-No boats on the water, he yelled angrily. Can’t you read that sign? He pointed to the large board with hand-painted lettering next to the dock.
-This is Mr. Robinson’s boat, said Howard. He was the only one who spoke or understood English.
-I don’t care whose boat it is, the police officer snarled. There’s a war on and no one’s allowed on the water.
The rest of the Niihauans were walking unsteadily up the beach. Some of the civilians, having quickly realized that these were not Japanese insurgents, put down their guns and reached to grab the men’s arms to keep them upright.
-But it’s Mr. Robinson’s, Howard repeated. Even with a war, which they knew about by now, no one superseded Robinson’s authority. They imagined that he was king of this island too, and that Makewali was his palace and the inhabitants here as beholden to him as were the Niihauans.
Howard kept asking for Robinson while the rest of the men in the boat jabbered on excitedly in Hawaiian. The haole police officers didn’t speak Hawaiian, but they quickly recognized that the boatload weren’t enemies of the state. Boozing locals, they grimaced to themselves. Ignorant natives too drunk to reason with. They told Howard to come with them to the police station. The other men would stay at the shoreline. They would call Mr. Robinson and straighten out whatever was going on.
Howard felt better once he had a little water and a seat beneath him that didn’t sway. He washed his hands carefully in a sink behind the station as he waited for Mr. Robinson to arrive. He inspected the loose flaps of skin and the blood blisters and decided that for now he could handle the pain if he remembered not to shake hands, as he was wont to do, or pick up buckets or saddles. He was ready with the apologies for Mr. Robinson: Sorry we left without permission, sorry about the fire, sorry about leaving the cattle and sheep and bees for this long, sorry about the stranger on the island…
A man entered the room with a hesitant walk. The brim of his hat was crumpled, and next to the long strides of the sergeant who accompanied him, his steps were jerky and short. At the police desk he stopped as if waiting for instructions. Howard squinted at him; something was familiar.
The man turned and called his name.
Howard blinked to clear his eyes. Perhaps this was an apparition that had followed him from the water.
His name was called again, and a hand rose.
Howard raised his own hesitantly.
The froth of a horse ridden fast in the morning heat had congealed on Mr. Robinson’s knees. His face was crimped with worry. He looked older, diminished, as if the air had been sucked from the interstices of his skin and left him limp. Howard’s confusion deepened; it was as if the Old Lord had sent a lesser twin to greet him.
-What’s happened over there, Mr. Kaleohano? There was Robinson’s familiar gait now, his feet hanging in the air an extra moment, as if more comfortable above ground than on it, his sky blue eyes flashing, a big hand reaching out to grip Howard’s shoulder. When Howard had regained his composure and started on his apologies, Robinson waved them aside.
-What’s happened? he repeated.
-A Japanese pilot landed. He wants to kill everyone, said Howard.
-The Japs are on Niihau? exclaimed Robinson. He repeated this in English and the hubbub in the station house stopped. Men leaned forward, openmouthed.
Howard nodded. He looked around the quiet police station and sized up the police officers. He’d always suspected that Robinson had his own contingent of law enforcers. Now that they knew the enormity of the situation, why didn’t they spring immediately into action for the Old Lord?
-You round up your men here, Mr. Robinson, and we leave now for the island.
-And there’s only one Jap, you say? You sure about that? Robinson paused. How can the whole island be terrorized by one pilot?
-That’s the bad news, said Howard, shaking his head. It’s the Haradas, Mr. Robinson. They help too.
Lieutenant Jack Mizuha heard of the battle on Niihau in the lunchroom that day. Eavesdropping over his plate of rice, he kept his face composed and hard. A Japanese pilot, they said. A nisei couple. Guns fired, houses burned. He tried to look nonchalant as he pushed his tray aside. Once in his dark, cramped office, he picked up the phone to call the district commander, Lieutenant Colonel Eugene Fitzgerald.
-I’d like to lead the attack on Niihau, he told his superior.
-Now, Jack, the lieutenant colonel replied. We’ve got the CO handling it.
