holmes_minor | "Mahiole" (Polynesian AU, 500 words), Holmes Minor Monthly Prompts

Title: Mahiole
Author: gardnerhill
Form/Wordcount: 500
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Rating: G
Warning: None
Summary: No beryls in the South Seas.
Author's Notes: For the November 2017 Holmes Minor Monthly Prompt, “The Way They Were & The Way They Weren't” (their pasts, and/or AUs), and the December 2017 Prompt, “Pick a precious stone or metal and an animal as well, and then include them in your story.” This is a vignette in my Polynesian AU Wakakana Koa a Holamaka Kahuna .

Holamaka let the albatross fly away after it had spoken its message to the shaman. “Wakakana Koa, we are needed!”

“Another demon hunt?” I looked ruefully at the fish I’d just caught for our breakfast. Raw again.

“No. A missing chieftain’s mahiole helmet, this one set not only with feathers but with three pearls. The chief of Nomana is grief-stricken at this loss.”

“No demons. Only a thief. That is a pleasant change.” I tossed the mackerel into our canoe and hefted my war-club with my one good hand (my other arm limp and useless as seaweed). “When do we start, Holamaka Kahuna?”

For answer, my chief took our boat’s prow; I helped him pull it toward the surf and we clambered aboard. At the shaman’s cry, Nana and Maopopo appeared – the two long-bodied sharks that pushed our canoe with their snouts, their tails whipping the water. What would have taken ten men three days’ rowing and sailing landed us on the shore of Nomana the next morning.

We two were greeted by Chief Alekana Hola; my friend immediately began by questioning her husbands and three eldest children, all of whom angrily squabbled among themselves over who was responsible for taking Alekana’s emblem of chieftainship.

I walked among the sad villagers, asking about their fishing and crops. “How can we tend the banana trees when our chief is bare-headed and her household at war?” one old woman said. Others confirmed that they’d been too grief-stricken to tend their farms.

Thinking about war tactics and distractions, I made my way to the banana grove, covered myself with creepers and leaves to disguise myself, and waited.

And there appeared the culprit, small and laughing at the mischief he had caused, greedily scampering up a tree undisturbed to reach for his favorite food. One little tap of my club sent him howling to the ground; I seized him despite his kicking and yelling.

Chief Alekana Hola and her household, the village, and Holamaka, stared in amazement when I walked into the village center holding the thrashing knee-high man. “Not a demon,” I said. “A menehune. I found him among the banana trees, where no one in this village has worked since the mahiole disappeared.”

Better than having two good arms was that proud look on Holamaka Kahuna’s face. Then he became stern. “Where did you hide the chief’s helm?” he asked the little man writhing in my grip.

When the villagers promised to set aside some bananas every day for the little forest people so they would not have to steal them, the menehune was happy to lead us to the tall tree in whose branches he had hidden the pearl-adorned mahiole of Alekana Hola before fleeing back into the jungle.

The chief ordered a feast that night in our honor; we sat beside her, proudly wearing her beautiful helmet once more. “No wonder the menehune wished these!” Holamaka laughed; I laughed too, for the roasted bananas were the sweetest we’d ever eaten.