Hawaii

by James A. Michener

  “These men love the Lord,” Kelolo insisted. “Ask them. They know the catechism. They want the church to be built strong.”

  “Kelolo,” Abner explained patiently, drawing near to the solemn kahunas, “I understand perfectly that in the old days these kahunas accomplished much that was good. But God does not require kahunas.”

  “Makua Hale,” Kelolo pleaded, “we have come to you as friends who love this church. Please do not keep the door where it is. Every kahuna knows that that is wrong for the spirits of this location.”

  “God is the supreme spirit!” Abner argued, but since the night was pleasant, with a pale crescent moon in the west and occasional clouds sweeping in from the roads, he sat with the kahunas and talked with them about religion. He was surprised at how much of the Bible they knew, and at the skill with which they could accommodate it to their ancient beliefs. One old man explained, “We believe you are correct in what you say, Makua Hale. There is only one God, and we used to call Him Kane. There is a Holy Ghost, and we called Him Ku. There is Jesus Christ, and He is Lono. And there is the king of the underworld, and he is Kanaloa.”

  “God is not Kane,” Abner reasoned, but the kahunas merely listened, and when it came time for them to speak they said, “Now when Kane, that is God, wishes a church to be built, he supervises it. He always did when we built our temples.”

  “God does not personally supervise the building of this church,” Abner explained.

  “Kane did.”

  “But God is not Kane,” Abner patiently repeated.

  The men nodded sagely and continued: “Now, since Kane is concerned about this church, and since we have always loved Kane, we thought it proper to advise you that this door …”

  “The door will be where it now is,” Abner explained, “because that is where the door to a church has always been. In Boston the door would be here. In London it would be here.”

  “But in Lahaina, Kane would not like it to be here,” the kahunas argued.

  “Kane is not God,” Abner stubbornly repeated.

  “We understand, Makua Hale,” the kahunas politely agreed, “but since God and Kane are the same idea …”

  “No,” Abner insisted, “God and Kane are not the same.”

  “Of course,” the kahunas agreed heartily, “their names are different, but we know that Kane would not like this door here.”

  “The door has to be here,” Abner explained.

  “If it is, Kane will destroy the church,” the kahunas said sorrowfully.

  “God does not go about destroying his own churches,” Abner assured the men.

  “But we know that Kane does, if they are built wrong, and since Kane and God mean the same thing …”

  The solemn kahunas never lost their tempers with the stubborn little stranger who did not quite understand religion, so far as they could judge, and Abner had learned not to lose his, so the argument about the door lasted for several hours, until the moon had vanished from the west and only low dark clouds scudded across the mysterious and silent sky. With nothing agreed, but with the kahunas feeling very sorry for their misguided friend who insisted upon building a doomed church for Kane, the meeting broke up and Kelolo said, “After I bid the kahunas good night I will walk back home with you.”

  “I can find my way alone,” Abner assured him.

  “On a night like this …” Kelolo said speculatively, looking at the low clouds over the coconut palms, “it would be better, perhaps …” And he bade the kahunas a hasty farewell so that he could hurry down the dusty road and overtake the missionary, but they had progressed only a few hundred yards when Abner heard the kahunas walking behind them, and he said, “I don’t want to argue with them any more,” but when Kelolo turned to tell the kahunas so, he saw nothing. There were no kahunas. There were no walking men. There was only an ominous echo under the scudding clouds, and suddenly Kelolo grabbed Abner in a vise of death and muttered in horror, “It is the night marchers! Oh, God! We are lost!” And before Abner could protest, Kelolo had caught him about the waist and had swept him precipitately over a hedge and thrown him into a ditch, where foul water drenched him. When he tried to rise, Kelolo’s mighty arm pinned him to the wet earth, and he could feel that the huge alii was trembling in terror.

  “What is it?” Abner sputtered, but Kelolo’s giant hand clasped his mouth, accidentally forcing grass and mud into his lips.

  “It is the night marchers!” Kelolo whispered, his lips quivering in horror.

  “Who are they?” Abner whispered back, pulling Kelolo’s hand from his mouth.

  “The great alii of the past.” Kelolo trembled. “I am afraid they are coming for me.”

