He bent forward and they honi’ed, rubbing nose to nose in the old way, then he turned and started down the path. Suddenly he stopped, climbed back, and stood before her.
“Child, you are looking for forgiveness. First, you must learn to forgive yourself. It does not come all at once. Forgiveness comes as opportunities. Things you do or not do. It comes as subtle light in ether. I see tomorrow, third-dawn, as a subtle light. Think how happy you could make this man. One step in self-forgiveness. If you say yes, tomorrow I will join you together in ho‘omale.”
She nodded solemnly. She said yes.
She watched him turn and melt into the rain forest, wild hair floating out like silver moss catching on the barks of trees. His yellow robes astonishing against a hundred greens. She sat down on the ground in shock. Ho ‘omale. To perform the marriage ceremony in the ancient way, with the ancient beliefs. Which meant they were bound forever in life, in death. She would not feel love again for any man.
At the third-dawn, as the sun rose and slid barefoot across the sea, ‘Iolani chanted while she and Max stood draped in maile leaves and ginger. And when the sun shone full upon the cliffs, ‘Iolani took their hands in his and joined them in the old, old vows.
“Ho‘oheno Pau‘ole. Mālama Pau‘ole. Ho‘omalu Pau‘ole.” To cherish. To honor. To protect. In this life and the next.
“There is only this moment,” he said. “There is only ever this moment.
All you can fit in the palm of your hand. Go now. I Ho‘okahi Kahi Ke Aloha.” Be one in love.
For all of that day they held each other, giving each other pleasure in slow and quiet ways.
“Thank you,” Max said. “My love. My wife.”
Finally, they lay gazing at the ceiling where, high up on rafters, pale cones of wood powder had been left by termites. A breeze lifted the blond dust and it drifted down. As the sun’s rays leaned into the room, the dust became a yellow brilliance showering their faces and their bodies. They blinked, and everything was gold.
TWO DAYS LATER HE STOOD UP FROM THE BED. “GOD! I FEEL brand-new. I feel like raising hell.”
And so they squandered everything. Disregarding ‘Iolani’s warnings, they made noonday runs into the little town of Kapa‘a to “Sharon’s Famous Saimin,” a tiny, two-booth luncheonette where they ate delicate char siu and tofu soup from giant bowls, while the owner tossed tangles of noodles into boiling pots. They drove to Hanapepe for “Green Garden’s” lilikoi chiffon pie, the lightest texture in the world. They sat like youngsters, eating giant cones of blue-and-purple shave-ice, and one day they drove to a famous cattle farm and bought thick beefsteaks from a woman who still roped steer at eighty-two.
They swam for hours in seas so calm it was like being led to prayer. They passed a group of octopi volleying a glass ball back and forth between them. A shark lifted its snout and eyed them, weaving in and out in that old shark way. Lazily, they strolled on long promenades of beaches, their footsteps agitating grains of sand so they left prints of flashing phosphorescence. They lived without discretion, holding nothing back. Only at night did they slow down.
Some nights she placed the oxygen tube in Max’s nose and read to him from old tattered books left behind.
“AND SO IT WAS GREED THAT KILLED THE FORESTS, AND THE COMMON people. China wanted more and more of the highly prized sandalwood, and Hawaii’s chiefs wanted more and more worldly goods, all the things white traders had. Ships, and nails. Rum, silk, and chinaware …
“The perfume of sandalwood came from the oil in the heartwood of the tree. The wood nearest the root had the greatest fragrance, making the lower trunk most desirable. Each tree grew slowly, reaching maturity every forty years. But, these beautiful giants were uprooted from the ground, the heartwood carved out of them, the rest of the tree discarded …
“Commoners wept out of hunger and hardship, and they wept for the death of their great sandalwoods. Each day men and women were driven like cattle to the mountains to cut the trees. Chiefs demanded that they haul them on their backs down to the shore, where they were loaded onto ships …
“Great calluses grew on naked backs and shoulders, and they became known as the ‘Callus Backs.’ Many people died of exhaustion. And many died of sickness from the damp, cold mountains. The people had no time to plant their fields, so they ate ferns and roots until the ferns and roots were gone. And there came famine …
“One day the chiefs looked up. The mountains were exhausted, the hills barren and eroded. The soil began to blow away and this caused floods. And still more people died. These sandalwood years were disastrous for Hawaiians. Generations lost, the lands destroyed. The trust between the people and their chiefs was broken …”
Ana solemnly closed the book. “Unfortunately, that is documented history. Which is why we have no sandalwood today.”
