From the ocean, the island was a strip of white beach set against the green mountains set against the perfect blue sky. The colors pulsated in the bright sun, and Lori felt the thrill that must have passed through those European sailors who first espied Tahiti. She supposed that some of them must have thought they had found the Garden of Eden. The lush vegetation, the warm water, an almost perfect climate, she didn't doubt that some considered the island heaven on earth. Toss in the fact that the natives were gorgeous and wore next to nothing, and those randy tars would have licked their lips and swarmed the island. She could only guess their level of excitement. Months at sea and chancing upon a jungle paradise inhabited by almond skinned women with little guile. It wasn't heaven. It was better than heaven. It was a dream.
Tahiti had been her dream since she was a teenager. She had never been sure why. Perhaps the name spoke to her, perhaps the French influence. Perhaps, the carefree island persona tantalized her streak of independence. Whatever the reason, she had managed to save enough money for a vacation to the island. The hours on the plane had been small sacrifice. As she gazed at the island, she felt a renewed sense of adventure. Tahiti lured for a reason. She was certain of that. Some part of her destiny meshed with the island, some facet of her soul. That perfect blend of water, sand, jungle, and sky sang like a siren. Something waited for her, something big.
With a smile, she started the waverunner. The view was breathtaking, but the island promised more. If she wanted to learn the secret, she would have to explore. Spray hissed off the bottom of the waverunner, across her skin, cooling her. As she shot toward the beach, she wondered what special mystery awaited.
An attraction of Tahiti was the warmth. The bright sun and trade winds allowed her to wear her bikini all over the island. A wraparound skirt, some sandals, a floppy hat to ward off the sun, and sunglasses, and she could go anywhere. The weather freed her from the heavy clothes she wore in Chicago where the weather always seemed too hot or too cold. She either froze or sweltered, so the moderate weather tasted even more delicious. She was wearing a bright skirt as she turned off the main street and into a smaller way.
She held the notion that real adventure, the real Tahiti lay off the tourist paths. Let the fair-skinned people from the luxury liners ply the main drags. They would sample the tepid fare of the visitor, which was not for Lori. She wanted something different, something wild. That wildness wouldn't wave to her from a window on main street. That wildness would prowl the narrow byways, the shaded places most tourists never encountered. Real life existed amidst the natives. Real life cackled in smoky kitchens and drank in dimly lit bars. Every city, even Chicago hid its core essence. Lake Shore Drive lured in money and gawkers, but the pulse of Chicago could be felt in the taverns and neighborhood hangouts. Life began and ended far away from the bright lights.
So, she pushed up the hill, higher into the underbelly of the city, away from the resorts. As the street wound, she smiled and wondered what she might find. Several men called to her as she passed an open bar, but she paid no mind. She paid no attention. That bar was not the place. She didn't know how she knew that, but she knew. She would not find what she wanted in that bar or in the café she passed either. Not in the little shops or groceries. Not in the small houses. No, she searched for some place special.
She turned a corner and stopped.
The sign hung over a door across the street. The open palm, faded from years in sun and rain, beckoned her. The symbol was universal enough. A fortuneteller plied the trade behind the door, someone to predict the future. Lori knew that she looked at the destination of her quest. A forgotten gypsy far from the crowd seemed more than fitting. It seemed right. Adjusting her hat, she crossed the street, knocked once, and entered.
At first, she saw nothing. After the brightness of the street, the dim light revealed no details. She removed her glasses and waited, afraid to push forward. She had no idea what awaited, and she didn't want to blunder into something. So, she stood like a statue, expecting someone to greet her. No one did. As the details of the room emerged from the dark, she wondered if anyone was home.
"Hello," she called.
No one answered.
She was tempted to turn around and leave, and maybe she would have if she hadn't seen a sort of glow in the next room. A bead curtain separated the rooms, but she saw something. Back home in Chicago, she would have abandoned this shop. In Tahiti, the glow seemed more lure than a threat. She pushed ahead, somehow sure that what she sought crouched behind the bead curtain.
The beads parted with a clicking sound, announcing her. As dark as the room she had left and smaller, a small round table and two chairs were the only furniture. No windows, no doors, blank, dark walls. No glow. What had she seen? No people. A dead end. She turned to leave and heard him.
"Please sit."
She whirled, and there he was. Incredible. One moment, the room was empty, and the next, she faced a tall man whose age she could only guess. Where had he come from? No doors, no windows, had he been hiding under the table? She would have sworn that he wasn't there when she walked in, and that fact both scared and teased her. Only magicians appeared out of thin air.
"You came for a reading," he added. "Please sit."
Lori hesitated a moment before she moved forward. What did she have to lose beside a few minutes and a few dollars? This fake was like the fake in Chicago or New York or anywhere. He would spout a few cliched assurances of future love or future fame or future riches, and she would feel thrilled for a moment, until she realized that the words were merely words. He knew no more about the future than she did.
Hard wooden chair, hard table, she watched him sit. He was handsome with dark hair and eyes. She guessed him around 40, but she couldn't be sure in the dim light. Yet, there seemed a kind of energy around him, almost a heat. The notion struck her as odd until he reached out. She placed her palm in his, and she felt the heat. His skin felt warmer than normal, as if he had been wearing gloves. The feeling reassured her even as she noted the oddness. Wasn't there a saying about warm hands?
"Before I read," he began.
"Oh, I'm sorry." She reached for her handbag. "How much?"
He shook his head. "It is my curse to charge only what the seeing is worth. You decide."
"But—"
"Before I read, I must warn you. Knowledge is both powerful and dangerous. Sometimes, it is disturbing. That you may not like it renders it no less true. Should I continue?"
His solemn tone and face gave her pause—until she realized that it was part of the show, the act, sort of a don't-try-this-at-home disclaimer on at TV show.
"Of course," she answered.
With a knowing smile, he pulled her hand closer and gazed into her palm.
Then, he began to shake.
She couldn't see his face clearly, so she had no idea what upset him, but she felt his hand shake. She saw his head shake, his whole body begin to shiver, as if he had met some mammoth terror.
"Kona Sika," he said.
"What?" she asked.
"Kona Sika," he repeated. "You have returned." He looked into her eyes, and she felt as if he were trying to see into her brain. "You have returned."
