Sharks in an Inland Sea: Legacy of the Corridor, #4

Sharks in an Inland Sea

By Lehua Parker

Niuhi Shark Saga

Birth: Zader’s Story

One Boy, No Water

One Shark, No Swim

One Truth, No Lie

Lauele Fractured Folktales

Pua’s Kiss

Rell’s Kiss

Nani’s Kiss

Short Fiction Collections

Sharks in an Inland Sea

Legacy of the Corridor

The Florilegium of Madness — D. J. Butler

Dragon Soup for the Soul — Emily Martha Sorensen

Down the Arches of the Years — Lee Allred

Sharks in an Inland Sea — Lehua Parker

Forthcoming

The Bacillus of Beauty — Harriet Stark

In the Haunting Darkness — Michael R. Collings

Contents

Legacy of the Corridor

Swimming with the Sharks

Joe Monson

Introduction: An Inland Sea

Tourists

Bridges

Hawaiian on the Inside

Red

The Champion

Cardinal Alignment

Found

Ho‘oloa‘a

Voices

Aunty Mitzy’s Helpers

This Once Was a Sea

Doors

Brothers

Rell’s Kiss

Tatau

Infestation

Maverick’s

Nana‘ue

Close Encounters

In the Twenty and Fourth Year of the Judges

Gamble

Nightwalker

Balcony House Hat Trick

Persona Non Grata

Hepatitis Sea

Resister

We Need Hawaiian Kine Voices

Niuhi / Lauele Flash Fiction

‘Alika and Arnold

Liz’s Closet

The Sandwich

Akela in the Park

Hawaiian and Pidgin English Glossary

A Request

About the Author

About the Cover Artist

Legacy of the Corridor

Way back in 1994, M. Shayne Bell put together Washed by a Wave of Wind, an anthology of short works by authors from The Corridor, an area that covers Utah, most of Idaho, parts of Wyoming and Nevada, and stretches into Arizona and parts of northern Mexico. Sometimes, the area around Cardston, Alberta, Canada, is included, too. For those unfamiliar with this area, it was settled by Mormon pioneers, members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Shayne’s anthology highlighted science fiction and fantasy works by authors from the area, as The Corridor contained an unusually high number of successful authors—for the population in the area—both genre and non-genre, both members and non-members of the predominant religion. That legacy continues today with an impressive list of authors such as:

Jennifer Adams

D. J. Butler

Orson Scott Card

Michael R. Collings

Michaelbrent Collings

Ally Condie

Larry Correia

Kristyn Crow

James Dashner

Brian Lee Durfee

Sarah M. Eden

Richard Paul Evans

David Farland

Diana Gabaldon

Jessica Day George

Shannon Hale

Mettie Ivie Harrison

Tracy Hickman

Laura Hickman

Charlie N. Holmberg

Christopher Husberg

Raymond F. Jones

Matthew J. Kirby

Gama Ray Martinez

Brian McClellan

Stephenie Meyer

L. E. Modesitt, Jr.

Brandon Mull

Jennifer A. Nielsen

Wendy Nikel

James A. Owen

Ken Rand

Brandon Sanderson

Caitlin Sangster

J. Scott Savage

D. William Shunn

Jess Smart Smiley

Eric James Stone

May Swenson

Howard Tayler

Brad R. Torgersen

Nym Wales

Dan Wells

Robison Wells

David J. West

Carol Lynch Williams

Dan Willis

Julie Wright

That’s a big list of names, and it only barely scratches the surface. Hemelein Publications created this publication series to highlight authors from The Corridor, both well-known and lesser-known. We think Shayne did a wonderful job drawing attention to these amazing writers back then, and we want to continue what he started.

You can learn more about the series at:

http://hemelein.com/go/legacy-of-the-corridor/

Joe Monson

Managing Editor

Hemelein Publications

Swimming with the Sharks

JOE MONSON

I may have discovered Lehua Parker differently than most of her readers. The first story I read by her was Pua’s Kiss, a romance story set in her Lauele Universe. Most other people I know discovered her stories through the Niuhi Sharks Saga, which is set in the same universe, but targeted at a younger audience.