  “Ridiculous!” Abner grunted, trying to break free. But his captor held him pinioned in the ditch, and he could feel the awful tenseness of the big man’s muscles. Kelolo was terrified.

  “Why are they coming for you?” Abner whispered.

  “No one knows,” Kelolo replied, his teeth chattering. “Perhaps because I gave the land of Kane for your church.”

  With the greatest circumspection he lifted his huge head until it was even with the top of the hedge, looked for a moment up the dark path, and shuddered. “They are marching toward us!” he gasped. “Oh, Makua Hale, pray to your god for me. Pray! Pray!”

  “Kelolo!” Abner grunted, smothered by the pressure on his chest. “There is nothing out there. When alii die they remain dead.”

  “They are marching,” Kelolo whispered. And in the silence of the night, with only wind rustling through dead palm leaves, there was indeed a sound of feet. “I can see them coming past the church,” Kelolo reported. “They carry torches and feathered staves. They wear their golden robes and feather helmets. Makua Hale, they are coming for me.”

  The giant alii pressed himself into the ditch, hiding Abner beneath his ample form, and the missionary could hear the man praying, “Oh, Pele, save me now; I am your child, Kelolo, and I do not want to die tonight.”

  The sound grew louder and Kelolo engaged in violent actions, almost smothering Abner, who mumbled, “What are you doing?”

  “Undressing!” Kelolo grunted. “You cannot speak to the gods with clothes on.” When he was completely naked he resumed praying in an agitated voice, but suddenly he grew calm and Abner heard him say, “The little man I am hiding is Makua Hale. He is a good man and he brings learning to my people. He doesn’t know enough to throw off his clothes, so please excuse him.” There was a long silence, after which Kelolo said, “I know the little man preaches against you, Woman of Whiteness, but even so he is a good man.” There was another protracted silence, and then the sound of imminent feet, and Kelolo trembled as if a great wind tormented him and then he spoke: “Thank you, Pele, for having told the marchers I am your child.”

  The wind subsided. Only fitful sounds came from the topmost crowns of the coconut palms, and there was no echo of marching feet. It could have been the kahunas going home, Abner thought. It could have been a group of dogs. Or wind along the dusty footpath. Now there was no sound; the low scudding clouds were gone, and the stars shone.

  “What was it?” Abner asked, as he wiped the mud from his mouth.

  “They were marching to take me away,” Kelolo explained.

  “Whom were you speaking to?” Abner inquired, spitting the gravel from his teeth.

  “Pele. Didn’t you hear her tell the marchers that we were her children?”

  Abner did not reply. He brushed the sand from his clothes and wondered how he would get the muddy portions of his clothing cleaned, and he was brushing his knees when Kelolo grabbed him and spun him around, demanding, “You did hear Pele, didn’t you? When she protected you?”

  “Did she mention my name?” Abner asked quietly.

  “You heard her!” Kelolo cried. “Makua Hale, it is a very good sign when Pele protects a man. It means …” But his joy at having been saved from the revengeful night marchers was so great that he could not express his gratitude, e
ither for her aid in saving him or for her unprecedented benevolence in protecting the little missionary. “You are my brother,” Kelolo said passionately. “Now you see that it would have been foolish for me to have torn down my platform to the gods. Suppose Pele had not come to help us tonight!”

  “Did you see the night marchers?” Abner pressed.

  “I saw them,” Kelolo replied.

  “Did you see Pele?” the missionary continued.

  “I often see her,” Kelolo assured him. Then in a burst of passion he caught Abner by the hands and pleaded: “It is for these reasons, Makua Hale, that I beg you not to keep the door where it is.”

  “That door …” Abner began. But he did not bother to finish his sentence, and when he reached home and Jerusha cried, “Abner, what have you been doing?” he replied simply, “It was dark and I fell in a ditch.” And the door was built where he intended.

  Then, when it seemed as if the mission were gaining control of Lahaina, the whaler John Goodpasture, out of New Bedford, put in with a record tonnage of oil from the recently discovered Off-Japan whaling grounds, and Jerusha’s school for girls was suddenly interrupted by the excited cry from the road: “Kelamoku! Too many sailors inside boat! Come right away here!”

