into the wild, swampy growth far below. We were silent for a few seconds and again I heard the little rustling sounds all around us. Everywhere serpent branches and roots—one as bad as the other—twisted and writhed, even overhead. The still-bright sky above was concealed from us by the intertwined branches and leaves. Everything rustled; nothing was still.

“The place seems so alive,” I commented, as Ito Nagata obviously expected me to say something.

I was saved from further comment, which doubtless would have insulted his beloved Hawaii, by the approach of a huge, almost black Hawaiian man coming down the steeply sloping path to us.

“
Kalanimoku
!” Ito called. “I am back with the lady, as you see. Has Mr. Giles called? This is Kalanimoku, Judith. Butler and majordomo of the island. He likes to be called ‘Moku,’ for short.”

“Stephen called,” said the Hawaiian, a man of imposing girth and what appeared to be solemn dignity until he smiled, which was frequently. He had a wonderful smile. “He said he would try to return sometime tonight. He also told us to expect the lovely young lady. His very words, miss.”

I was embarrassed but certainly not displeased and thanked Kalanimoku, “Moku, for short.” It did my ego a great deal of good, after years of thinking how very old I was growing, to have everyone refer to me as a young lady. The Hawaiian took my baggage and looked as though he could have carried a few steamer trunks besides. In that semidarkness he was easily seen, for he wore an aloha shirt of astounding, variegated flowers, a pair of white slacks that must have been specially ordered to fit him, and gold-colored sandals. In spite of his outfit, he still managed to look very like a photograph I had seen of the statue of King Kamehameha in front of the Iolani Palace.

We passed the side of Sandalwood, Stephen Giles’s grand old wooden family home, as we reached the top of the little trail that wound onward past cabins I could faintly see, half concealed in thick foliage beyond the house. What was it that Ito Nagata had told me about a tourist village, left unfinished due to bad luck? Superstition again. These cabins were all dark. Clearly, no one occupied them. As we went around to the broad front of the Giles house, I could hear the rushing waters of a stream somewhere, probably on the far side. I wondered if the stream plunged down into that swampy morass below the two
lanais
at the back of the house. I hoped it would look more inviting by daylight.

There were Japanese lanterns strung along the front of the house, giving a festive air to the little clearing. Beyond was the darkness of the forest and those unfinished cottages. No, not a forest. Probably what Ito would call a thicket. I was beginning to understand very well why a girl Deirdre’s age should need a housekeeper to care for her husband’s estate. But she had also lived for years in exclusive schools with no parental guidance and no authority beyond that of the busy and indifferent courts. She had no way of knowing how to handle this kind of situation.

I forced my thoughts to a more cheerful direction.

“Here we are, Miss Cameron,” Moku announced with a magnificent gesture of welcome.

From the long, shallow veranda I stepped through a small entry into a living room that occupied the west front of the old wooden house. Sandalwood must have been a splendid house at the turn of the century when such Victorian structures were still much admired. The high walls were beautifully papered in a green-and-gold motif of pagodas and exquisite Oriental figures. Curiously enough, both mandarins and willowy Japanese females in kimonos and huge obis appeared along the walls. I wondered whose idea that was. Although well cared for, the wallpaper appeared very old and probably could never be duplicated. The room was so long and elaborately furnished, I suspected it was only used for parties, perhaps in conjunction with
luaus
out in the area in front of the house. Nor was it well lighted at this moment—there was just one hanging lamp in the shape of a Japanese lantern on a chain at the far end of the room to give us any light.

Dr. Nagata took my arm, and I followed Kalanimoku through the dark, narrow central hall. Suddenly, a door near the far end of the hall opened from a lighted room. An extraordinary silhouette appeared in that light, which cast a deep bar of brightness across the mat carpeting the hall floor. What appeared to be a gigantic red hibiscus bush stood there staring at us, expressionless. This woman in the hibiscus-flowered
holoku
was nearly six feet tall and must have weighed well over two hundred pounds—she looked solid and regal. Her heavy black hair was worn severely back from a forbidding and intelligent wide forehead. The chocolate-colored eyes, darkly outlined, reminded me of a magnificent cobra who had once out-stared me in a San Francisco aquarium.

I whispered to Ito, “Someone out of Captain Cook’s journals?”

“She’s mighty important among the purebloods across the island. Stephen borrowed her to run things until you could get here. She did it as a favor, but she is no servant.” Then, he called loudly, “Good evening, Ilima. This is Miss Cameron, Mrs. Giles’s aunt, who is going to take some of that load off your shoulders. Judith, Ilima is Moku’s wife, the queen of Ili-Ahi, and one of the last descendants of Queen Liliuokalani’s family.”

I can’t say I was reassured by this information. My knees had a strong inclination to sink in a curtsy, which I would have been expected to perform, had I been in Hawaii in 1893 when the last queen was deposed for American political expediency. I worked up a wide smile and was grateful when I saw the flash of her large, even teeth when she greeted me.

“I am glad to meet you, Miss Cameron. You have arrived in very good time to help us. It is fortunate that you are a mature woman. You will perhaps know what to do.”