At this point, I should probably share that I like reading romances. And watching them. I’m weird that way. I’m picky about which ones, but I’ve dabbled in most of them. A couple of my aunts have poked fun at me for it, especially when I went with them and my mom to see Sense and Sensibility in the theater several years ago. What can I say? I enjoy a good story, especially with a bit of romance thrown in for good measure.

My wife finds it humorous that I like romantic comedies and romances in general, while she loves the blow-‘em-up action adventure stories. I guess we make a good pair that way.

Back to the topic: By far, my favorites of her stories are those in the Lauele Universe. The characters are interesting, and I get to catch peeks of the mythology I’ve read about since I was quite young. I remember reading all the mythology books I could find on the Bookmobile that visited my small town back in the day during the summer. During the school year, I read through all of them in the school library, too.

There was something special about the the mythology from places like Hawaii, Japan, China, and other far away places. It was quite different than the classical mythology taught in schools. It was even different than the Native American mythology I’d read about. So, seeing that mythology I’d read about decades ago in stories like Lehua’s was a double treat.

Not all of these stories are in the Lauele Universe, and some are significantly different. There are stories that fall under dystopia, cosmic horror, dark fantasy, several with adaptations of Hawaiian mythology, interesting takes on fairy tales, and alternate history, and all of them have some form of humor in them. There’s a novella, a bunch of short stories, some flash fiction, a couple creative non-fiction / memoir stories (stories written to appear as fiction, but which are simply a creative retelling of an actual event), and a couple essays.

There’s even a one-act play, and it’s really fun.

The one thing all of these stories have in common is Lehua’s solid grasp of entertaining an audience. Her characters are interesting (I mentioned that before!), and their stories are told in interesting ways. There’s something here to fit just about any reader’s tastes.

So, sit back in your comfy chair, make sure the lights are on (remember: some cosmic horror and dark fantasy, not to mention the occasional shark), and enjoy these tales. I know I’ll be reading this collection again, and again, and again.

Joe Monson

Managing Editor

Hemelein Publications

Introduction: An Inland Sea

Stories bubble up from my subconscious like a sliver of carrot or taro in Sunday’s kitchen sink stew. Or maybe more like a shark fin’s shadow glimpsed from the corner of a salt-splashed eye.

No lie; I owe my current writing career to Honolulu’s horrific traffic and mascara.

Writers start as readers. Growing up, I devoured books like potato chips. During my tedious and convoluted commute from home to school and back again, I passed the time by reading anything I could get my hands on, including a lot of books considered too scary, romantic, intellectual, or avant-garde for kids. I didn’t care what the books were about—if they were available from a library, I brought them home. Every Friday, I would scour the shelves for the thickest books, books that might last me through the weekend. It’s no wonder I hoard eBooks now.

Omnivorous and voracious reading first turned into writing when I was eight and ran out of books one Saturday afternoon. I had some early publishing and award-winning successes in my teens and early twenties, but… I… stopped. Life took me in different directions. It wasn’t until 2010 after a decades-long break from writing fiction that I started publishing stories again.

It kickstarted with a dare.

Knowing I was bored and between projects, my sister Soozy challenged me to write a story for a local Halloween contest. Like what? I said.

Write about something a kid knows is true, but adults don’t, Soozy said.

I dusted off my keyboard and imagination, submitted, and won a fantastic dinner for two. Seeing a manuscript in print again, the smoke and salt of prime steak still on my tongue, I began to wonder what if. What if I hadn’t chosen to be a responsible adult with a career, mortgage, bills, and a desire to eat? What if I had written stories instead?

What if I could do both?

I started scribbling again in fits and starts, dreaming of Hawaiian beaches during snowy Utah winters. At first, I was writing simply to amuse myself and avoid housework. As the bits and pieces came together, I realized I was writing a novel, probably a series of novels. Set in imaginary Lauele, Hawai‘i, a place that looked nothing like Hollywood’s version of aloha, a place where the fantastical was right under the surface of every day, I was certain no publisher would be interested.

But like humpback whales, some stories cross oceans to give birth.

One evening back in 2011, a publisher came to a local bookstore to talk with aspiring writers. I convinced myself to go simply because I’d already put on mascara that day; why waste it just doing dishes? I stayed through the entire presentation because I was sitting in the far corner and didn’t want to climb over people to leave. But because I flicked mascara on my lashes that morning, I was in the room when the publisher announced, Pitch me your stories. The rest, as they say, is history.