  Since the John Goodpasture was well and favorably known in Lahaina from previous visits, the intelligence created much excitement, especially among the four daughters of Pupali, who spent the next few minutes darting significant glances at one another. Finally, they rose as a team and marched out of class. When Jerusha tried to stop them, the oldest girl explained that their youngest sister felt ill: “Poor Iliki head all come sore,” and amid loud giggles they disappeared.

  At first Jerusha did not appreciate what had happened, but later when one of her students blurted out, “Kapena aloha Iliki. She swim ship, see kapena,” it became obvious that the mission’s moral teaching had been outraged, and Jerusha dismissed class. Wrapping a light shawl about her shoulders and placing her poke bonnet firmly on her brown locks, she marched down to the waterfront in time to see the four girls, largely naked, climbing eagerly aboard the John Goodpasture, where sailors who had known them before greeted them with cheers.

  Running up to an elderly American sailor who was scrimshawing a whalebone beside Kamehameha’s old brick palace, she cried, “Row me out to that boat!” But the sailor continued carving the whalebone and drawled, “Ma’am, it’s best if you don’t fight the laws of nature.”

  “But Iliki is only a child!” Jerusha protested.

  “First law of the sea, ma’am. If they’re big enough, they’re old enough,” and he looked out into the channel, where the girls’ pleased squeals filled the air.

  Appalled by this indifference, Jerusha ran over to an old Hawaiian woman who sat on a rock guarding the four mission dresses which the girls had discarded. “Aunty Mele,” Jerusha pleaded, “how can we get those girls back?”

  “You stop one time. Bimeby ship go,” Aunty Mele assured her. “Wahine come back, same like always.”

  In frustration, Jerusha grabbed at the besmirched mission dresses, as if to take them home with her, away from the contaminated waterfront, but Aunty Mele held onto them grimly, saying, “Hale Wahine! Bimeby wahine come back, I make ready dress for dem.” And like the good friend she was, she remained on the rock, holding the girls’ apparel until such time as they might need it once more for resumption of their missionary lessons.

  That night it was a gloomy mission household that reviewed the day’s defeats. “I cannot understand these girls,” Jerusha wept. “We give them the best of everything. Iliki in particular knows what good and evil are. Yet she runs off to the whaling ship.”

  “I brought the matter up with Malama,” Abner reported in deep confusion, “and she said merely, ‘The girl is not an alii. She can go to the ships if she likes.’ So I asked Malama, ‘Then why were you so angry when the three sailors tried to take Noelani to their ship.’ And Malama replied, ‘Noelani is kapu alii.’ As if that explained everything.”

  “Abner, I shudder to think of the evil that flourishes in Lahaina,” Jerusha replied. “When I left the waterfront, where nobody would do anything, I went into the town to ask for help, and at Murphy’s grog shop I heard a concertina. And girls laughing. And I tried to go in to stop whatever was happening, and a man said, ‘Don’t go in there, Mrs. Hale. The girls have no clothes on. They never do when the whalers are in port.’ Abner! What is happening to this town?”

  “For some time I have known it to be the modern Sodom and Gomorrah.”

  “What are we going to do about it?”

  “I haven’t decided,” he replied.

  “Well, I have,” Jerusha said firmly. And that very night she marched down to Malama’s palace and said in her able Hawaiian, “Alii Nui, we must stop the girls from going out to the whaling ships.”

  “Why?” Malama asked. “The girls go because they want to. No harm is done.”

  “But Iliki is a good girl,” Jerusha insisted.

  “What is a good girl?” Malama asked.

  “Girls who do not swim out to ships,” Jerusha replied simply.

  “I think you missionaries want to stop all fun,” Malama countered.

  “Iliki is not engaging in fun,” Jerusha argued. “She is engaging in death.” And this Malama knew to be true.

  “But she has always gone out to the ships,” she said sadly.

  “Iliki has an immortal soul,” Jerusha said firmly. “Exactly as you and I.”

  “You mean to claim that Iliki … wahine i Pupali … like you or me?”

  “Exactly like you, Malama. Exactly like me.”

