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Reviews
Reviewed by Victor J. Banis, of author
Long Horns, Angel Land, and Deadly Dreams
Rating: Five Stars
Alan Chin's Island Song is, for want of a better
description, a love story, but it is so outside the
boundaries usually pertinent to that genre that I fear I
am starting off on the wrong foot by labeling it so. It
could also be described as a "gay novel," but I don't
think that label is any more appropriate, either. It is a
novel about love, but of many sorts and of many aspects,
and some of that love occurs between two men, but this is
truly not the thrust of the story, only one element of it.
The novel begins on an eerie metaphysical note. An ancient
Hawaiian shaman, known to everyone only as "Grandfather,"
and his grandson, Songaree, come to a small island in the
middle of the night to perform a mystical ceremony,
summoning the ancient island Gods, Kane and Pele. "Bring
forth the Speaker," the old man chants. "Bring forth the
Speaker."
The story's focus shifts to Garret Davidson. Two years
after the AIDS related death of his lover in San Francisco
, Davidson comes to Hawaii to write a book about his lost
love. He wants only to be alone in the beach shack he has
rented, to stare out at the endless ocean and heal his
wounded spirit.
He has rented the shack, however, from Grandfather, who
sends Songoree to serve as Davidson's housekeeper and
man-of-all trades. At first, a bitter Davidson resists
Song's ministrations, but the old Kahuna has his own plans
for these two and in time they become entwined in an
extraordinary relationship, a relationship increasingly
resented by Song's surfer friends. Violence follows,
vicious and sudden, like the bite of a great white shark.
Island Song is not only about the love that gradually
grows between Song and Davidson, however. There is as well
a profound love between grandfather and grandson; the love
that both of them have for their island traditions; the
love of friends. Even the all-sacrificing love of a dog
for his human partner. Most especially there is a love of
nature, and of the mystical.
Wafting through it all, like the tropical breeze rustling
the leaves of the palm trees, is the author's love for his
idyllic island setting and for the interconnectedness that
he sees lying beneath the surface of all existence: "All
things begin within the density of silence."
Alan Chin has penned an uplifting read that transports one
not only to Hawaii , but ultimately and far more
importantly to the island that lies within, the island of
the heart. What the author would have us understand is
that it is on this island where the wounded and the
unhappy—and isn't that at one time or another each of
us—will find the healing, the peace, they seek. This is
its song.
A beautiful book. The real crime here would be in not
reading it.
Reviewed by Josh Aterovis, author of Bleeding Hearts,
Reap the Whirlwind, and All Lost Things
It's been two years since the death of Garrett Davidson's
lover, but for Garrett, the pain is still just as fresh as
if it had been only yesterday. His pain is so overwhelming
he feels he won't be able to move on until he's exorcised
his lost lover from his life. He'll do that by keeping his
promise to write their story.
Garrett quits his successful job in San Francisco , packs
up, and indefinitely rents a secluded beach house in a
small Hawaiian town. The house comes with its own
caretaker, a handsome young islander named Songoree.
Songoree's grandfather is the local shaman, a revered and
feared figure in the village. He's been training Song to
take over for him, teaching him to carry on his vision of
a world living in peace instead of war. Grandfather is
convinced that Garrett is the Chosen One he has been
promised, but Song isn't so sure. Still, there's something
about the man that intrigues Songoree.
Much to his surprise, Garrett is finding himself attracted
to Songoree as well. As the two face their growing
attraction, they must also face the disapproval of the
conservative islanders, as well the expectations of Song's
grandfather.
Island Song is a beautiful novel. Technically, this book
would probably be categorized as a romance novel, but it's
really so much more. Island Song is about loss, healing,
finding love in unexpected places, leaving the world a
better place when we're gone... and the sacrifices we
sometimes have to make to achieve that.
First-time-author Alan Chin writes characters that are
richly drawn. Garrett's pain is revealed slowly through
flashbacks and dreams. He's a broken man haunted by the
love of his life, but he has to let go in order to move
on. Songoree is a sensitive, sweet soul. While he doesn't
quite fit in with his rough-and-tumble surfer buddies,
he's accepted as one of the gang as long as he sticks to
the straight and narrow.
