The Red-Haired Prince’s Locket

The island of Motu Nui was a green jewel in a sapphire sea, its volcanic peaks cloaked in mist and its shores lined with black sand. In the 1970s, it was home to a small but thriving community, and the only hotel was the Nautilus, a sprawling colonial-era structure with a veranda that looked out over the lagoon. There, in the summer of ’73, worked a young woman named Sinalei. She was the eldest of her siblings, with skin like polished kauri wood and hair that fell in dark waves to her waist. Her smile was known to calm the most restless of guests, and her laughter was a melody that drifted through the corridors. Everyone adored her—colleagues, managers, and visitors alike. But there was one admirer who was not of this world, and his attention was not benign.

Sinalei first noticed the locket on a humid Tuesday. It was lying on the reception desk, nestled between the ledger and a vase of frangipani. The locket was tarnished silver, oval-shaped, with an intricate etching of a stylized sun. She had never seen it before. She asked her coworkers, but none claimed it. Curious, she opened it: inside was a miniature portrait of a young man with startling red hair, fair skin, and eyes the color of the sea after a storm. He was beautiful, ethereal, and vaguely unsettling. She closed it quickly, deciding to put it in the lost and found. But at the end of her shift, the locket was gone.

The next morning, Sinalei found it again, this time on her pillow. Her heart skipped. She lived in a small staff cottage behind the hotel, and the door had been locked. She told herself it was a prank, but a cold dread settled in her stomach. She threw it into the sea that afternoon, watching it sink into the blue depths. That night, she dreamed of the red-haired man. He stood at the foot of her bed, his mouth moving soundlessly, his eyes pleading. She woke with a start, the sheets drenched in sweat. The locket was on her nightstand, dripping with seawater.

Sinalei began to feel watched. Shadows lingered in the corners of her vision, and the scent of salt and something metallic clung to her. Her coworkers commented on her pallor; she had always been vibrant, but now she seemed drawn, hollow. She confided in her friend, Mele, who was the hotel’s housekeeper. Mele, an older woman with deep-set eyes and a knowledge of island lore, grew grave. She spoke of the ‘vā,’ the sacred space between people, and of spirits that could cross over if invited. Mele examined the locket and paled. ‘This is a tānihā,’ she whispered, ‘a spirit of the old chiefs. Red hair was a sign of divine favor, but this one… he was not just beautiful. He was vain, prideful. He was cursed to never find peace, to seek the life force of the living to sustain his own semblance.’ Mele warned Sinalei to burn the locket, but Sinalei was too afraid to touch it again. She locked it in a drawer, but its presence seemed to seep through the wood.

Weeks passed, and Sinalei’s youth began to ebb. It was as if the color was draining from her. Her hair lost its luster, turning brittle; her skin, once radiant, became sallow; and the light in her eyes dimmed. She grew weak, unable to climb the hotel’s grand staircase without pausing for breath. The doctors on the island could find nothing wrong. Meanwhile, the locket appeared in new places each day—her apron pocket, her lunch pail, even her shoe. She felt a constant pressure on her shoulders, as if an invisible hand was guiding her. Her fiancé, a gentle fisherman named Ioane, was distraught. He sought help from a taulasea, a traditional healer, who performed rituals to cleanse Sinalei. But the locket remained, and the red-haired man visited her dreams more vividly, his voice now a whisper that she could almost understand.

One night, Sinalei woke to find the man standing beside her bed, more solid than ever. He reached out and touched her cheek. His fingers were cold as the deep. He spoke in a language she didn’t know, but she felt his words burrow into her mind: he wanted her to join him, to be his bride in the spirit world. She screamed, and Ioane came running. He found her trembling, a strange smile on her lips, the locket clenched in her fist. He pried it open and saw the portrait had changed: the red-haired man was now smiling, and behind him, a shadowy figure with Sinalei’s face. Ioane threw the locket into the hearth fire, but it did not burn. It only grew hot, then cool, and remained unchanged. Desperate, he took it to the taulasea, who recognized the spirit as the son of a king who had been denied his bride in life. The taulasea performed a ritual, placing the locket in a salt-filled bowl and covering it with sacred leaves. For a moment, the air grew heavy, and a sigh echoed through the hut. The locket cracked, and a black ichor seeped out, staining the leaves. The taulasea pronounced the spirit banished, but warned that his influence would linger.

Sinalei recovered slowly, but she was never the same. Her beauty was now overshadowed by a permanent sadness, and she aged prematurely. She married Ioane, but their marriage was strained, for she would often wake in the night, staring at the wall as if listening to something. The locket was lost or destroyed, but its memory haunted her. She lived a long life, but it was a hollow one, a life that had been siphoned. She died in her seventies, a frail woman with no children.

Years later, Sinalei’s younger sister, Tui, came to live in the same cottage. She was young and vibrant, and she found a small, tarnished object behind a loose floorboard—a locket. It was warm to the touch, and inside, a portrait of a red-haired man with a knowing smile. Tui felt a chill, but she was curious. She put it on, admiring its antique charm. That night, she dreamed of a beautiful prince who spoke of love and eternal youth. She woke with a smile, but on her nightstand, a frangipani flower lay wilted, and a faint whisper seemed to drift from the locket: ‘You are mine now.’ Tui shivered, but she dismissed it as imagination. Yet, as she looked in the mirror, she thought she saw a flicker of red in her own brown eyes. And somewhere deep in the island’s shadows, an ancient spirit stirred, pleased to have found a new bride.