Mizuha heard him cough away from the phone, then put his hand over the mouthpiece and speak to someone in the background in muffled tones.
-Is it true that a nisei is helping the enemy army? Mizuha asked.
-Word travels farther than our artillery around here, Fitzgerald sighed. Seems these Niihauans are engaged in hand-to-hand combat and using ancient Hawaiian war techniques to defend themselves. There’re rumors about bombs dropping and Jap parachutists jumping in, but we’ve ascertained there’s only one soldier, as far as we can tell, if those Hawaiians know what they’re talking about. And yes, there’s a Jap couple been working there, who’re shooting right alongside the pilot.
Mizuha clamped his eyes shut. Terrible, terrible news, he thought, and he wondered what would happen to his family here on Kauai when people began to find out. It was one thing to get demoted from his command of the base because of prejudice; it would be quite another to be killed.
-This thing will blow over, Jack. You’re a good army man, Jack, we all know that. It’s just that sometimes we have to let the stupid people run the show for a while. This is the Stupid People Show now, right, Jack? So just sit tight, I know this rankles a bit, but be patient.
-I’m not asking for my command back. I’m asking to lead the rescue party to Niihau.
-I know what you’re saying, Jack. It just won’t look too good, sending you.
Mizuha then heard a small, sharp whoosh, which he realized was the sound of a match being struck.
-You understand, Jack, Fitzgerald continued after a pause in which Mizuha could see him stretching back, a cigar in his mouth and his feet planted wide, perhaps simultaneously reaching for the can of roasted macadamia nuts he always had on a nearby shelf.
-With all due respect, sir, replied Mizuha slowly, it might look better sending me. You’ll have yourself a race riot once people find out some nisei folks are helping the enemy. It’ll be anarchy here on Kauai, white coming down hard against yellow, you know as well as I do. Unless we show that we’re patriots, sir, this island will explode within hours.
There was a pause and a sucking sound. Mizuha waited.
-I see your point, Jack, Fitzgerald finally said. I’ll get back to you.
29
When the sun rose on Saturday, December 13, there was a haze in the air that could not be attributed to dust. The villagers wandered out of the caves morosely, exhausted by their own imaginations; they pictured all of Puuwai a pile of ashes, and the mai ka ‘aina ‘e shooting and killing the villagers who were not accounted for. One by one they waded into the sea to wash and wake up, the children all the way in, the men up to their belt loops to splash water under their arms and on their faces, the women only to their ankles because of their mu‘umu‘us. They moved slowly, speaking little. Their prayer session was quick and without feeling.
No one had eaten or drunk since the previous afternoon; the younger children cried first for food and water, the older children picked at their hands and looked at the ground. The women hushed the babies and brought them into the caves for shade. The men began to gather in a circle outside to discuss the whereabouts of the nearest spring and the few implements they had with which to collect water.
When it became clear to the older women that their men, who had begun to argue quietly, were no nearer a solution, Ella marched over, her hair bursting from her head, her dress dripping sparks of water from its hem.
-We just go into the village and get food and water. We can’t let the foreigners scare us like this. Come
on, a few of you can come with me, we’ll split up and see what we can find.
-Hush, Mama, said Ben. That’s foolishness. Those men have gone crazy there. They’ve got guns and boiling tempers. We’re risking death to go back there.
-You went and stole the ammunition. Ella narrowed her eyes. Soon the children will be crying and screaming and they’ll find us here anyway. I’ve got a bucket full of cooked poi and a rack of salted fish at the house. Shame to let Mr. Harada and his friend eat it. Doesn’t seem right, even.
-Ella, that’s enough, said Ben. Let us figure this out.
Ella went on as if she hadn’t heard.
-We can’t go much longer without water. We either hike to a spring now or people won’t have the strength in the heat of the day. Or we go back to the village for supplies. The good Lord Jesus Christ will help us in our time of need. Some of you’ve gone back to the old ways, is what I’ve heard, relying on ancient stories and spirits to get you through this hard time. Well, that’s a mistake—it’s only God who can help us now. I say we go back to the village and see what the Lord provides. Take some of the wahines. Those men might have guns, but they won’t shoot a woman, I tell you.