Even the secondary characters are vivid: Grandfather,
Audrey, Mother Kamamalu, Hap. Each stands on their own as
fully realized personalities, adding depth and dimension
to an already strong story. Just as important as the human
characters is the island upon which the story is set,
Hawaii . While Chin does a fantastic job of recreating the
lush, exotic feel of the island, he goes beyond a mere
travelogue and really captures the spirit of the island.
The book is written in the present tense, an unusual
approach these days. It took me a while to get into the
rhythm, but once I did, the style really works. It creates
a sense of urgency and immediacy that serves the story
well. I was completely enchanted by this novel, and I look
forward to more from Alan Chin.
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Excerpt
A FULL MOON RISES FROM THE SEA.
Strands of silver light reach across the vast Pacific,
caressing an old man’s face as he sits in the bow of an
outrigger canoe. The old man studies the moon until it
hovers well above the horizon, a radiant beacon lighting the
way. He lifts his left arm and signals to move ahead.
Songoree, the young man in the stern, digs his paddle into
the dark water, driving the canoe through the channel and
beyond the mouth of Neue Bay. A fresh wind drifts over the
bay from the northeast. It whispers as it moves over the
canoe and falls silent as it flows back over the channel.
The only other sound is the splash of the paddle gliding in
and out of the water.
The old man signals to halt. Songoree lifts his paddle,
waits. The boat slows and begins to drift with the tide. He
watches the old one taste the air, feel the wind caress his
cheek, note which direction the boat moves. Songoree’s gaze
shifts to the water. He listens.
Up ahead, he hears the faint splash of sharks as they pursue
their prey. He sees the phosphorescent wakes the night
hunters carve through the inky water. Neue Bay is a safe
place to swim during the day, he knows, but at night the big
sharks, the really dangerous fish, swim over the reef to
hunt close to shore. These fish have no fear, but they are
feared by everything that swims.
The old man smiles. He motions in a direction slightly east
of the boat’s heading. Songoree glances over his shoulder to
check the position of the dim glow of lights far off the
stern. He digs his paddle into the water, makes the
adjustment in course.
Moonlight silvers the strong lines of Songoree’s bare chest
and lean torso. His hair shines blue, and sweeps back over
his shoulders, held in place by coconut oil and a wreath
made of fragrant maile leaves. A single-strand pink coral
necklace hangs around his neck, and a blood-red tapa cloth
hugs his body from waist to knees. The dark cloth blends
with the shadows in the boat, making it appear as thought
Songoree is an extension of the canoe, some bizarre sea
creature hunting the perimeter of the reef.
Over the wind’s murmur comes a faint sound, a pulse, which
announces they are nearing their destination. Songoree
sighs. The tedious journey has his arms and back burning. He
has kept a fast pace until now, to prove his mettle to the
old man, but he knows he can’t maintain his bold tempo much
longer. The growing sound of surf renews his hope that his
strength will last.
This mission, Songoree thinks, is impossible even for an
extraordinary man much less for mere islanders like us. But
I have no choice and neither does Grandfather. We have
stepped onto the path, and our only option now is to take
the next step, even though failure is certain.
Grandfather has the insane idea that a man with a pure
vision, a Gandhi, can change the entire human experience.
It’s true that Grandfather is remarkable. He holds knowledge
passed down from generations of island shamans, but he is
still just one old man—and perhaps a crazy old man, at that.
Songoree tries to lift his spirits, reminding himself that
the mission will soon be over, that they will perform the
ceremony and that will be the end of it. But a stubborn fear
lodges in his heart. The weight of it crushes him, making it
difficult for him to breathe. It is more than fear of
failure. Failing will prove once and for all that his years
of training with his grandfather were wasted, that the old
man is no great shaman, merely a sham.
Songoree shakes the thought from his mind, but the fear
remains locked in his heart. He grits his teeth, digs his
paddle into the water, leans on it, drives the canoe towards
their destination.
