Page 10 of No Time Off (Lexi Carmichael Mystery #15)

TEN

Lexi

I t was late afternoon when the hotel arranged a car to pick us up in front of the resort to take us on our tour and special ?aha?aina at the Polynesian village.

We were fully dressed for the occasion. Slash wore black slacks and a light-blue Hawaiian shirt decorated with dark-blue palm trees. He looked more like an Italian model, with his hair slicked back behind his ears and dark sunglasses, than an American tourist, but we are who we are. I wore a dark-blue Hawaiian wrap dress with white flowers that went down to just above my ankles, a gauzy white shawl, sandals, and a white flower in my hair that Slash helped me pin behind my ear. I added dark sunglasses, as well.

Somehow, we complemented each other, with both of us embracing the Hawaiian theme. That, of course, meant none of the fashion choices were mine. Basia had literally designed my entire honeymoon wardrobe, roping in Slash for a consult when it required him to wear a complementary outfit, which, apparently, tonight it did. The whole fashion thing added more than I expected to the overall ambience and expectations for a wonderful and romantic evening.

Slash asked the driver to take a picture of us since we were all dressed up and had a lovely backdrop with flowering bushes underneath a large ficus tree with low-hanging branches. He agreed, and after a few snaps we climbed into the car, ready for our first out-of-the-room honeymoon activity.

Our car wound lazily along roads flanked by dense foliage, eucalyptus trees, and a variety of palms swaying in the breeze. The car windows were open, so we enjoyed the warmth and fragrance of the tropical air. It carried the intoxicating scent of flowers—including what I now recognized as plumeria—the ocean’s salty tang, and a hint of the rich, musky volcanic soil.

The sun had just begun its descent by the time we arrived at the Polynesian village. Slash checked us in, and we were immediately given lovely blue-and-white leis that matched our outfits (they had an assortment of colored leis to choose from) and introduced us to our personal guide, Kai.

Kai was a young guy, maybe twenty or twenty-one, who was shirtless and wore a bold black-and-white-patterned sarong. He had several fascinating tattoos on his extremely buff torso, including one that look like a decorated mask, surrounded by an intricate pattern of swirls and lines.

He caught me staring and smiled broadly, flashing the whitest teeth I’d ever seen. “Aloha, e komo mai . That means hello and welcome. I see you’re interested in my tattoo.”

My cheeks heated. “I couldn’t help but be fascinated. It’s beautiful.”

“ Mahalo. ” He bowed his head slightly. “It was done by kākau , the ancient Hawaiian art of tattooing. This tattoo is a generational representation of me, my family, and my ancestors, a visual reminder of my responsibility to my family, community, and heritage. We don’t use needles to piece the skin—instead we use bone, usually from the Hawaiian albatross, because it is so hard. The designs are native and ancestral. I do not choose my design. Instead, the master tattooist chooses a unique design for me based on my personality and my genealogy. It is genuinely a part of me.”

“That’s really cool.” I glanced down at my wrist, where I had a semi-tattoo of my own. A ring, my engagement ring, had been burned into my wrist as part of our native marriage ceremony in Brazil. Slash had the same mark on his wrist. He caught my glance and turned his arm slightly toward mine, indicating he was thinking the same thing. Like Kai, our tattoos were a part of the history of us.

Again, Kai gifted us with his wide smile. “We’re happy to have you visit our village and learn about our heritage. Is this your first time here?”

“Yes, it is.” We both nodded.

“How do you like Hawaii so far?”

“It’s stunning,” Slash said. “In many ways, but especially in terms of landscape, flora, and geological features. We’re only here for a short visit this time, but I assure you, it didn’t take us long to decide we intend to return for a much longer stay.”

“I’m happy to hear that. I do hope you enjoy yourselves this evening.”

“We already are,” Slash said, meeting my eyes before taking my hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.

The village bustled with activity, a nice blend of the past and present. Polynesian villagers, clad in vibrant attire, moved among us, their smiles warm and welcoming. We strolled hand in hand through the village as Kai pointed out the historical and cultural aspects of life for native Hawaiians. Ancient Polynesian villages were typically centered around a wooden thatched gathering house and a stone temple, while smaller huts were built on platforms with a framework of wooden poles lashed together with a coarse twine. They thatched the roofs with pandanus, sugarcane leaves, and swatches of pili grass.

“When were the Hawaiian Islands originally settled?” I asked Kai.