Max shook his head. “Jesus. Sometimes I can’t wait to get out of this life.”
She sat on the floor at his feet. “Please. Don’t die regretting everything.”
“Oh, I know I’ve done some good,” he said. “I still have a conscience. It’s a wonderful thing, it keeps us good animals. And now, as ‘Iolani said, I’m gathering the best of life in the palm of my hand.”
He reached down and stroked her hair. “The way you look when you come out of the sea, your limbs glowing from sheer joy. That baby octopus wrapped round your wrist—the way its skin went violet to blue to mauve, as if a cloud were passing overhead. The sun leaning into the forest, lighting up the backs of trees. That blue-eyed spider that keeps spinning its web in my hair while I sleep. And all the hours of you breathing beside me. It’s all in the palm of my hand.”
ONE MORNING HE HAD TROUBLE INHALING, HIS LUNG FILLING UP again. She hooked up the oxygen until his breathing was stabilized.
“I know this sounds crazy, but while there’s time I’d like to fly.”
She leaned closer. “Max. Tell me what you mean.”
“I’d like to see the island from God’s point of view. See exactly what he had in mind.”
“You want to go up in a plane.”
She thought a while, then made some calls. That afternoon she helped him dress, helped him to the car, and held his hand as she drove past the town of Lihue to the heliport. An hour later they stood in the office signing releases, then climbed into the chopper with the pilot. As they settled in, Max bent forward slightly, wincing. The man looked at him, unsure.
“My husband’s recovering from a cold,” she said. “Today’s his birthday. He wants so badly to go up …”
“Okay. Well, buckle up, and just sit back. I’ll show you terrain you never dreamed of.”
She strapped Max in beside the pilot, where they sat floating in a glass bubble, able to see on all sides while she leaned over from the backseat, keeping her hand on his shoulder. Shuddering, the chopper lifted up and turned, heading north, delivering to them coasts of ancient serrated valleys, green velvet cliffs, then tiny, hidden beaches like opals. Some scenes were a tapestry barely imagined—a mountain goat poised for an instant in a ravine, a giant ‘iwa bird soaring. Orange-and-purple cliffs etched by centuries of wind and rain standing like giant remnants of a lost world.
Max took it all in silently, too enraptured to respond. They flew up to waterfalls hanging like slender silver ribbons, then swept a dozen curves of pure white sand. They headed west to the Na Pali Coast, and just in front of the Polihale cliffs, the chopper suddenly swerved, shaken like a giant’s toy. It seemed to be flying on its side. Ana banged her head against the seat, while the pilot struggled with the controls, righting the craft and flying on.
“What the hell was that!” he shouted.
She sat behind them shaking, feeling the gods had blown their breath right through her, a change-face, telling her to stay away. She squeezed Max’s shoulder as they looked down on irrigation canals and tunnels carved into the mountains centuries ago. Clouds flew above them and below them, enhancing the island’s beauty with daggers of d
ark and light.
She kept checking Max’s responses, unable to hear his breathing in the craft, but knowing it was labored. Yet, when he looked back at her, he seemed transported. After an hour, the pilot touched down in a field paralleling the sea, so they could stretch their legs.
“Then you and your husband can change seats so you’ll really get a view.”
She walked Max to a shady grove. He bent forward slightly, trying to breathe in and out, and in that moment Ana was shocked at how distinguished he still looked. His features sharp and bold, his frame still lean, and elegant. But thin, so thin.
“I’ll tell him to take us back.”
Max refused, wanting to go on.
When they boarded, she told the pilot, “We’ll both sit in the back if you don’t mind.”
