K eaka, Kameha’s hanai mother, was somewhat distant, but Kiwala‘ō’s mother Kalola displayed genuine affection for him. Thus, when he was still little and needed mothering, Kameha would seek her out first. Kamehameha knew that Kalola was also one of his own father’s many wives, so it was natural for him to see her as a second mother. But as he grew older, Kalola began to see something more than a stepson in Kamehameha.
As a younger woman, Kalola had been long-limbed, willowy, and full-breasted. Her striking beauty had drawn both Kalani‘ōpu‘u and Keoua to her like red-feathered i‘iwi birds to a brilliant yellow ohi‘a tree blossom. Now nearing thirty, Kalola was still beautiful, though not as shapely as she had been before childbirth had widened her hips and thickened her midriff.
One morning early in Kameha’s thirteenth year, Kalola summoned him to her hale in the royal compound at Kawaihae. “Let me look at you, Kameha,” she said. “You have grown so big and sturdy. You are truly becoming a man.”
“Kalola was not looking into my eyes when she said that,” Kameha told my father later. As a boy just coming into his manhood will, Kameha proudly shared the story of his first sexual exploit with his younger brother. Kalola, Kameha recounted, beckoned him closer. She was sitting on a sedge mat with her knees drawn together and her legs folded under her. As Kameha approached her, Kalola suddenly shifted her position, lying back while still partially raised on one elbow. Her long legs parted and her wrap-around pā‘ū—her kapa-cloth skirt—came undone at her knees. Kameha averted his gaze, but his eyes now found the swell of Kalola’s breasts. This spectacle, at this moment, affected him in a way that the sight of a woman’s bare breasts—common enough in those days—never had before.
Kalola grinned at him. “Your malo is very full,” she said. “Come closer.”
Kamehameha took two steps forward, then stood as still as a rock. Kalola sat up, grabbed his malo, and gave it a sudden tug. Kameha’s loincloth fell to the floor. Kalola lay back again and her skirt now somehow seemed to unravel itself. As she lay naked before him, Kameha could not help but stare at all of her. As his eyes ran up and down her body, Kalola reached out to Kameha again, and this time pulled him down upon her and into her. Kamehameha gasped, and suddenly it was over for him, as fast as it had begun. “Now,” Kalola whispered in his ear as he lay quiescent on top of her, “let me show you how it is really done.”
“E Kameha,” Kalola sighed, when they were finished at last, “if you can heft an ihe spear the way you wield the spear between your legs, you will make a mighty warrior indeed.”
In fact, Kamehameha was already becoming quite skilled with the ihe spear and the longer pololu javelin. War—preparing for it and fighting it—was the primary vocation of the ali‘i, and as was customary, Kameha had commenced his military training at about the age of ten, when a new influence entered his young life: his military tutor, Kekūhaupi‘o.
Kekūhaupi‘o was the chief of Ke‘ei, a village down the coast from Kailua just south of Kealakekua Bay. He was renowned throughout the islands as the greatest warrior of his generation because of his skill and ferocity in the sham battles that the ali‘i warriors staged for sport and to hone their fighting skills. He was not as physically imposing as so many ali‘i were. Even at six feet, two inches in height, he did not tower over many of his opponents. But he boasted a powerful build, long arms, and a quickness of hands and feet that mystified his foes.
Kekūhaupi‘o was persuaded to take Kameha under his tutelage by Kalani‘ōpu‘u, who on one of his visits to Alapa‘i’s court came upon Kameha hurling a hau-wood stick at a banana tree in the courtyard of Kalola’s hale. Kameha had been throwing the hau stick across the small courtyard repeatedly, with a single-minded determination that Kalani‘ōpu‘u found exceptional in a boy so young. His aim was straight and true. “It is my destiny to be a great warrior, Uncle,” Kameha proudly told him.
“It is indeed your destiny to be a warrior,” Kalani‘ōpu‘u replied. “That is the destiny of all ali‘i men. And you are right; you must be a great one.”
Soon after this, Kalani‘ōpu‘u went to visit Kekūhaupi‘o at Ke‘ei. “My nephew Kamehameha will be a warrior one day,” he said. “He has great need of your skills. Will you train him?”
Kekūhaupi‘o was a distant kinsman of Kamehameha’s first kahu, Nae‘ole. Moreover, from his uncle Holo‘ae—one of Alapa‘i’s kāhuna—he had heard of the mō‘ī’s plot against the life of the infant Kamehameha and he had disapproved. For all these reasons, he readily agreed. “It will be my great pleasure to train your nephew,” he said.
