Giants and Ogres Read Free

back to the car, the chant sounded again, though my aunt claimed she couldn’t hear it. I knew this time it was coming from the stolen rocks and sand. I ached to return everything in the back seat of the Prius—Pele’s precious property.
    We reached the observation tower at the Hale-ma’uma’u crater at dusk, just as Aunt Genevieve had planned. The view took my breath away as the sky cast a golden hue over the caldera. A massive stream ofwhite gas vented from the crater as if it was taking part in an ancient dance. The earth throbbed with energy and life.
    â€œMadame Pele’s home,” Aunt Genevieve said as if she felt the force as well.
    We watched as the sun dipped below the horizon and darkness overcame the heavens. The gas vent was no longer visible—the crater now flamed red from the lava lake churning below. As I stared in wonderment, the shape of a woman appeared in the red glow, this time considerably larger than the image in the lava tube. Her facial features were more distinct and fiery hibiscus flowers crowned her head, much like the tattooed flowers on my aunt’s chest.
    My aunt gasped, and I knew she saw Madame Pele too. “We’ve witnessed what very few have.” She whispered another prayer, and I bowed my head this time.
    I wasn’t sure what to do say or do. I called on her name. “Pele.” The top of my foot burned for a mere instant. My nerves registered the pain, and then I felt a calmness I’ve never known before.
    I sat on the rock wall and offered up a prayer of my own, for doubting, for judging, to know more. The words tumbled out from my soul.
    â€œI’m impressed you studied so much Hawaiian before your trip,” Aunt Genevieve said.
    â€œI didn’t.”
    What in the world just happened? Had I actually spoken Hawaiian?
    I traced my fingers against the rock wall, trying to understand. I still wasn’t sure what all had happened, but I was determined to find out over the next couple of weeks and to understand my connection to the island, to the volcano, and Pele.
    When I checked my foot when we got back in the Prius, the spot was singed a grayish black in the shape of a small lava rock. The mark felt painless and flat. Nor did it rub off when I tried.
    â€œPele has not only called to you, she’s left her mark.”
    Dumbfounded. There’s another cliché, but no other word describes how I felt in that moment. Did this make me a
kahuna
of sorts? I wanted the answer to be yes.
    The mark is still there, even after a couple of trips to the beach. Aunt Genevieve thinks it might be permanent. Mom is going to freak out if it is still there when I get back to Texas. The reality is I’m still freaking out about my tattoo and the entire experience.
    At least my other promise to Mom will be true—I will return to the mainland and finish high school in San Antonio, and then who knows? Madame Pele’s calling continues to grow stronger, and I haven’t even left the island yet.
    Jessica Lee Anderson is the author of
Uncertain Summer, Calli, Border Crossing,
and
Trudy
as well as a dozen chapter books and several young readers. Jessica lived in Hawaii for several years as a young girl, but she calls Texas home now, and she lives outside of the Austin area with her husband, daughter, and two crazy dogs. For more information, visit www.jessicaleeanderson.com .

A Requiem for the Fallen
Lisa Timpf

    My name, Akemi, was the only thing my mother lived long enough to give me. My father left before I was born. And so I grew up on the streets, and I knew hunger. I’m not talking about the kind of hunger you feel in the morning when it’s time for breakfast. This hunger was a constant, gnawing ache. It was the kind of hunger that takes over your whole mind, so you become obsessed by it. It was the kind of hunger that drives you to eat things other people would curl up their nose in disgust just smelling.
    It was the