I looked to Ito Nagata for an explanation, but I could see that this was a mystery to him as well. Mrs. Moku offered her hand which I took quickly.

“You will want your baggage taken to your quarters first, Miss Cameron, and will perhaps wish to change your shoes.”

This last puzzled me considerably, but she led me away from Ito and the huge butler, her husband.

I caught a glimpse of tree tops and enormous leaves beyond the lower floor
lanai
before she ushered me up the stairs to the room assigned to me. Throughout the house I noticed the odd odor of dampness, wet leaves, decomposition, mud, and then, unexpectedly again, the strong scent of tropic flowers. Fortunately, I had also the delicious and comforting odor of the flower leis Ito had given me. I started to address my companion by her full name and for the first time since I had met her, I think she was amused.

“I am called Ilima. It is easier. Here is your bed-sitting room. You are only one door away from the upper
lanai
at the back of the house. This window across the room looks out upon the trail by which you came here. If you look to your right you will see the
emu
in the ground in front of the house. That is for roasting the pig for the
luau.
Stephen thought you might not like the direct view of the gulch on the other side of the house opposite your room. From that side by daylight you can see the waters of the Ili-Ahi River, several tributaries running on down into the swampy area below the
lanais
. I hope your room is satisfactory.”

I looked around. A comfortable bed with a headboard; an old-fashioned and so-handy three-mirrored French dresser; a small round table of inexpensive but beautiful rosewood; a comfortable, slightly shabby couch with wicker sides that looked as though they might tear one’s stockings, except that no one wore stockings here in Hawaii. There was also a charming table lamp with a brass teapot base.

I felt a small stab of pain as I recognized the lamp. It had belonged to my mother. Deirdre must have kept it with her at the exclusive girls school to which the courts had consigned her after my trial.

But why was it in my room now? Was it Deirdre’s idea? I hoped that it was. I cleared my throat to conceal any signs of emotion.

“What a very unusual little lamp!”

Ilima stared at it. “A
haole
design.” I knew that
haole
referred to foreigners and assumed this was meant as a derogatory comment. She added, “Such things are of the missionary sort.”

“Yes, very.” I began to unbutton my coat, a well-fitted, coachman style popular a couple of years back. One of the matrons had chosen it for me when I became housekeeper in the office of the female warden we referred to as the “Super,” a very understanding woman. I tried to sound noncommittal. “So the family is descended from missionaries.”

“No. But the little lamp—” I felt rather than heard her pause. It was almost nonexistent. “—it has been in Mr. Giles’s family for some years. I thought it suitable in here.”

Not so, I thought. You take possessions and pass them around as if Deirdre had nothing to say in her own household, but there were still those who cared about her.

“You will be tired, but we need you badly, Miss Cameron. May we see you as soon as possible?”

“Certainly. At once, if you like.” All this haste suggested a crisis of some kind. “I had better see my niece first. I rather expected her to meet me.” This must have been perfectly obvious to her. Was Deirdre ill?

“Would ten minutes be agreeable to you?” she asked. “Everything will be explained.” Her remark did not reassure me. She left, passing her husband, Moku, in the hall. He brought up my bags, which seemed odd. If there was a lordly “butler” here, there certainly must be boys to carry my suitcases. I asked him as he was leaving, “What other rooms are on this floor?”

“The family bedrooms, ma’am. Not that there is much of the family left. Steve—Mr. Stephen—has the small front bedroom and bath on the other side. Mrs. Giles has the front suite across from him, two doors beyond this one. But she prefers to spend a great deal of her time in the room opposite.” He pointed across the hall.

“But why does she have two—?” My question was so abrupt I hardly recognized my voice, and it was not my business. But apparently Deirdre and her husband did not share a bedroom or even a suite, and still she had another room where she spent much of her time.

Moku shrugged his great shoulders.

“She seems a very young lady. She likes to disappear. These are called pranks. Excuse me, but ‘pranks’—that is the word that people use. It is an old word that my mother used, not suitable to a modern young lady at all. Anyway, my daughter Kekua is her friend, and she tells me that Mrs. Stephen plays jokes. Several times she has tried to go off to Honolulu alone. That could be dangerous. Mr. Stephen does not always know. He used to visit Honolulu once a week until the strike deadlock on the docks. Now, he must visit there several times in the week. But it would be dangerous for Mrs. Stephen to try to go alone. She cannot seem to understand how to run the motor in any of the boats. My daughter is a real veteran at running the motorboats across the bay but she cannot teach Mrs. Steve. Mr. Stephen also tries to teach her, and to see that she swims well, in case—but...”

“No,” I agreed weakly, remembering times that seemed to me very long ago. “Deirdre liked the pools but never learned to swim very well. She wasn’t fond of learning. But then, she was always so ... dear, and we never wanted to force her.”

Moku looked away, avoiding my eye. “Yes. I think everyone must love the little lady, even my Kekua, who once had a childish crush upon Mr. Steve. But that was before ... Well, can we expect you in a few minutes?”