Songoree paddles another thirty minutes before the sound of
breakers boom like thunder. He knows that landing the canoe
in huge surf is hazardous even in daylight, and he has never
attempted such a feat at night. If they capsize, he will
need to pull the old man through the breakers.
He comes alert. His fatigue dissolves. Beads of sweat coat
his face while his teeth chatter. He fights to maneuver the
canoe through the swells and over the fingers of reef
clawing at the water’s surface.
Suddenly, the boat’s aft rises on a huge wall of water. Now
the canoe is almost perpendicular, and Songoree paddles a
frenzied pace as they speed toward shore. Water sprays his
face. The salty mist blinds him. He maneuvers on instinct
alone while the wave, dying around him, rushes towards the
sand. He blinks his eyes until his vision returns.
The old man sits in the bow, still as a statue.
Songoree beaches the craft just below a rocky point that
defines the northern crest of the island. As he bounds from
the boat he steals a glance at Grandfather’s face, expecting
some recognition of his skill, but the old man shows
nothing.
Hauling the outrigger onto a patch of sand, Songoree takes
the old man’s arm.
“Let me help you, Grandfather.”
Grandfather strains to a standing position. He pauses for a
moment while his body adjusts to movement again after
sitting for so long a time.
Grandfather has deep-set eyes the color of black coral, and
his face is cracked like the glaze on ancient pottery. A
feathered cape covers his thin body, its brilliant colors
dulled by the dim light. His silver hair falls to the middle
of his back. Around the old man’s neck hangs his ceremonial
necklace, a simple piece of carved jade bordered by a string
of sharks’ teeth—trophies he had ripped from the mouths of
his prey in his younger years.
Grandfather bends to grab his staff from the canoe. It
towers three feet above his head, and carved into the dark
wood are faces of the island gods: Kane, Kanalou, Ku, Lono
and Pele.
The old man’s bloodline reaches back to the first group of
Polynesian settlers who discovered this fleet of Pacific
islands. His family migrated to this largest and most
southern island before even the first of the great wars.
They settled near the Paopao River in a valley called
Waimanu, a place known for its immense spiritual power. Now
the old man has gone far beyond his eightieth year and has
outlived Kushi, his wife of forty years, his only son and
one of his two daughters. Songoree is now his sole companion
and caretaker.
Only a few islanders know the old man’s true name, and no
one but Songoree knows his spiritual name. Songoree, like
everyone else on this part of the island, simply calls him
Grandfather.
Songoree busies himself with lighting a torch, which proves
difficult in the damp breeze. Once lit, the red-yellow
flames dance on the wind. It casts a shimmering light on
Grandfather’s cape. The colorful feathers come alive. The
effect makes Songoree stare wide-eyed, mesmerized.
Grandfather lays a gentle hand on the back of Songoree’s
neck. “Focus.” His voice is firm. “No monkey-boy business
tonight. The fate of mankind hangs on what happens here. You
must stay focused or all is lost. Now fetch my helmet.”
Songoree retrieves a carved gourd from the outrigger. It is
adorned with feathers and shark’s teeth. The old man dons
the helmet and, except for the two gaping eyeholes, it
covers his head.
A sharp beak is carved between the eyeholes, and set below
that are two rows of shark’s teeth, upper and lower, making
him look like a cross between a huge bird of prey and a
menacing shark. Intricately carved lines on the mask emulate
overlapping feathers covering the sharp angles of a shark’s
facial structure. The lines are simple yet forceful,
projecting an image of wild savagery. Only Grandfather’s
long strands of silver hair and his bony legs extending
below the cape show his humanity.
Songoree steps closer to examine the mask. It suggests the
outline of a primitive human face within its structure, as
if the mask were meant to reveal the animal savagery within
human nature, or perhaps man’s temperament within nature’s
most fierce predators. Either way, he can’t quite dismiss
the feeling that the mask is a projection of his own
essence.
“Quickly.” Grandfather grabs the torch. He hurries across
the beach and on to the lava beds. They travel as swiftly as
Grandfather’s legs will move. After a considerable distance,
they stop where the barren rock fields skirt the rain
forest.