Reading widely and deeply embedded story structure in my bones, but it’s my mixed-plate of life experiences seasoned with an overactive imagination that fuels my writing. As much as I read, I also did all the regular things kids do growing up in Hawai‘i. I went to the beach, bodysurfed, and got sunburned. I was on soccer, volleyball, basketball, and softball teams. I played the flute, danced hula, and spent late nights with calabash cousins watching subtitled kung fu movies and passing bags of lychee, crackseed, and kakimochi. I only sorta, kinda always had my nose in a book.

As a blond, blue-eyed Hawaiian at The Kamehameha Schools, I sometimes wondered why my outsides didn’t always match my insides. Every few years, I’d travel to Utah to spend time with my mother’s family. In Utah I looked like more of the people around me, but in many ways that only highlighted how different I was. I didn’t see or move through the world like my Utah cousins did, and I certainly didn’t talk like them, either.

For me, Hawaiian Pidgin English and standard American English are switches I flip in my brain and mouth. Pidgin is how I express deep emotion. My kids famously judge how much trouble they’re in by whether or not I scold them in Pidgin or English—and there’s a lot of truth in that. With Islanders, Pidgin immediately creates connection; through its rhythms and phrases island life-blood beats.

Fo’real.

Some of the works in this collection unapologetically contain Hawaiian and Pidgin phrases. There’s a glossary in the back for those who are unfamiliar, but I think most of the meaning is clear through context. It never occurred to me that writing Pidgin and Hawaiian phrases wasn’t allowed in American literature, no more than other authors who have written and published works expressing their own southern, urban, or mix-heritage dialects. I never felt I needed permission to use my authentic voice, but this is one of the things about my Lauele stories that shocks, delights, and surprises island kids most.

But not all of the stories I publish blossom from my Hawaiian roots. There’s a lot of Utah in my writing, too.

In many ways, this collection is a stewpot of hopes, dreams, and fears bubbled up from a rich mixed-genre broth where Hawai‘i and Utah simmer. There are stories about people you know—a broke ‘ōkole old man and his poi dog, an unscrupulous mortuary director, a desperate televangelist, and a bored insurance adjuster. There are kidnappings, monsters, sandwiches, and things that are not at all what they appear to be. Sharks swim in these waters, sharks with teeth and bite, who hunt in an inland sea.

But no worries, gangies! E komo mai! The water’s fine!

But keep an eye on the shadows in the corners. You never know.

Aloha no,

Lehua

Tourists

In the calm waters off Keikikai beach, a thin crescent moon bleeds silver into the ocean as it cruises along the horizon like a shark’s fin. Drifting beyond the reach of lights on shore, Kalei and a woman he met in the bar across the street skinny-dip in dark anonymity. The woman flicks her wrist, delighting in the little blue sparks that fly from her fingertips. 

Magic, she whispers.

Kalei’s chuckle bubbles to the surface as he circles, gliding through the water as effortlessly as a seal. Splashing, he sends ripples of electric blue in every direction. 

Not magic, he says. Bioluminescence.

What?

It’s plankton. Bioluminescence. You don’t believe in magic. 

No. But out here in the ocean with you, I might change my mind.

He grins, his teeth gleaming like stars. 

Kah-lay, she thinks, remember his name is Kah-lay. Like the strings of flowers at the airport. 

Cold? Kalei asks.

No, the water’s wonderful. It’s like silk.

Good.

I’ve never seen the ocean glow like this, she says. It’s spectacular.

It doesn’t happen very often.

 You were right. I wouldn’t want to miss this. I don’t know what that guy’s problem was. 

Don’t think about him, Kalei says. We left him back at the bar. He’s long gone.

I can’t believe he grabbed my arm. She rubs the spot.

What did he say?

You didn’t hear?

No. He pulled you away, remember?

I could barely understand him, she says. He slurred something like, ‘No go in da wah-dah.’ I think he knew we were headed across the road to the beach.

Kalei nods, bobbing in the current. That makes sense. I’ve seen him around. He’s a part-time lifeguard. Probably wants to enjoy the evening without his pager going off.

Funny, she says. I can swim and so can you.

He’s just trying to keep you safe. The ocean’s tricky at night.