Kekūhaupi‘o was supremely skillful in throwing spears, and, perhaps more importantly for warfare in which shields were unknown, dodging and catching them. He was expert with the ‘īkoi, the tripping weapon; the Pahoa dagger; the lei o manō shark-tooth weapon; the short newa war club; the long lā’au palau club; the pohaku stone hand club; the ma‘a sling; and the ka‘ane strangulation cord—there was no weapon that Kekūhaupi‘o had not mastered. Above all, he was a master of lua, the art of breaking bones with bare hands. A combination of wrestling, punching, kicking, and paralyzing hand strikes, lua was the essential weapon in the arsenal of a well-trained warrior. As Kekūhaupi‘o explained to Kameha one day, “You must know lua, because in close combat, even when you do not have a dagger, spear, or club, you will still have your feet and your hands.”
Kamehameha began his military training with the spear, first with the ihe and later as he grew bigger, the longer pololu. His first target was a coconut tree. Kameha began by hurling an ihe spear from a distance of several times his height—about fifteen or sixteen feet at that time. As Kameha gained in accuracy and size, Kekūhaupi‘o made him stand ever farther away from the tree. “You must be able to strike your enemy before he can carry the fight to you,” he said, “no matter how far away he is.” As his training progressed, Kameha could hit the tree unerringly from greater and greater distances, his spears striking the center of the trunk, penetrating deep into the rough bark, and quivering for many seconds afterward.
One day, Kekūhaupi‘o said to him, “Kameha, your enemy will not stand before you like a coconut tree. Throw your spear at me.”
Kameha’s eyes widened. “Kekū, I cannot do that,” he protested. “I do not want to harm you.”
“You must throw your spear at a real man someday, boy,” Kekūhaupi‘o replied. “Throw it at me now.” Kameha still hesitated. “Now!” Kekūhaupi‘o commanded.
Kameha tossed his ihe spear in Kekūhaupi‘o’s general direction. It was a weak throw and the spear rattled flat on the ground at his kahu’s feet.
“What?” Kekūhaupi‘o snorted derisively. “You would go into battle throwing your spear like some woman? No, not like a woman—not even like a little girl.” Kameha’s tutor cocked his head. “Your little sister over there can throw better than that.”
Kameha glanced in the direction of Kekūhaupi‘o’s gesture. He saw that Keku‘iapoiwa Liliha had been watching them. Now she was laughing at Kamehameha from behind an upraised, inverted palm. He reddened.
Kekūhaupi‘o retrieved the spear and tossed it back upright to Kameha, who caught it with his throwing hand. “Throw it!” Kekūhaupi‘o commanded again.
This time, Kameha hurled the short spear at his teacher with all the angry force he could muster. The missile flew straight across the space between them, its sharp point aimed at the very center of Kekūhaupi‘o’s heavily muscled chest. But then, as if by magic, Kekūhaupi‘o was no longer in its path. In a movement almost too quick for Kameha’s eyes to follow, Kekūhaupi‘o darted to the right while reaching out with his left hand to catch the spear’s shaft as it sailed by him. Then, rapidly shifting the spear from his left hand to his right hand, Kekūhaupi‘o threw it straight back at Kamehameha. Kameha flung himself belly first to the ground and the ihe spear sailed harmlessly over his head, burying its point in the soft earth behind him. But before Kameha could get up, Kekūhaupi‘o was astride his back. He
grabbed Kamehameha’s long black hair and jerked his head up. Kameha felt the sharp point of a dagger against his throat. He gagged.
“You avoided my throw well,” Kekūhaupi‘o said, withdrawing the blade and releasing his grip on his young pupil’s hair. “But if this had been a real fight, you would surely be dead. You must always keep your feet under you. Your enemy will not let you rise once you are down. And he will show you no mercy.”
This was the way of fighting among our people, who neither expected any quarter nor offered any. In the months that followed, Kameha not only learned to keep his feet when dodging spears, but to catch them and hurl them back.
One afternoon, after a furious exchange, Kameha found himself holding two spears to Kekūhaupi‘o’s one. Instead of throwing again, Kameha waited to see if Kekūhaupi‘o would hurl his spear. His instructor nodded approvingly. “You have not only learned how to defend yourself,” he said, “you have learned the virtue of patience. Now you have two spears and I have only one. What would you have me do with my spear?”