He glanced at Max, then nodded. It was late afternoon as they lifted off. Now the light was changing, colors becoming more spectacular. She took Max’s hand and they gazed out like children as small clouds gathered, hundreds of them tinged with peach and gold. Then they dispersed over shimmering fields of silver cane as late sunlight deepened, intensifying everything.
“Look! The rain on those cliffs … it’s falling up.” Max squeezed her hand so hard she winced.
Like the unveiling of the island’s final mystery, the pilot slowly directed the chopper up over the very center of Mt. Wai‘ale‘ale, then let the chopper settle into its very crater. Here, in dimly lit mists, a dozen waterfalls were born from ever-falling showers. Max shouted as they flew along volcanic walls of the crater, in and out of waterfalls, each one creating a circular rainbow around them.
She leaned close, shouting in his ear, “Max, we are now in the core of Kaua‘i. The place of its birth from the volcano’s eruptions centuries ago.”
Then they looked up. Even the pilot shouted. Hovering inside the crater, showered by what seemed ancient rains, they were suddenly engulfed in a double and then a triple rainbow composed of eerie, ancient blends of light and color. For a while it seemed they were entombed in color’s very source. Ana opened her mouth. She felt her heart soar.
Max suddenly sat forward, squeezing her hand, his eyes locked on circles of color and color, of light and light.
“Oh, God,” he said. “Oh, God.”
They sat suspended, outside of time.
After a while, the pilot seemed to come out of a trance, eased them away from volcanic walls, and lifted them up past the waterfalls toward the entrance to the crater.
Max was still, his hand warm in hers. She gazed at him, and smiled. They circled the island one last time.
“There’s Wailua River. See where it flows into the sea? Home to the island’s kings and high chiefs. They called it Wailua Nui Hoano. Great Sacred Wailua. Just up the river along the Path of Chiefs are the ruins of the Birthstones and Birthing House of Holoholo ‘ku. The house where women birthed children who would be chiefs and kings.”
She spoke more softly now.
“Oh, look. A little farther north is Sleeping Giant Mountain. Do you see his outline? And now we’re over Moloa‘a Valley. How beautiful it is. Legend says that here they had the most delectable limu, or seaweed, in the islands, so precious, it was put under a kapu, reserved only for royalty. Commoners were killed for eating it. Battles were fought for the right to gather it. They say thousands died in the Great Seaweed Wars.”
She saw the pilot glance back at them. She pulled Max’s collar closed and held his hands in both of hers. They were approaching Hanalei Bay. Ana leaned toward him, pointing out their bungalow cantilevered over the cliffs, nestled just inside the rain forest.
“Look, Max. There we are.”
The sun now painted the sky gold and orange above ragged volcanic spires. Boats glittered and dipped in the bay below.
She pulled his head to her shoulder, and kept her hand there. “I’m glad we took that house. It’s been perfect.”
Then she fell silent, staring at the sea.
When Ana spoke again, her voice was very tired. “Look at the ocean, Max, how it crests and falls, crests and falls. How waves break so indifferently. What does it tell us? Shouldn’t it tell us something?”
She rubbed his hands. His palms were smooth as if he had polished them with sand. Then very tenderly, she slid her hand down his face, closing his eyes.
“I’ll be all right,” she whispered. “I was built for this.”
After a while she continued. “I’ll try to remember everything you taught me. About character, and self-respect. I’ll do my best.”
She was still holding his hands when they landed. The pilot opened his door, climbed down from his seat, and pulled it back, leaning in toward Ana.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You’ll have to call an ambulance.”
He leaned in closer, staring at Max. “Is he … ?”
“Yes. He’s gone.”
She rested her cheek against Max’s head, and thought of a day when termite dust spilled down from the rafters. How sunlight showered them with gold.
PART TWO
EIA KA PILIKIA LĀ
Here Are Our Troubles
ALOHA ‘ĀINA
Love for the Land
AN ASIAN GIRL STRUGGLED TO BALANCE HER MORTARBOARD ATOP a mythological hairdo. When her name was called, she tiptoed to the stage in too-tight shoes. Then Ana’s name was called. She would vaguely remember walking to the stage past archipelagoes of families on the sidelines, some wearing rubber slippers so their feet pushed out like ginger roots. Applause as she accepted a scholarship to the John Burns School of Medicine. And she would remember a sudden chill. The sense of someone standing in wavering sunlight and shadow.