Honeycreeper finches and hooting pueho owls call from the
tropical canopy. Grandfather takes the torch, nods towards
the trees. Songoree dashes into the undergrowth. He returns
a few minutes later carrying several palm fronds under one
arm and a bundle of sticks under the other. Grandfather
holds the torch low to the ground as Songoree arranges the
palm leaves so the tips all touch at one point and fan out,
creating a sizable circle atop a smooth spot on the lava
rock. He makes two more trips to the forest to gather enough
wood for the night’s ceremonial fire.
He builds a pile of sticks in the center of the palm circle
and steps away while Grandfather buries the torch in the
pile. A flame catches hold. Grandfather passes both the
torch and his staff to Songoree before stepping into the
circle of palm fronds to kneel before the fire.
“I enter the circle of life. I bow to the light.”
Songoree drops the torch and enters the circle from the
opposite side. With the staff held high, he echoes his
grandfather’s words. He looks over his shoulder to insure
that the bundle of firewood at the edge of the circle is
within easy reach. It is his job to tend the fire throughout
the ceremony.
He watches the old man check the position of the moon, taste
the air, listen to the breeze rustling the nearby palms.
Everything is perfect, Songoree thinks. Why is he waiting?
Grandfather pulls a sharkskin pouch from beneath his
feathered cape. He opens it, grabs a handful of ground roots
and sprinkles it on the fire. Blue sparks erupt from the
flames while pungent smoke rushes on the wind toward the
trees.
“Let the herbs of this sacred land call the island gods,”
Grandfather says. He draws several offerings from the pouch
and lays them beside the fire—a flask of rice wine, polished
seashells, sweet candies, a handful of rice, a folded leaf
holding a purplish mound of poi.
“Great Kane, god of all that is, and Pele, fiery goddess who
shapes these sacred islands, accept these gifts.”
The firelight glows on Grandfather’s helmet. It shows
the mask’s intricate carving and makes the old man’s eyes
gleam red behind the two black eyeholes.
Grandfather begins to slap the smooth lava beside him with
his right hand, thumping the hard rock with a particular
rhythm. He nods at Songoree. Songoree lifts the staff and
brings it down on the rock, again and again, copying the
same rhythm Grandfather makes with his hand. Once the proper
beat is established, Grandfather stops, but Songoree
continues to pound out the cadence. This thumping, he knows,
is Grandfather’s notion of how to attract the island
spirits.
After twenty minutes, Grandfather signals him to stop then
tilts his head towards the rain forest, straining to listen
with every fiber of his being.
Songoree studies the old man’s degree of concentration with
awe. Grandfather signals for him to continue, and he takes
up the thumping once again. The vibration of the staff makes
a weird moaning noise when it strikes the ground. With every
beat, he feels a vibration run up his arm and dissipate into
his chest.
After an hour, Grandfather whispers across the fire, “Don’t
turn around. Power spirits have come. They’re behind you at
the edge of the forest.”
Songoree doesn’t believe it, but he hears the eerie screech
of a bird directly behind him. A shiver runs up his spine.
It takes all his will power not to turn and look. He keeps
his eyes focused on Grandfather.
“This is it,” Grandfather whispers. “Keep thumping. Be ready
for anything.”
Grandfather lifts his arms over his helmet and begins to
chant in an ancient dialect. His words come slow, relaxed,
as if he’s singing a love song. His baritone voice is
vibrant for one so old.
Songoree feels the mystical pull of the words. He
understands most but not all of the phrases. He still has
much to learn of the old language and ceremonies. He
understands enough to follow along as Grandfather recounts
the history of the island people, countless generations
migrating from the heart of Asia across the Pacific to these
islands.
The chanting continues for hours. As Grandfather sings, his
long, delicate fingers weave through the air, as if they
exquisitely form the words out of wind and mist. Songoree,
mesmerized by their movement, finally looks at his own hand
holding the staff. His are the hands of a
twenty-year-old—strong, yet awkward by comparison. He
wonders if he will ever command such grace.
The thought makes him realize that he is real, not merely
consciousness witnessing the ceremony from the mist. He
shakes his head to drive the thoughts away. He reminds
himself to focus. I can’t disappoint Grandfather, he thinks,
not tonight. This means too much to him.
