“You are right, of course, Kalanimālokuloku,” he said. Then he laughed and said, “Nevertheless, I see how you look at her, little brother. I trust that you have no intention of abasing your own self with her when I am not looking.”
Kalani‘ōpu‘u greeted my father warmly when he and Nae‘ole reached Ka‘ū.
“Welcome, Kalanimālokuloku,” he cried, embracing him. “Welcome to my hale, nephew. How goes it with Kamehameha?”
“He is well, Uncle,” my father replied. “He is at Alapa‘i’s court in Hilo. Kekūhaupi‘o is with him.”
“It is good that Kameha keeps his kahu close to him. He has many enemies at Alapa‘i’s court. No matter how much Alapa‘i proclaims his love for Kameha, the old man cannot protect him from them. They will try to do him harm if they can.”
Alapa‘i had also professed great love for Kalani‘ōpu‘u. But Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s heart was not warmed by the mō‘ī’s affectionate words. “It is the ‘awa speaking,” he scoffed. “And Keawe‘ōpala and his allies are only waiting for the old man to die before they move against me. They may not even wait until then.”
To his kahu, Puna, he said, “We must make ready to strike our enemies before they can attack us. I will not stand still, waiting to dodge the first spear.”
While Kalani‘ōpu‘u readied for war, my father resumed his military training with his own kahu, Mulihele. My father had already been under Mulihele’s tutelage for several years, studying spear-throwing, dodging, and catching, dagger thrusting and club wielding, the pīkoi, or tripping weapon, and the sling. He taught my father well enough so that when the time came, as it inevitably did for all ali‘i, my father could hold his own in battle. And, like all the kahus of old Hawaii, Mulihele fought always at his student’s side, saving my father’s life on more than one occasion—a favor which my father repaid more than once.
As Kalani‘ōpu‘u had promised Puna, he did not wait for his enemies to throw the first spear, and thus began a time of war. Kalani‘ōpu‘u first attacked Hilo from the sea, but he was repulsed, so he then mounted an overland assault from the Puna district, only to be pushed back again. Hundreds of men died on both sides in these battles, which altered nothing.
Keawe‘ōpala vociferously advocated reprisal raids against the Puna and Ka‘ū districts after Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s second failed campaign, but his father showed no interest in pursuing Kalani‘ōpu‘u or punishing his people. Nor would he countenance any act of revenge against Kamehameha.
“Kalani‘ōpu‘u has behaved brashly, and he has paid for his foolishness,” Alapa‘i said. “As long as he keeps to Ka‘ū, we will let him be. As for Kameha, he has committed no offense against me and he remains my honored guest.” When Keawe‘ōpala began to protest, Alapa‘i cut him off with an abrupt wave of his hand. “I’m old and I’m weary of fighting,” he said. “Be patient, Keawe‘ōpala. You will have your own war with Kalani‘ōpu‘u soon enough after I am gone.”
Kawaihae, 1764
In the year following Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s failed rebellion, Alapa‘i relocated his court several times: first to the lush, intimate confines of Waipi‘o; then to the drier, open highlands of Waimea; and finally to Kawaihae and its humid coastal heat. To some extent, Alapa‘i’s own restless nature induced these moves. He had been in constant motion around the Big Island, and for that matter among all our islands, throughout his life. But at this time they were compelled by the mō‘ī’s declining health.
When his health first began to fail him in Hilo, Alapa‘i’s priests, Holo’ae and Ka‘akau, had consulted with his healers and advised him, “Waipi‘o’s waters will revive you, Lord.” When Alapa‘i’s condition failed to improve after several months in the valley, they said, “Waimea’s sweet air will prove restorative.” And when that remedy also brought no relief, they told him, “Kawaihae’s heat will purge your illness.”
Kamehameha and his kahu Kekūhaupi‘o accompanied Alapa‘i in his travels around the Big Island—at the mō‘ī’s insistence. Throughout this time, they were treated as honored guests at the old king’s court, despite Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s revolt. They were not comforted by this, for they knew it was only by Alapa‘i’s command. There were others, Keawe‘ōpala foremost among them, who did not wish them well. Holo‘ae, who was Kekūhaupi‘o’s uncle, kept them abreast of their adversaries’ intentions.