Ella marched off. Hanaiki Niau shook his head.
-Brother Ben, your Ella is quite a handful. But she has a point. Let’s send a few people back to Puuwai. It can’t hurt.
-Hurt! We could get killed.
-No one’s had water, it’ll only get worse here.
Finally they agreed that three groups would be sent. One would consist of Kalima and his two sisters, another would be Ben and Ella, another still of the Keo twins. All were ordered to bring back whatever food and water they could carry.
Ben led, Ella followed; they walked in silence. Sometimes Ben took off his hat and swung it like a rope around his head, warding off flies. Or he held back a low-hanging branch so it wouldn’t ricochet into Ella after he had passed. They ignored the dust each kicked up. They kept alert for the sound of strange footsteps.
They smelled the charred remains of Howard’s house before they saw it. Ben motioned that he did not want to stop, but Ella ignored him. She walked to the edge of the clearing and crouched behind a kiawe tree.
Howard’s house looked like the skeletal remains of a steer, the ribs of the place still barely upright, the odd plank extended at an angle into the air, as if with rigor mortis. The lava wall was intact, and chickens walked its periphery in mournful confusion, having wandered back from where they’d fled only to find that their home had altered considerably.
-Jesus in heaven, Ella whispered.
-We must move on, hissed Ben.
-How dare they, she responded.
Ben pulled on her elbow, but she shook him off.
-It’s that plane, she hissed. It’s—
-Hush, you’re making too much noise. He grabbed her more firmly, aware that she never liked to be told what to do, that this would precipitate another argument like the one they’d had the other day, he was sure, but that they had to get out of here, and soon.
-Think of the others! Ben whispered. We need to get food and water—
-That plane—Ella would not be deterred.
-There’s nothing you can do about that plane. Come on.
There was a shout behind them. Ella and Ben instinctively put their hands on their heads, as if someone had warned them of a rock slide, but both of them recognized the voice immediately. The pilot pointed a pistol at them.
They stumbled into the clearing, the pilot roughly urging them toward the plane in a language they did not understand. Yoshio, who had been dozing in a seated position among the wreckage, scrambled to his feet.
-Mr. and Mrs. Kanehele! he cried. He began to push some debris aside. Watch your feet. There’s glass and sharp objects everywhere.
The pilot motioned for them to sit on the ground. Ben put out a hand to help Ella but she ignored it. She pulled her mu‘umu‘u up to her shins.
-How could you have done this? she said to Mr. Harada, and snorted her disdain for him, the pilot, the situation they were now in. Ben sat nearby, glancing between the pilot and Mr. Harada as if assessing which one was more dangerous. All around them the wreckage of the plane protruded from the dirt, as if bubbling from it. Sheared parts stained the red dirt black, now and then the rising sun caught one just right, so that it winked conspiratorially. Ella looked around for a clear place to sit, and noted that the pieces weren’t as shiny as the one that Mrs. Kaleohano had shown off at the Haradas’ store, nor did they hold the magic Ella had seen that day. They looked like what they were, scrap metal of no real use to anyone anymore.
-What does he want of us, Mr. Harada? Ella said indignantly, lowering herself cross-legged onto the ground. Not to mention the sad fact that you’ve helped him on his mission of destruction. How could you do this?
-It’s for the best, Yoshio stammered. He began to pace in front of her. Listen, if we help him, he’ll make sure we’re all okay when his commanders arrive. I did this for all of you—
But even as he said this, he knew this was no longer true. He had done it for Irene, and for his own sense of self. But for the Niihauans? Maybe there was something to salvage, so that it would work out for them. When the Japanese arrived, he would do something then. And as he thought this, he saw himself raising a hand and staring defiantly into the barrel of an Imperial Navy gun. He could feel his chest filling with determination, his shoulders squaring. Spare the villagers, he would say, and his voice would shake the ground. But then he was back in the red dirt, by the plane, facing Ella. His shoulders were slumped, his breathing short in his chest. No, he had not helped the pilot for the Niihauans. If he had done it for them, he would have told them from the beginning, brought them the truth about Pearl Harbor.