“Our traditions and archaeologists place the arrival of the first Polynesians around 900 AD,” Kai answered. “The Polynesian people arrived as far west as Fiji, Samoa, and Tonga over a thousand years before that, but oddly, eastern expansion stopped for almost a millennium.”

“So, Hawaii was settled from the south?” Slash asked. “I’ve always assumed it was from the west.”

“That’s a common misconception largely due to a misunderstanding of the prevailing winds in the Pacific,” Kai said. “Unlike North America, where the prevailing winds move west to east, in the central Pacific, the winds move east to west. The prevailing wind in Hawaii is from the northeast to the southwest. Thus, the original Polynesian explorers were sailing into the wind searching for land.”

“Into the wind?” I shuddered. “On primitive boats with no life vests or Dramamine? That’s crazy. It scares me just thinking about it.”

“Our ancestors were certainly brave and amazing people,” Kai said proudly. “To think they were able to return to their islands and bring back their families to settle is an amazing feat.”

“It is, indeed,” Slash said.

Kai seemed genuinely delighted we were so interested in learning about his heritage and culture. “Here’s another interesting fact about my Polynesians ancestors,” he said as we walked along. “See if you can answer this question. What was the last landmass in the world to be inhabited by people, apart from Antarctica and the Arctic?”

“Easter Island?” Slash guessed.

Kai shook his head and glanced at me. “Want to give it a try?”

“How about the Pitcairn Islands?”

Slash looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “The…what?”

I laughed. “I may have done some research on our trip, too. The Pitcairn Islands are a group of four islands in the Pacific Ocean, not too far from Easter Island, actually. They’re also believed to be settled by the ancient Polynesians.”

Kai clapped his hands in delight. “What excellent guesses, you two. But you’re both wrong. You may be quite surprised by the answer. It’s New Zealand. New Zealand was settled about a hundred years after Easter Island, around 1200 AD, by Polynesians who eventually became the Māori.”

“Wow, that is a fascinating fact,” I said, and Slash nodded in agreement.

Kai continued his history lesson as we toured the village. We stopped at a fenced area where they kept the village animals. Inside, a couple of goats, two donkeys, and some sheep looked bored with the tourists hanging over the fence snapping photos of them. Adjacent to the animal pen was the pigpen, presumably the source of the main course for the luau. I was confident that the smell hanging over the pigpen kept anyone from lingering too long near their wallow.

“Pigs are not native to Hawaii,” Kai explained as we approached the pigpen. “They were introduced by European settlers in the late 1700s. Yet they’ve thrived on our islands.”

I leaned over and took a closer look at the pigpen. There were two large sows trailed by tiny cohorts of piglets. The half dozen male pigs were smaller than the sows. I suspect they were the optimum luau size, big enough to feed about a crowd of seventy. Their pink snouts twitched as they rooted in the dirt and mud. One of them, with beady eyes and a white splotch on his forehead, was watching me with an intensity akin to a lion stalking an antelope. The pig started slowly advancing toward me, and I involuntarily stepped back, bumping into a goat that was reaching over the adjacent fence to nibble on my sleeve. Both of us bleated simultaneously, and I would have fallen if Slash hadn’t caught me. When I recovered, the pig was at the fence pawing the ground as if he was trying to get to me.

“Looks like you have a new friend, or maybe I should say friends,” Kai said, chuckling, as the pig madly pawed at the ground, trying to get near me and the goat stuck its head back over the fence, trying to eat my hair.

Slash grinned. “What is it with you and animals?” I could tell he was trying not to laugh, but he was wise enough not to give in to temptation.

I rolled my eyes as the pig snuffled in frustration and banged his head on the fence. I wagged a warning finger at him. “Thanks, bud, but I don’t need any more friends.”

We thankfully left the animal area and Kai showed us the rest of the village and a couple of demonstrations, including a villager with a machete practically running up a tall palm tree to lop off a coconut. At some point, the villagers brought us tropical drinks, which I drank out of the coconut using a straw. Sunset deepened and the sky turned into a canvas of vibrant colors—shades of pink, orange, and yellow. The warmth of the day still lingered in the air.

As the evening shadows lengthened, a festive atmosphere came over the village. Drums began to beat, calling everyone to gather for what Kai told us would be the royal court procession. We were seated with the other tourists at a long wooden table with a stage to the right of us. The procession, a living tableau of ancient traditions, danced in from the left. I snapped several photos with my phone as men and women adorned in feathered cloaks and gleaming ornaments swayed, their movements perfectly synchronized to the rhythm of the chanting and drumming. Two of the men carried flaming, whirling torches. It was both fascinating and mesmerizing.

