Алан Дин Фостер - To the Vanishing Point

Behind them, where the narrow strip of light marking the location of the Vanishing Point ought to have been, there was only solid rock, a stone cul-de-sac. A small waterfall tumbled over the top of the unbroken cliff to feed the rivulet that ran beneath the motor home. Frank was about to ask if it had all been a dream, there at the last, when his eyes caught the faint glint of light on gold. Burnfigers Begay’s remarkable flute protruded from his back pocket, catching the sunlight like a long golden straw. Not a dream, then.

Certainly Steven wasn’t.

"Looks like we walk," he said simply.

Burnfingers eased the burden of the long hike by tooting cheerily on his instrument, mixing Native American tunes with jazz and classics.

"You know," Frank said to his son, "the one thing I still can’t figure are those damn fish. They didn’t look particularly clever and they didn’t act especially helpful."

"Angelfish, Dad. Angelfish."

"Oh. Yeah."

He was still mulling that over when they reached the highway. It was the same highway they’d turned off a short eternity ago. It was also still deserted.

Frank turned and gazed back the way they’d come. Ferns and palms obscured the narrow canyon, making it invisible from the road. Alicia’s voice jolted him out of his memories.

"Which way should we go from here?"

All of a sudden he didn’t care. Sporting goods stores, television, gambling no longer struck him as important to the scheme of things as hummingbirds, small yellow flowers, and having his family around him.

"We were headed north when we turned off here." Burnfingers started up the pavement. "Might as well go on that way."

They hadn’t walked far when a low rumbling noise sounded behind them. For a bad moment Frank thought of telling everyone to scatter among the few trees clinging to the rock wall. His panic proved unjustified.

The big Dodge van slowed as it drew near, stopped in the far lane. The puzzled driver rolled down his window and leaned out for a better look at them. His hair was black and curly and he wore a bright red shirt imprinted with flowers.

"What you folks doin' out here? You on the wrong side of the island."

"Our motor home broke down a ways back," Frank told him truthfully.

"What motor home?"

"Back up the canyon. About a mile back down the road."

The man frowned. "No canyon here. Just rock and cliffs." Then he smiled and shrugged. "None of my business nohow. But it too damn hot to be hitchhiking. I’m on my way in to work. Why don' you folks come aboard?"

"We’d appreciate a lift," said Steven.

"I’ll take you all to the hotel. You do what you want from there. Motor home, you say?" He shook his head in disbelief. "Didn’t know there were any motor homes for hire on the island, but that not my business neither."

"We’ll be glad to pay you for the ride," Frank told him as he climbed in.

"No way, frien'. I’m always picking up folks out this way. Not too many people realize how empty the back country is. Mostly they just stay in Hilo or one of the big resorts." He eased back out onto the highway.

"Daddy," Wendy whispered to her father, "we’re in Hawaii!"

Cars began to appear, not many, but enough to be reassuring. Frank felt like a moviegoer who’d spent a year inside a film, only to finally have climbed back down off the screen to resume his seat in the real world. He leaned against the bench seat.

"Burnfingers, how about giving us a tune?"

"Sure, my friend." The Navajo extracted his flute, set it against his lips, and began playing. It was an invigorating song, alive with jaunty triumph. A thousand trumpets playing fanfare at a royal coronation could not have been more thrilling.

In a few minutes they were all singing or humming along, including the driver. Off in the distance the world’s tallest active volcano, Mauna Loa, smoked threateningly but otherwise behaved itself.

Frank found himself watching the waves that broke against the rocky shore. It was a rhythm he recognized, the rhythm of the Spinner. His heart kept time with the waters, all entwined with the breeze whipping past the speeding van, with the pattern of the volcano’s breath fashioned in the clear blue sky. All were part of one and the same thing: volcano, heartbeat, wind, and wave. One world, one reality, one song.

Probably Mouse could have put it better, could have explained what it all meant, but she was on her way elsewhere. Home, or to another demand on her special talents. A singer she’d called herself, and a singer she was, though on a scale no words existed to describe.

In spite of everything it had cost him, he found that he was glad he’d been invited to the concert.