-Trust me, he finally said, lamely.
Ella snorted, and then squinted up at him.
-Howard’s house is gone, she said.
-Yes, Yoshio answered. He’s been foolish, refusing to hand over the papers, now he’s disappeared.
-He taught you to ride, Mr. Harada, Ella said, shaking her head. Isn’t that right? He put you on the big white Arabian and showed you how to be a Niihauan. And this is how you repay him?
Yoshio’s hands flew together and clasped tightly.
-You can’t understand what’s going on out there, he cried. Out there in the world. There’s more to life than just Niihau, Mrs. Kanahele. Things bigger than Mr. Robinson’s paradise are happening.
-Bigger than loyalty? Kinship? Neighborly goodwill? I think not, Mr. Harada.
-Hush, Ella, Ben broke in. No use talking sense to them, they won’t hear. Mr. Harada, I don’t understand what you’re up to but that man’s got a gun and he seems intent on using it soon enough. Help us now, before it’s too late.
The pilot must have begun to understand that the Kanaheles were trying to persuade Yoshio of something treacherous because he began to bark out commands.
-He wants to know where Howard is, Yoshio said quietly. He wants you, Ben, to go find him.
Ben knew Howard was gone, but he said,
-Fine, we’ll go.
-No, not Mrs. Kanahele. Just you. He wants to keep your wife here to make sure you come back.
Ben shook his head vehemently. I’m not leaving her here, he said. No.
-The pilot’s angrier than I’ve seen him. You’d better go.
-Go, silly, Ella interrupted grouchily. No need to be the gallant husband. God will look after His own. You’re glad to be rid of me anyway. Go, and find Howard.
She kept her eyes fixed on Yoshio as she spoke, as if to strike him down with her gaze. She knew as Ben did that Howard was long gone, perhaps dead himself.
The pilot waved his gun and shouted again. Yoshio looked at him nervously and then back at the old couple on the ground in front of him.
-You must go now, Mr. Kanahele. Please. I’ll make sure your wife is all right.
Ben got to his feet slowly. Ella knew that his hips h
urt, that he was thirsty and hungry and very tired. Her heart ballooned a little then, and when he was out of sight, she felt unexpectedly forlorn.
Yoshio stared at the place in the thicket where Ben had disappeared. He felt nauseated and it wasn’t just that he had not slept all night, or that he had barely eaten since yesterday. He had reached the point that children do after they spread their arms and twirl themselves around, the sudden unmistakable transition from giddy but balanced orientation to a sudden vertiginous confusion, a momentary regret at the silly, nausea-inducing game, and a collapse onto the grass. He did not collapse, but instead let himself fill with the realization that things were now decidedly out of his hands. He was spinning, spinning, spinning, and everything was a frightening blur around him.
He taught you how to ride. Ella’s words echoed in Yoshio’s mind. The horse’s name was High-Stepping Son, but the islanders and even Robinson himself called him Haole for his bright white coat. He was a seven-year-old Arabian and stood eighteen hands high, as nimble as a pony and as bad tempered as a sick old man—sometimes it took three ranch hands to saddle him. Though there were six Arabians corralled next to the ranch house, the Old Lord only ever mounted Haole.
Men were picked to ride him if Robinson was away too long, because after a few weeks without a saddle, it was claimed, Haole reverted to his wilder self, suddenly remembering that he was strong enough to endure blinding Sahara sandstorms and deep, shifting dunes, command a herd of willing mares, and kill any stallion who came near. He would not be coaxed by water or food, and when he was finally caught, it was as if he had never been tamed. These men would keep a close eye on the white horse before they saddled him up. If he drew his lips back and flattened his ears and nipped at the air, they would draw straws to see who the unlucky loser would be who’d have to ride him first. Yoshio had watched this process often enough, on his way to the honey shed, or back from the apiary. But he’d never thought that one day it would be him in there, wheedling with a shaky voice for the big stallion to calm down.
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