You mean he wants to keep this place to himself. She shakes her head. Locals. Never want to share. Think everything belongs to them.

Sometimes, he says, rounding to her side.

Without tourists this island would fall apart in a week.

Hmmmmm, he says, trailing a lazy fingertip from the point of her shoulder down to the delicate spot on her wrist. Her pulse quickens; blood leaps to the surface. Beautiful, he thinks. I can trace the veins by her heartbeat.

Like wax on a surfboard, he eases his body behind her and rests his fingers lightly on her shoulders. Despite her words, she doesn’t swim well, and he wants her relaxed, not struggling to stay at the surface. 

First time? Kalei asks.

She flinches. What?

In the islands.

Oh. Yeah, she says, turning and pulling away. First, but not last. I’ll be back next month.

Another Hawaiian vacation? Lucky. He cocks his head. Or spoiled. Trust fund baby? 

She laughs. I wish. I’m a senior location scout for Miramax. We’re in pre-production. She lifts her chin and looks down her nose, waiting for the obligatory star-struck moment. 

Kalei says nothing.

A little miffed, she fills in the blanks herself. I can’t tell you the title or the director, so don’t even ask. It’s all hush-hush. I’ve been here a week, hiking from one mosquito hell to another.

Hiking? Whatever for?

She splashes a perfect arc of blue stars. Like you don’t know what a location scout does! When he doesn’t laugh, she hesitates. Wait. You really don’t? 

Kalei shrugs.

Miramax? The movie company? she says. "Working Girls; Kill Bill; Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark; Sex, Lies, and Videotape?"

He tilts his head to the side. She really is lovely.

She narrows her eyes at him. You’ve seen those movies, right? 

I’ve heard of them. I don’t get out to theaters much, he says.

Unbelievable. I keep forgetting this isn’t L.A. You Hawaiians spend all of your time at the beach.

Only when the urge strikes. You Angelinos have beaches, too. But as you said, you prefer movies. Easier to control the story.

She bites her lip. I’m not a writer or director, she says. It’s my job to find the right place for the story to happen. It’s not up to me to tell it. Tossing her head, she turns and regards the moon. 

Jerk, she fumes. ‘Come swim with me in the moonlight, and I’ll show you real Hawaiian magic.’ How did I fall for a line like that? It’s straight out of one of Trudy’s beach movie marathons. We’re in a scene from Gidget Goes Hawaiian or Blue Hawaii. Next he’s going to say he’s a real Soul Surfer!

Leaning forward, her bangs drip ocean into her eyes, but she remembers in time to flutter her lashes like Esther Williams until the salt washes away. No rubbing—no matter what. 

He’s got to be messing with me. Who doesn’t watch movies? She catches his eye and tries not to frown. He was better looking at the bar, she realizes. Out here in the water his smile’s too wide; his teeth are too big. 

Who cares if I have raccoon eyes? This saltwater sucks. She gives in and rubs her eyes, kicking harder to stay afloat.

She’s off the hook, Kalei thinks. Time for a new approach. He circles, considering. I hate hiking, he says.

She shrugs.

Hiking through the rainforest is hard work even if you know what you’re looking for.

She purses her lips.

I bet you found it, though, he says, capturing her hand with his. He lays her palm flat against his bare chest. To be a senior location scout so young you’d have to be really good at it.

I’m not that young, she snaps.

What? 25? 26?

 She softens. You think I’m 25?

Only because you have to be at least 25 to rent a car here. And you have all that Miramax responsibility. But you look much younger.

Now you’re flattering me. 

Truth, he says, raising a hand to the sky. You said you’ve been hiking. Tell me what you found.

It wasn’t easy.

Of course not. Anybody can do easy, he says, squeezing her fingers and stroking her wrist.

It took me a week and a hundred-dollar tip to the guy at the hotel desk, but I found it—it’s perfect. There’s no hint of civilization in sight—no telephone poles or paved roads—and the tree canopy is straight out of the Amazon.

Amazon? You were looking for Brazil on O‘ahu?

Of course! Hawaii’s great. All the modern conveniences with a third world vibe. Exotic without the hassle of diseases and currency exchange. Hawaii can be anywhere in the world. Production crews love it.

Hmmmm, he says, releasing her hand. 