Time bleeds by. The pile of firewood dwindles. Out over the
eastern horizon, the stars fade before the growing light. As
Grandfather chants, he pulls a bone-handled knife from
beneath his cape and holds both hands over the fire—one held
high, the other gripping the knife. The blade flashes in the
firelight as Grandfather slides the razor edge across his
left palm. Blood streams into the flames.
Songoree hears a noise close behind him. It sounds like
heavy claws scraping on rock. Whatever crouches behind him
is drawn by the smell of blood. Fear overtakes him. He
begins to beat the ground in a furious tempo. Grandfather
signals him to slow down, but he feels an icy breath on the
back of his neck. He drops the staff, and it clatters on the
lava stone.
Grandfather waves his bloody hand and hisses, “Pull yourself
together.”
Songoree can’t help but turn his head to see what’s
breathing on his neck. As he does, an immense shadow lunges
over his left shoulder. It lands thirty feet away on a
boulder. Songoree’s body takes a tremendous jolt. He falls
onto his back, shrieking.
Frantically, Grandfather signals him to continue the
thumping, but he can only stare in astonishment at the
shadow. He is not altogether sure whether the shadow has
leapt over him from behind or vaulted out of his body. His
body certainly felt something leap.
He stares intently with eyes wide open and sees a blackness
that doesn’t have any visible boundaries; but slowly, a
silhouette crouching on the rock begins to emerge from the
mass that is superimposed on the night sky. It seems to be
taking the form of a big cat—huge, awesomely silent. The
density of the shadow’s darkness pales the night sky around
it.
Grandfather slaps the ground with his hand again, pounding
out the same rhythm as before. Songoree manages to fight
through his fear. He scrambles back to a sitting position,
picks up the staff and resumes thumping the cadence.
Grandfather begins to chant once again. As his voice rises
in volume, Songoree joins in.
“The immensity is Kane,
root, rock, sand, and light,
is he.
Kane is within.
He took hold of the
Manaiakalani Hook
and raised the blessed
Islands of Hawaii
from the ocean floor. He
scattered
stars across the night sky,
and
holds the sun by day.
Kane is never still, all is
moving.
Kane compels the people,
people press the earth.
All is fluid, ever changing.
We are the witnesses.
It is the time of the
Speaker.
It is the time of the
Speaker.
Complete are the foundations.
Complete are land, water, and
heavens.
Complete are bird, fish, and
beast.
Now comes the time of man.
Bring forth the Speaker.
Bring forth the Speaker.”
Their voices hush. The wind dies to a whisper. The dense
shadow dissipates, leaving no trace. Songoree wonders
whether he actually saw anything there at all, or did fear
create something from his imagination? He glares across the
fire at Grandfather, silently pleading for help to
understand what has happened. All he can see are eyes within
the mask’s gaping holes reflecting the red-yellow firelight.
Everything is perfectly still, as if the entire universe is
holding its breath. A bird calls from the nearby trees. In
the distance, the sound of the surf rises in a steady pulse,
like the slow beating of a heart.
They wait.
A breath of wind flutters the nearby palms. Songoree feels
the growing breeze on his skin. Now the wind travels in a
different direction, from the rain forest out over the sea.
He smells the sweet odor of jungle frangipani mixed with the
slight stench of rotting vegetation.
Grandfather struggles to stand. Songoree hurries across the
circle to help him to his feet. He hands the staff back to
Grandfather. He pulls the red tapa cloth from his waist,
rips away a long strip and wraps it around the old man’s
bleeding hand. Naked and exhausted, he loops one arm around
his grandfather, supporting the old man’s weight. They turn
back toward the beach.
“Fool! You almost killed us both. Never show fear in front
of power.”
“Sorry, Grandfather. Will he come?”
Grandfather removes his helmet. “We have performed the
ceremony. It is done.”
“But will it work? Will he come?”
Grandfather struggles to walk. “Your mind has too much
future, not enough faith.”
They stagger back to the canoe as the red dawn paints their
beloved island with sanguine light.
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