Guest Author
March, 2003
Deborah Turrell Atkinson
author of Primitive Secrets
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Author Bio:
This month's featured book giveaway:
I moved to Hawai'i in 1978, twenty-five years ago. I'd graduated from the University of Michigan and done a brief stint in a PhD program in Biochemistry, which I didn't complete. It didn't feel like what I wanted to do professionally and I was at a time in my life where I needed to think about some changes. I came to Hawai'i because of a relationship and because Hawai'i sounded so different from where I'd always lived. At the time, I didn't think I'd stay, because I love the change of seasons and actually enjoy winter and winter sports. That relationship didn't work out, but I got a great job as a pharmaceutical representative for Eli Lilly and Company. This took me all over the islands, to remote spots well off the beaten paths. I met my husband after I'd been in Hawai'i about five years. He had the tennis lesson after mine and we were both terrible-tennis balls were everywhere. We'd practice, get hot and sweaty, then go out for a beer together. It was a great way to start a relationship. That was 16 years ago. We've got 2 boys, aged 12 1/2 and 15. After our first son was born, I found I wanted to travel less than I had been, so I "retired" from Eli Lilly. I wanted to be the one to raise our children-and I also wanted to try to write.
I've always loved to write. Even as a science major and in graduate school, I took literature classes to "relax" from the rigorous science curriculum. My lab partners liked this; I usually volunteered to write the lab reports. And after school, when I had more time, I started writing short stories (and some poetry, though I think it's pretty bad). I've always been a voracious reader, mostly of fiction, and was drawn to try and contribute-maybe give back?-to the field. Maybe, too, I was still looking for answers to some of life's big questions. Writing fiction was a way to nibble at issues, to explore how people face (or don't face) problems. The great writers have spoken of finding truth in fiction; William Faulkner spoke of fiction seeking the "verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths: love and honor, pity and pride, compassion and sacrifice." Not long ago, I heard Walter Mosley, a contemporary mystery and fiction writer whom I admire, on public radio. He said he always tries to "locate a truth" in his fiction. This concept draws me, keeps me trying to do the same.
I am an occasional freelance contributor to Island Scene Magazine, editor of 'Elele, the 'Iolani 'Ohana newsletter, a graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop, and received the University of Hawaii's Myrle Clark award for Creative writing. I'm working on a second novel using the same characters as Primitive Secrets because I like them and am still getting to know them.
Excerpt from Primitive Secrets:
Storm Kayama, a recent law school graduate and clerk in her hanai, or adoptive uncle's lucrative Honolulu law firm, walks into his office one morning to find him at his desk, stiff and cold. Though Miles Hamasaki was a robust and active man, he was in his late seventies and the community accepts that he died of natural causes. Immediately following his cremation, while the burning candles around the family's home altar give direction to his wandering spirit, Storm begins to suspect that her elderly benefactor's death was not due to old age.
Though Hamasaki fulfilled a promise to Storm's father and brought her into his own family on O'ahu when Storm's parents died, Storm remains in touch with her biological family. Her Aunt Maile, a traditional Hawaiian healer, and Uncle Sam, a paniolo on the Big Island's Parker Ranch, raised her until she reached her rebellious teen years. She still feels strong ties to them and their lifestyle.
Right after Hamasaki's shonanuka, the first of his memorial services in the Buddhist tradition, Storm is attacked in the office parking garage. At the time, she believes the mugger wants the new laptop computer that she's scrimped to buy. The next day, though, Storm's cottage is robbed of a file of Hamasaki's papers that she was finishing at home.
Simultaneously, Storm's adopted siblings distance themselves from her and reveal aspects of their lives that she's never suspected. Hamasaki's children are outraged that his will makes their big trust funds available several years hence, on their fortieth birthdays. Storm's only allies at work appear to be Ian Hamlin, the newest associate in the firm, and Lorraine Tenabe, Hamasaki's long-time secretary. A romance develops between Hamlin and Storm, which helps Storm cope with Lorraine's suspicious and brutal death, but she also discovers that Hamlin has his own secrets.
Storm goes to the Big Island for a weekend away from the pressure building on O'ahu, and to see Aunt Maile and Uncle Sam. On the winding switchbacks to their home on the slopes of Mauna Kea, she barely escapes a harrowing attack. She realizes that she is the killer's next target. She also encounters an ancient Hawaiian legend and an 'aumakua, or family totem, that has been in her family for generations.
Storm's return to the Big Island brings memories of her own childhood wounds, caused by her mother's depression and suicide. A believer in many of the old traditions, Aunt Maile gives the 'aumakua to Storm for protection. As Storm struggles to unravel the vicious tumult around Hamasaki's death, she also loosens the knot of pain caused by her own family history.