Once the procession concluded, the villagers ceremoniously unearthed the cooked pig from the imu , an underground oven covered with sand where they’d roasted the pig for the evening’s feast. Its succulent aroma elicited murmurs of anticipation from the crowd, me included. Plates of traditional food soon followed, laden with lomilomi salmon, poi, and sweet coconut pudding. We ate slowly, sampling the fare and savoring each bite on our tongues while watching an amazing show of hula and flame juggling.

At some point, I excused myself to use the restroom. One of the villagers pointed me toward a thatched building adjacent to the animal pens. Logically, the location made sense since all the so-called aromatic areas would be in the same location.

I was almost to the bathroom when a sudden commotion erupted behind me near the pigpen. I turned and saw a young boy straining to hold a pig on a leash. It appeared that he was trying to lead the pig from the enclosure, but the swine had other ideas. The pig dragged him unwillingly along as he tried to hang on. With horror I realized they were headed right at me. I had just enough time to recognize the pig had a white patch on its head before I turned to run.

Gah!

I dashed toward the bathroom hut but adjusted my route when I realized the hut had no main door. Instead, I looped around the hut with the pig and his handler hot on my tail. The boy shouted, but apparently it wasn’t having any effect. I considered myself lucky the kid still had something of a grip on the pig, as that slowed them down just enough for me to stay ahead of them.

It may not have been my finest moment, but I shrieked bloody murder as I dashed back toward the tables. I ran as fast as I could on a full stomach, as I’d just eaten an enormous meal that had likely included one of his former pen mates. I’d also consumed at least two coconut-hosted drinks filled with alcohol and had to pee badly. Still, I impressed myself with my ability to run like an Olympic wannabe while screeching like a maniac.

As I approached the tables, tourists leapt from their seats in terror and began to shout and run about, unsure what was happening. I tried to find Slash, but everyone was dressed in Hawaiian outfits, and in the dim light, with people running around, I couldn’t see him.

“Slash!” I shouted, but he didn’t respond in the chaos.

The fire jugglers on the stage caught my eye. I raced past the tables where people were either abandoning their seats or standing on them. I remembered reading somewhere that pigs are afraid of fire, so that was my destination. It wasn’t the soundest strategy I’d ever had, but it was the best I could come up with under immediate distress. I swerved toward the guys with the flaming torches and hurled myself onto the stage.

In retrospect, it would have been an excellent plan if I hadn’t inadvertently kicked one of the jugglers, causing him to drop one of his torches into the pile of grass skirts in the corner they kept for later in the show. The skirts went up in a magnificent swoosh of fire, keeping the pig, and everyone else, away from the stage.

I bolted across the stage, glancing to my left. Kai and another guy were attempting to corral the wayward porker. Somehow, the pig had lost the boy, although he was still trailing the leash around his neck.

The swine deftly continued to elude capture, sliding through the hands of everyone who tried to grab it. The phrase slippery as a pig gained absolute clarity for me in that moment.

Sensing his moments of freedom might be fleeting, the boar zigzagged through the area, squealing and grunting, causing a ruckus at every turn. He barreled beneath a table, knocking over benches, chairs, and several tiki torches planted in the sand.

I found a temporary haven at the side of the stage opposite the fire, where I stood panting. A middle-aged man with a beard who wore a red Hawaiian shirt too tight around the middle and a funky straw hat stood next to me, sweating profusely while filming with a fancy camera.

“Have you ever seen anything like this?” He spoke with such enthusiasm and excitement I wanted to deck him. “Here we are, in Hawaii at a luau, being treated to the Great Pig Chase. Hee-haw!”

He laughed, snorting so loudly it caught the attention of the pig. The angry mammal glanced over at him, but immediately locked eyes with me, again.

Oh, crap.

The man in the Hawaiian shirt suddenly stopped laughing as the pig made deep, guttural sounds from his belly. I realized at that moment pigs do not make a benign oinking noise. Nope, this pig was not oinking. He was grunting something far more threatening…at me.

The pig lowered his head, a fierce glare in his eyes. Before I could even process what was happening, he churned madly on his piggy hooves and came straight at me. The man in the red Hawaiian shirt dropped his camera and screamed so loudly, it temporarily deafened me.

OMG!

The pig was coming for me.