As she drones, Kalei’s attention wanders. There’s nothing better than being in the ocean as the moon slips into the sea and the lights on shore wink out, he thinks. When the sky and water are the same inky black, impossible is effortless.

It’s all good, she says, laboring a little in the water. I’ve got three of my four locations under contract, she says. All but the murder scene.

His attention snaps. Murder scene?

Don’t worry, she says, It’s a revenge story with a twist, not a boring whodunit or a slasher flick. We’ll shoot most of it on sound stages in L.A.

But you don’t have the murder location. Maybe I can help.

She brushes his cheek. You’re sweet, but this afternoon I found what I was looking for. The only problem is getting the permit.

Pink malasada boxes, he says.

What? She laughs. Mala—what?

He shakes his head. Nothing. Just a saying: if you want something done, bring a box of malasadas—they’re like doughnuts, but better—to the secretary or clerk of the guy who signs the permits. Any permit.

Business 101, she says. I thought I’d greased the local wheels, but when I called to register my murder scene’s location, Marie—that’s my contact at the Honolulu film commission—Marie Wong? Wang? Something like that—Marie Whatevers, my new best happy hour friend all last week—she stiffed me over the final location permit because of a pile of rocks.

She kicks harder, rising a little in the sea.

That doesn’t make sense, Kalei says. Films bring a lot of money and tourists here.

I know, right? Who holds up a multimillion-dollar film over a heap of moldy lava that some old guy claims is sacred?

Sacred?

She feels him twitch; his movement sends a signal through the water to her brain. Something niggles for her attention, tugging her subconscious. Catholic school guilt, she thinks. Like Trudy says, I have to let go. But don’t think about Trudy now. She waves her hand, banishing that train of thought.

Who said sacred? he repeats.

Some cultural advisor claimed the area was an ancient Hawaiian hey-ow temple. She rolls her eyes. But it’s only a pile of loose rocks. It’s not like it’s Chichén Itzá or the Great Wall of China. She kneads the water faster. 

She swims like she’s churning butter, he thinks, drifting away to give himself room to breathe. No matter how tantalizingly she splashes, the confession must come first. "A heiau temple? Around here?" 

Next valley over. Maybe two. I dunno; I can’t keep anything straight. Not even the locals know which direction is north.

"Mauka and makai are easier," he says.

That doesn’t even make sense. Nothing islanders say about the land sense. That’s why I rely on GPS and survey maps.

Kalei blinks. What are you talking about?

She bristles. Get this: after Marie Whatevers tells me no, I try to explain that I’ve been all over the island. There’s no place else like this perfect spot—it’s crucial to the film. Right in the middle of my explanation, she hands the phone to the cultural advisor who just cuts me off. He demands to know where I am. I read him the GPS coordinates, and he announces that I’m trespassing. 

Trespassing? Kalei asks. He used that word?

Yes! I say the GPS and survey maps say it’s public land. Fair game. He says it’s not, and I have to leave. Now. Like I’m some child he can boss.

But he can’t, Kalei says.

Hell, no. I tell him it’s not posted no trespassing, and he says to look for a sign saying kah-pooh, k-a-p-u. I’m standing under it. Kah-pooh means no trespassing. Why don’t these people just say what they mean instead of being all wink-wink with the Hawaiian? It’s still America, damn it.

That’s rough. He cups a hand and strokes, pulling his body through the water to circle behind her.

This time she doesn’t turn with him and keeps her eyes on the last sliver of moonlight. She leans back in the water, shaking her hands and sending blue plankton twinkling from her fingertips like the Fourth of July. Superstitions. She slaps at the water. It’s all a game. When enough green shows up, the spirits change their minds. I’ve seen it a million times.

Green?

C’mon, this ain’t my first rodeo.

Senior location scout, he says.

I’ll get the permits. We’ll shoot there. I just need to figure out which native support group gets the generous donation.

That’s frustrating. 

Don’t worry; it’s built into the budget. It’s not like it’s coming out of my pocket.

Time to calm, he thinks. All this agitation leaves nothing to savor.

With one finger he lightly brushes her shoulder. When she doesn’t move away, he rests his palms; when she sighs, he begins massaging, rolling her muscles in slow circles under his thumbs. 