Primitive Secrets juxtaposes the bustle of Honolulu city life against the islands' legends and wild beauty. Readers will be treated to a view of Hawai'i that few visitors ever see, from the winding cane roads of Hamakua to the seedy side of Honolulu's Chinatown. They will also enjoy Storm Kayama's wit and tenacity as she uncovers the characters' secrets, both primitive and modern, in a way that will keep their palms sweating and mouths dry.
To enter a drawing for a free copy of Primitive Secrets, send an email to debbyatkinson@sinc-ic.org. The winner will be selected from emails received by April 1, 2003.
Storm has gone for a hike up the slopes of Mauna Kea with her Aunt Maile, who is a traditional Hawaiian healer, to seek herbs for one of Aunt Maile's patients. She wanted some time to think by herself, so Aunt Maile has walked a bit further up the path.
A rustle brought Storm to the present. "Aunt Maile?"
No answer. There were probably cattle grazing nearby, though she wasn't sure how far away the pasture fence was. Visibility was practically nil. She could barely make out the shape of a good-sized koa tree fifteen feet away. Its shadowy form wavered. A rustling sound came from the tree. Were the branches moving or was something behind the trunk?
Storm squinted and stood up. "Scram." Her voice sounded uncertain in the foggy stillness. She hoped it wasn't an escaped bull.
Maybe only a branch had fallen. She sat back down with a glance up the path in the direction Maile had taken, then looked back at the tree and froze. Something large moved in the deep grass. Whatever it was glided away from the tree, then clouds veiled its form.
The shape was too small for a bull, maybe more the size of a calf. Storm let a breath go.
Momentarily, the mists thinned and Storm saw the shadow again. It stood with a posture like that of a sprinter at the starting block. A creature that stood nearly upright. Or did it? She frowned and strained to see. Clouds drifted between her and the animal, but its shoulders looked higher than its rump. Its arms appeared to approach the ground, though the creature didn't use them to walk. It looked more like a human than a bull.
A hole in the fog drifted by. Through a tunnel of visibility, Storm caught a glimpse of the brown-furred animal. Its small, glittering eyes looked in her direction. She clapped a hand over her mouth with surprise and stood absolutely still.
Long, curved teeth gleamed against its dusky muzzle. It wasn't human, but it was definitely not bovine. The creature paused and swung its dark, boar-like head on muscular shoulders as if scenting the air. Lifting its long snout, it sniffed in her direction. Storm froze to her rock, unable to even lower the hand over her mouth.
The beast glided parallel to the path. It traveled several feet in the direction Aunt Maile had taken, without making a sound in the twig-strewn grass.
Fog wafted between them, obscuring the twenty or so yards between Storm and the creature. Storm drew a shaking breath. God, what is that?
The inside of her mouth was as dry as sandpaper. The back of her throat stung from the volcanic fumes, but she was too scared to even swallow, let alone move. She sat like a statue and prayed the animal's small porcine eyes couldn't see any better through the sulfurous vapors than hers could.Storm stared into the shifting haze until her vision blurred. Something rustled again near the koa tree. This time, she dropped to the other side of the boulder and curled into the smallest ball she could manage. She strained, listening, but either the fog muffled the movement of whatever was there or it had left. Was it another beast, moving toward Aunt Maile?
Aunt Maile was out there, elderly and unsuspecting. Storm unturtled her head from the collar of her shirt and peeked over the top of the rock. Fog swirled around her; the meadow was unnaturally still. No cattle lowed, no birds chirped.
Aunt Maile might come down that path at any moment. Yelling a warning wouldn't help either of them. She had to get to her aunt ahead of this thing. They would be far stronger together than alone.
Storm crouched and peered around at the swirling mists. Her eyes burned with the effort of trying to penetrate the haze and her limbs tingled from fear and immobility. She felt as if she'd sat paralyzed for an hour, but she knew it had probably been only a few minutes.
The fog was still thick, but wetter and less sulfur-laden. An occasional raindrop splatted onto the top of her head and she felt moisture gather into drops heavy enough to glide down her forehead into her eyebrows.
Storm slowly stood. An aroma of gardenias floated on the next wraith of mist. It was a welcome scent compared to the sulfur from the volcano and she raised her chin in the direction it came. Now the perfume was cloying, too sweet, like a dying lei.
The odor wrapped around her with an insistence that made her take shallow breaths. She could practically taste it. Abruptly, she recalled the repeated tales of Aunt Maile's and Uncle Keone's friends. The yarns of people around campfires, folks talking story at family lü'au. The old Hawaiians had said, "If there are no flowers around and you smell gardenias, it's a warning. Get out, go away, leave it alone. Go, go!"
Publication date: September 15, 2002
Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press
ISBN#: 1590580176
Copyright © 2002 Deborah Turrell Atkinson
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