  “I cannot believe it,” Malama said. “She has always gone to the ships.”

  “It is our job to stop her. To stop all the girls.”

  Malama would do nothing that night, but on the next day she assembled the alii then in residence, and Reverend and Mrs. Hale presented their arguments, with Jerusha pleading: “You can tell a good town by the way it protects its babies and young girls. You can tell a good alii by the way in which he protects women. You are not good alii if you permit your own daughters to go out to the ships. In London the good alii try to stop such things. In Boston, too.”

  Kelolo contradicted this assertion by pointing out: “Kekau-ike-a-ole sailed on a whaler and he got to both London and Boston and he has often told us of how there were special houses filled with girls. Everywhere he went there were such houses.”

  “But the good alii in all cities try to control this vice,” Jerusha argued bitterly.

  It was Abner, however, who delivered the aching blow. “Do you know what happens if you alii of Lahaina permit your girls to be debauched in this way?” he asked ominously.

  “What happens, Makua Hale?” Malama asked, for she trusted him.

  “When the ships sail back home, the men laugh at Hawaii.”

  There was a long silence as this ugly accusation was digested, for the alii of Hawaii were proud people, desperately hungry for the world’s approval. Finally, Malama asked cautiously, “Would the alii of Boston allow their girls to swim out to a Hawaiian ship?”

  “Of course not,” Kelolo snapped. “The water is too cold.”

  There was no laughter, for this was an honest observation, and Abner quickly added, “Kelolo is correct. The water in Boston is not so sweet and warm as here, but even if it were, no girls would be allowed to swim out to Hawaiian ships. The alii of Boston would be ashamed if that happened.”

  Malama asked quietly, “Do you think the sailors laugh at us, Makua Hale?”

  “I know they do, Malama. Do you remember the whaler Carthaginian when it was here? I was aboard the Carthaginian on the whaling grounds, and the sailors were laughing about Honolulu.”

  “Ah, but Honolulu is known to be an evil place,” Malama admitted. “That is why I will not live there. That’s why the king keeps his capital here at Lahaina.”

  “And they laughed at Lahaina,” Abner insisted.
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  “That is bad,” Malama frowned. After a while she asked, “What should we do?”

  Abner replied, “You should build a fort, by the roads, and each night at sunset a drum should beat, and any sailor who is ashore should then be arrested and kept in the fort till morning. And any girl who swims out to ships should be put in jail, too.”

  “Such laws are too harsh,” Malama said, and she dismissed the meeting, but when the other alii had gone she took Jerusha aside and asked querulously, “Do you think the sailors laugh at us, because of the girls?”

  “I laugh at you!” Jerusha said firmly. “To think of people debauching their own daughters!”

  “But they are not alii,” Malama insisted.

  “You are the conscience of the people,” Jerusha replied.

  That night the Hales argued long as to whether the daughters of Pupali should be admitted back into the mission school, and Abner was for dismissing them permanently, but Jerusha held that they should be given another chance, and when the John Goodpasture left the roads, the four delinquent girls, dressed neatly in new dresses, came penitently back. The more Jerusha preached to them about the miserableness of their sin, the more heartily they agreed. But when, some weeks later, a child heralded the arrival of the whaler Vashti with the exciting cry, “Vashti iron hook fall now, plenty kelamoku,” the four girls bolted again, and that night Abner insisted that the older three at least be expelled. They were, and since these were the years when whalers came to Lahaina with increasing frequency—seventeen were to arrive in 1824—the three older daughters of Pupali did a good business. They no longer had to go out to ships, for they became the dancers at Murphy’s grog shop and kept little rooms aft of the small dance floor, where they were permitted to keep half of the coins they earned.

  Iliki, the fairest of the daughters, was allowed to stay in the mission school, and under Jerusha’s most careful guidance grew to understand the Bible and to forswear whaling ships. She was slim for a Hawaiian girl, with very long hair and flashing eyes. When she smiled, her handsome white teeth illuminated her face, and Jerusha could appreciate why it was that men wanted her. “When she is twenty,” Jerusha said, “we will marry her to some Christian Hawaiian, and you mark my words, Abner, she’ll be the best wife in the islands.”