He stood back from the wall, hand on his chin as he studied the mark. It had taken some time, but it looked almost as fresh and clean as it had the day that his Uncle Alf had first carved it into the brick and laid in the salt-infused paint. Patrick could hear his great-uncle’s voice echoing in his thoughts, reciting the end of the tale, again and again.
“Once home, Pahne’i was able to disgorge the fire he carried in his belly into the pits of his mother’s village, and taught the people of Kovoko-ko-Te’Maroa the art of cooking, so that never again were they forced to eat their meat bloody and cold. And he taught them the secrets of how to defeat the shadows, so that they would never need fear the nights again.”
Patrick set the can of paint on the ground and began cleaning the last of the white paint off the brush’s bristles with a Kleenex as he turned to face the kids.
“And this is what Pahne’i taught them,” he said, nodding toward the spiraling mark, “the secret of how to defeat the shadows. These are traditional Te’Maroan symbols, and my great-uncle carved them here a long, long time before you were born, as part of a ritual that was believed to protect the people who lived inside the house from danger. The fact that they’re somewhat obscured, kept in safe places, is kind of the point. But when they get completely covered over by vines and moss and dirt, then they are lost, and forgotten.”
Patrick looked from one face to another, gauging their reactions.
“This is who we are,” he went on, pointing at the spiraling mark again for emphasis. “It doesn’t matter whether you believe that the old stories are true or not. They still belong to us, they still help define us. They were a really important part of island life, and it was something that the islanders who came here to Recondito felt like it was important to preserve. Just like the Pahne’i stories I’ve told you, and konare and stick fighting, and the songs that the old folks used to sing. If we don’t look after these things, and keep them alive, then they’ll be lost and forgotten, just like these marks have been, and the people that come after us will never know that they were ever here.”
“So what do you want us to do about it?” Tommy Hulana asked.
Patrick reached down, picked up the paint can and brush, and then held them out at arm’s length toward the kids. “What you just saw me do. There are marks like this all over the neighborhood, and I need you to find them and take care of them, just like I did with this one.”
“And that’s it?” Nicky Tekiera. “Just clear out the dirt and crap and put paint in the grooves?”
“That’s it. Now, there are marks like this on buildings all over this corner of the Oceanview, but you’ll have to go looking for them. They’re usually on the backs of houses, or on the pavement near front doors, that kind of thing. Don’t bother looking anywhere east of Delaney or north past Crouchfield, though. Stick to the southwest part of the neighborhood.”
From the expressions on their faces, it appeared that most of the kids were mostly swayed by the argument, or at least convinced enough that they didn’t feel the need to debate the point. But even if they were onboard with the idea that it was important to keep up the old traditions, would they be willing to put in the work to do so themselves?
“All right, then,” Patrick said, bending down and picking up the handful of brushes that were sitting beside the paint can. He straightened up, and held the brushes out to the kids on the open palm of his hand. “Can I count on you?”
A few of the boys exchanged dubious looks, and Patrick saw that he might have to sweeten the deal.
“And when you’ve finished cleaning them all, I’ll throw a pizza party for the whole group,” he added.
That brought them around. Nothing like the offer of free pizza to motivate a group of middle-school kids.
“Okay,” Patrick said with a slight smile. “Let’s get to work.”
The Kienga twins took charge of the paint can, and the other kids all took a brush each.
“Now, some of them might be too tall for you to reach from the ground,” Patrick said, dusting his hands off. “So you might want to get a broom from home, or maybe a stepladder. Or maybe you could see if one of your older siblings could pitch in.”
He nodded toward Regina Jimenez, who was at the rear of the group with her sketchbook clutched to her chest.
“Regina, your brother’s pretty tall, right? If he helped out, maybe I can arrange for it to count toward his community service.”
The girl looked up from under her eyebrows at Patrick, a stricken expression on her face, and tightened her grip on the sketchbook.
“Oh,” Patrick said softly. Had he hit a nerve, mentioning Regina’s brother? Still in high school, Hector Jimenez had been charged with a misdemeanor back in the spring, underage possession and consumption of alcohol, and had lost his driver’s license and been sentenced to thirty hours of volunteer work. He’d come around the school a few times on weekends, helping out with various clean up jobs or minor repairs, and seemed to have gotten his act together.
“Okay, everybody,” he went on, turning his attention back to the rest of the group and raising his voice. “Get out there and get to work. The sooner those marks are all cleaned off and cleaned up, the better.”
As the other kids drifted