“You should not throw it,” Kameha replied. “You would be defenseless.”
“That is correct,” Kekūhaupi‘o said. “I would keep this spear. So now, what will you do?”
“I will call for my brother over there to distract you with an attack on your flank so I can finish you off with one of my two spears.” My father had been watching this exchange between Kameha and his instructor from the shade of a nearby breadfruit tree.
Kekūhaupi‘o laughed. “Very good. You do not have to finish every fight by yourself. You have also learned the virtue of discretion.”
While Kekūhaupi‘o supervised Kamehameha’s military training, Nae‘ole continued to instruct him in the laws and lore of his people. One of the legends Nae‘ole imparted to his pupil was the story of the Pōhaku Naha, the Naha Stone. The Naha Stone was in Hilo. People said a Kaua‘i chieftain had brought it there a score of generations ago. How the chief managed this feat, no one could say. The stone was rectangular in shape, and no one knew whose hands had shaped it or how. It was half again as long as the largest of the ali‘i was tall and it weighed a thousand pounds or more in the haole measure. It was said that if a newborn ali‘i baby did not cry when it was laid on this stone, then the blood of the chiefly naha line surely ran in its veins. It was also said that a man who could move this stone would become a great chief, destined to rule over all the Hawaiian Islands.
“Has any man ever moved the Naha Stone?” Kameha asked.
“No,” Nae‘ole replied, “it has never been done, and to my knowledge, it has never even been attempted.”
“Why not?”
“Because the Naha Stone is kapu,” Nae‘ole said. “It is sacred. If a man were to attempt to move the stone and succeed, great things would be foretold for him. But if he were to try and fail, his reward would almost certainly be death—especially if he was not naha himself.” Nae‘ole paused. “And you are not naha.”
Kameha had learned the virtue of discretion in battle, but he had not learned its value with respect to his own sexual exploits. Stories of Kameha’s liaison with Kalola soon reached the ears of his cousin Kiwala‘ō, who was furious that Kameha had lain with his mother. He would make Kameha pay for this affront. But mindful of Kamehameha’s growing physical prowess, Kiwala‘ō sought to exact his revenge at a distance.
“Eh, there goes Kamehameha, the terrible wohi warrior,” he called out to Kameha one morning as the two approached each other on a footpath near Alapa‘i’s great hale. “I hear you are a great spearman, cousin.” As he spoke, Kiwala‘ō stood astride the path, blocking Kameha’s way.
Kameha stopped a few feet short of Kiwala‘ō and folded his arms. “I am still learning,” he said.
“Perhaps you would like to test your skill in a spear-throwing contest with me,” Kiwala‘ō replied.
Kiwala‘ō was supremely confident of his own skills with the spear, and he intended to teach Kameha a painful lesson in humility. Of his cousin’s abilities, he knew little, since Kameha trained in private with Kekūhaupi‘o.
“Perhaps you would like to test your skills in a wrestling contest with me,” Kameha rejoined.
“Of course, you would prefer wrestling to spears, cousin,” Kiwala‘ō answered. “See how much bigger you are than I.” Kamehameha was by this time an inch or two taller than Kiwala‘ō and broader across the chest. “Are you afraid to face me with a spear?”
Kameha’s face darkened. “I am not afraid to face you, Kiwala‘ō,” he said, “with or without spears.”
“Then meet me at this time tomorrow on the games field,” Kiwala‘ō replied, stepping aside at last.
That night, Kameha told Nae‘ole and Kekūhaupi‘o of Kiwala‘ō’s challenge.
“If you show the same skill against Kiwala‘ō that you have shown with me, Kameha, you will beat him handily,” Kekūhaupi‘o said. “Just remember to be patient.”
“And remember that Kiwala‘ō’s father is your uncle Kalani‘ōpu‘u,” Nae‘ole said. “You will beat Kiwala‘ō, of course. But you must take care not to inflict serious injury on him. It would not do well to anger your uncle.”
The games field was an uneven grassy clearing inland of Kawaihae. Kamehameha and Kiwala‘ō met there the next morning as the sun cleared the ridgeline to the east. Kiwala‘ō was accompanied by a friend, a boy about his own age. For his part, Kameha brought along my father, Keli‘imaika‘i. Kekūhaupi‘o also came, to act as referee.