She closes her eyes, thinking back. At the bar in his ratty aloha shirt and swim trunks, he probably couldn’t afford to buy me a drink. That’s why he wanted to go to the beach. He wanted the fun without buying the rum. She lifts a shoulder, and he obliges by digging deeper. He’s got blue collar hands. Rough. They’re better than loofah at scratching an itch. 

Trudy won’t understand. She’ll be jealous if she finds out. Meal ticket, she’ll say; he’s hoping you’ll be his sugar mama. But the joke’s on him if he thinks I’m good for more than breakfast in the morning.

As her breathing slows, he gentles the massage. His hands rasp lightly, just enough to warm and pink her tender skin. Securing the perfect spot for your murder scene shouldn’t be this hard, he says. You’re too tense.

She shrugs. Par for the course. It’s all about money and control. Stretching her neck, she swivels her head like a hula dancer’s hips. Ummm, she says. Feels good.

It’s supposed to.

I’m glad I let you talk me into going for a midnight swim. So much better than that sorry excuse for a bar. I feel like I can be myself out here, she said.

Me, too.

That bar! What’s it called?

Hari’s

That’s it. Hari’s, with an i. Can’t believe I even walked into that place, let alone used the restroom. 

The TV’s nice.

The bar is missing an entire wall! It’s open to rain, rats, roaches; I don’t even want to think about what crawls over the tables. Who eats in a place like that? 

Locals, he says. Who else? 

Oh-oh, she thinks. I’ve offended him. Time to play nice. She reaches back to touch him, but he slides away again, curving to her side. Fighting the undertow, her hands flutter in the water like a bird with a broken wing. 

For a beat he watches her struggle, amused. 

Water is so foreign to her, he thinks. She needs to just let go. You can’t make a wave change its course. He reaches out and steadies her.

Thanks, she says, clinging to his arm.

No problem.

 She clears her throat. "I can see why some people like the open wall. It’s breezy, quaint. Definitely gives the bar an authentic Gilligan’s Island feel. Do you go to Hari’s often?" 

Not really. I don’t have many friends there.

You don’t?

He smiles. 

Braces, she thinks. He could really use some. Why didn’t I notice his snaggle teeth before?

I don’t have a lot in common with the people who live in Lauele now. I’m more of an old fashioned guy.

I knew it! She beams. You have that real, what’s it called—oh! It’s on the hotel brochure—

Brochure?

Don’t tell me; it’s on the tip of my tongue! Aloha—

Aloha? Are you going somewhere? he teases.

Ah, spirit! Aloha spirit.

I have a real aloha spirit? You can sense that? 

Yeah. It shines in your eyes. Better, she thinks, but she knows she’s fooling no one, not even herself; they’ve both read this script long ago. She cuddles closer, her body warming the ocean between them. 

My aloha spirit, Kalei says. No one’s noticed before. 

How could they if you’re always lurking in the shadows? You were sitting at a table practically hidden in the jungle. The light from the bar didn’t even touch it. If I hadn’t been coming from that horror of a restroom, I would have missed it completely. 

It’s my usual table, he says, a little off-script. When I’m in town, I sit there.

Whatever for?

Out there people leave me alone. And it has a great view of the TV.

But when I saw you, you weren’t watching the TV. She tilts her head, coy in the water, determined to get them back on track.

No, he says.

You were watching me.

Yes.

It’s my long, red hair, right? She touches it. All the island boys love it. So different from what they’re used to. 

He arches an eyebrow. There is something special about you, something that attracted me to you, but it’s not your hair.

Oh? she wavers. He’s off-script again. She has no idea where this ship is sailing.

That specialness is the reason I asked if you’d join me in a swim. It calls to me.

Reassured, she smiles. Now you’re feeding me a line. I won’t take the bait.

Kalei shakes his head. No line. It’s true. Tonight I only have eyes for you.

That’s so romantic. She unspools the love scene in her mind. Will it be From Here to Eternity or Blue Lagoon? she wonders. Damn. We don’t have a beach mat. Sand could be a problem.

I really am here just for you, he insists. 

I can tell. 

In the water? I’ve never done that, she thinks. She splashes him, sending more blue embers into the night. He doesn’t duck away, but lets them rain down on his head. Touching her cheek, he brings her eyes to his, the perfect Tom Cruise moment. 

Good, he says. I want you to remember, to believe, that tonight I’m here for you. Only you.

She swallows. "You