Even from a distance, she felt her mother’s presence. She smelled her perfume. Her eyes scanned the crowds. She did not see the woman, but knowing she herself was seen, Ana stood tall and threw her shoulders back. Then the family flooded forward—Rosie, Ben, everyone—moving with implicit pride.
Hours later, she stepped from the car at the intersection and started walking up Keola Road. Along the way they waited, neighbors, children, old tūtū and uncles who had watched her struggle up and down that road for years. They stepped out and embraced her.
“So proud, Ana! Good fo’ you.”
A grandpa with one eye stitched shut pridefully pounded the tip of his cane in the dirt. Kids emerged like little dust-ghosts, draping flower lei around her neck. Others stood silent, in their eyes deep emotions they could not articulate. Then a big woman stepped from the crowd, sweeping her up in a breathtaking hug. Ana had always thought the woman hated her; for years she had shouted curses from her front door.
“No, honey girl! All dat time was chanting fo’ you. Now you going tell da world what and what. Dat Hawaiians real akamai. Dat we going rise again!”
They flooded into the yard, carrying pans of food and rattling ice chests. The yard seemed to flow into the house, supporting a river of human traffic. And in the midst of it, Lopaka. Big and muscled, thick dark skin. Leaning on his arm brace with the quietude of ironwood, he smiled so brilliantly his handsome face looked young. He didn’t speak, but for a moment he stood so close, when he moved away the air still held his scent. And maybe that was her best gift. His deep pride in her.
Inside the house she found kids kneeling at the toilet, whispering down at their reflections. They flushed, watched with fascination as their reflections whirled away, then ran screaming to a mirror to see if their faces had disappeared. And Ana saw how life came back and back, how they still did the things she had done in small-kid time—rubbing mulberry juice on their lips, turning them a ghoulish blue, smearing green mold from the walls onto their eyelids, then pinning pua in their hair and slow-dancing in couples like the grown-ups.
She kicked off her shoes, slid into a sarong, and danced hula with half a dozen aunties. Some rinsed their mouths with beer and spat on her hands for luck. Ukulele and guitar, the old songs. One by one, folks got up and harmonized.
A gang of cowbo
y cousins came, paniolo smelling of saddles and horses. They brought a roasted boar, roped kids with their lariats, and sang their paniolo songs. Then, a thundering locomotion up the road. Tattooed bikers all in black roared into the yard on Harleys. The Turks of Nanakuli, gleaming with sweat like muscled crows. Several bikes were slung with freshly caught red snappers, which they presented to Ana. In their nose studs and topknots, they unfurled the Hawaiian flag, and raised their fists and shouted Huli! Then they broke out ukuleles and sang in sweet falsetto like castrati.
Hours passed. The food they had planted and sowed, and raised and slaughtered, and caught in the sea and called the gods to bless, now came alive. The air was coated with the odor of singed skin as Panama and Florentine Chang grilled mounds of hulihuli chicken. Roasted meats burst out of the night by the light of their dripping fats. Poi glowed purple in big, deep bowls. Fish scales grew into piles like pink fingernails, which kids stuck all over their bodies and their faces so they glowed.
And in the steam clouds of kālua pig, the sounds of people physically responding to their food. The lip-smacking saltiness of lomi salmon. The ho! of fiery kimchee clearing their sinuses. The zsss! of flip-top soda cans. Men opened Primo bottles with their teeth. The ping! as they spat the metal tops at empty Crisco cans, then heartily drank, dark throats moving like shifting gears.
Ana dished out food, filled bowls and glasses. She drank too much and danced until her feet were scraped and numb. Hours later, she flung herself into a chair and gathered kids around her, faces like dark flowers as they dozed against her legs.
THE NEXT DAY SHE AND ROSIE WALKED THROUGH OLD NANAKULI Homestead Cemetery. They knelt at Emma’s grave while Ana spread flowers.
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