Kekūhaupi‘o laid three ihe spears on the ground in front of each boy. Then he stepped well out of their way and raised one arm. In his hand, he held a dagger. “I will drop the pahoa,” Kekūhaupi‘o said. “When it hits the ground, you may begin—but not before. You may not touch each other directly. This contest is with spears only. There are no other rules.”
Kekūhaupi‘o released the dagger. When it struck the earth, Kameha and Kiwala‘ō each crouched and reached for a spear. Kiwala‘ō came out of his crouch almost immediately and rocked back to throw. Then he hesitated. Kameha was still in a crouch, gripping his spear in both hands and extending it in front of him. He presented a difficult target. As Kiwala‘ō hesitated, Kameha stood, drawing his right hand back as if preparing to hurl his spear. Now Kiwala‘ō let fly his spear. But because of his hesitation, his motion was not fluid and his aim was not true. Kameha easily side-stepped Kiwala‘ō’s spear, picking up a second spear at the same time. Now he held two. Kiwala‘ō was empty-handed. Kameha cocked his right arm again, but still he did not throw. Again, Kiwala‘ō hesitated. He looked from Kameha to Kekūhaupi‘o and back again. Kekūhaupi‘o’s face was impassive and unreadable.
Then, without taking his eyes off his opponent, Kiwala‘ō stooped to gather up another spear. In a single, fluid motion that put the full force of his broad back into his throw, Kamehameha whipped his right arm forward and sent his first spear flying at Kiwala‘ō. But instead of throwing directly at his cousin, Kameha aimed at the earth between him and his remaining spears. Kiwala‘ō jumped aside to avoid the throw. Low to the ground and off balance, he sprawled on his back. Kiwala‘ō scrambled to his feet and lunged for his remaining spear. But Kameha had gathered up his third spear and was racing across the field. Before Kiwala‘ō could retrieve his last spear, Kameha leaped in front of him and planted a foot on the weapon, freezing it to the earth. Kiwala‘ō scrambled backward as Kameha leveled the point of the spear in his right hand at his cousin’s chest. Then, without warning, Kameha swung the spear in his left hand at Kiwala‘ō, striking him in the side of the head with the shaft. Kiwala‘ō reeled and fell to his knees. Kamehameha lightly jabbed Kiwala‘ō’s chest with the point of his other spear, drawing a trickle of blood. Kiwala‘ō froze.
“Now, cousin,” Kameha said, as he stood over his opponent, “if we were fighting in a real battle, you would surely die.” Then he said with a smile, “Of course, we would never fight each other in a real battle.”
Unnoticed by both Kameha and
his cousin, Kiwala‘ō’s friend had crept close during this exchange. Still smarting from a beating Kameha had administered to him during a recent wrestling match, the other boy reached for a spear, intent on striking Kameha across the back. But before he could strike, Kekūhaupi‘o slapped him aside.
“Enough!” Kekūhaupi‘o said. “This contest is finished.”
Tossing his spear aside, Kameha bent over his cousin and extended an open hand. The unhappy Kiwala‘ō raised one arm to swat it away, where-upon Kameha grasped his hand and pulled him, against his will, to his feet. “Now this wohi warrior is satisfied,” Kameha said.
“You are not even wohi,” Kiwala‘ō spat at him. “Everyone knows who your real father is, and it’s not my uncle Keoua.”
“What are you talking about?” Kameha demanded.
“Your father is Kahekili of Maui,” Kiwala‘ō jeered, “and you are no more than his kuhaulua cast-off.”
Kameha tensed, ready to spring at Kiwala‘ō, but Kekūhaupi‘o swiftly stepped between them. “Your uncle Keoua is Kamehameha’s acknowledged and true father, Kiwala‘ō,” Kekūhaupi‘o said, “and you are foolish to say otherwise. I would advise you to hold your tongue on this subject, lest you convince Kameha here that he is not your cousin and therefore need not look to your continued health.
“And you, boy,” said Kekū, turning to Kiwala‘ō’s friend, who was still rubbing his stinging cheek, “you should take more care about making enemies. You will have enough in your life without manufacturing them.”
Gathering up the spears on the ground, Kekūhaupi‘o said to Kameha, “Come, we are done here.” They turned away and started down the footpath to the coast with my father trailing behind them. As my father told me later, Kekūhaupi‘o was less than pleased with his student’s performance.
Once There Was Fire: A Novel of Old Hawaii Page 5