“Alapa‘i’s son does not share his father’s kind feelings toward you, Kameha,” Holo‘ae reminded him one night. The priest had come to see Kamehameha and Kekūhaupi‘o at the hale they shared in the newly relocated royal compound at Waimea. Kameha and the two older men sat cross-legged on sedge mats around a kukui-oil lamp. The lamp’s trembling flame illuminated their faces but little else in the hale. “Keawe‘ōpala will move against you. He only waits for his father to die.”
“And yet Kameha and I cannot leave court while Alapa‘i still lives,” Kekūhaupi‘o said. “We must stand here waiting to catch Keawe‘ōpala’s spear.”
“Trust me,” replied Holo‘ae. “I will let you know when he is about to throw it.”
That year Kamehameha became a father for the first of many times. His lover, Kaneikapolei, gave birth to a son at Ka‘ū. She named the baby Pauli Ka‘ōleiokū, though throughout his life he would be known by his nickname, Pauli. As he had promised, Kalani‘ōpu‘u adopted the child.
“Here is your new brother,” Kalani‘ōpu‘u said, holding up the squalling newborn for his own sons Kiwala‘ō, Keōua Kū‘ahu‘ula, and Keōuape‘e‘ale to see.
“He is no brother to me, Father,” objected Kiwala‘ō.
“He is the son of your cousin Kamehameha, the mover of the Naha Stone, and the grandson of your late uncle, my beloved brother, Keoua,” Kalani‘ōpu‘u replied. “He will be a son to me and therefore a brother to you, Kiwala‘ō.”
The younger boys, who shared the same mother with Pauli, needed no such explanation from their father. Keōua Kū‘ahu‘ula and Keōuape‘e‘ale eyed the baby with mild curiosity before returning to their play. Their new brother would hold little interest for them until he learned to walk. Even then, because of the difference in their ages, he would be relegated to trailing after the older boys, more tolerated than accepted. Thus did Pauli, the first son of the man who would unite all of our islands, become a born follower.
Kiwala‘ō may have wanted little or nothing to do with Pauli, but he was friendly to my father. During their time together at Ka‘ū, my father and Kiwala‘ō engaged in spirited but amiable competitions in spear throwing and wrestling. They rode the surf together at Kāwā Bay. “Kiwala‘ō always treated me well,” my father told me. “Of course,” he added, “it helped that he never saw me as a potential rival for power.”
It also no doubt helped that Kiwala‘ō never saw my father as a potential rival for the affections of his own mother, Kalola. Kalola was very kind to my father, but only in the manner of a loving aunt. She showed no interest in initiating him into the rites of manhood, as she had Kamehameha.
Keku‘iapoiwa Liliha, who was Kalola’s daughter by Keoua, was taken with Kiwala‘ō, and followed her half-brother everywhere. Lili, as she was affectionately called, was about ten or eleven years old at this time. She was a lithe girl on the cusp of womanhood with flashing eyes and an infectious giggle. Kiwala‘ō hardly seemed to notice her, though she contrived to be in close proximity to him whenever she could. “That little wahine is always getting underfoot,” he told my father with some irritation. “One day, I will fall on her.” Indeed, one day he would, but not in the manner he then imagined.
Pauli’s birth turned Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s thoughts anew to the infant’s father, Kamehameha. “I am worried about Kameha,” he told his nephew’s old kahu, Nae‘ole, one day. “Alapa‘i himself may mean the boy no harm, but I fear that some of his people wish Kameha ill. We must extricate him from my uncle’s court.”
Nae‘ole, who shared Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s concern, volunteered to undertake a mission to Alapa‘i. �
�I will go see the mō‘ī,” he said. “I will tell him that you desire peace with him, and that you wish to see your nephew again. Perhaps Alapa‘i will give Kameha leave to go.”
“Or perhaps you can devise a means for Kameha to slip away, whether Alapa‘i agrees to his leaving or no,” said Kalani‘ōpu‘u.
Nae‘ole set out for Waimea, where Alapa‘i was by this time, traveling first by canoe to Kailua and then ascending on foot to the cool highlands below the summit of Mauna Kea. He found the old king reclining on a sedge mat in the courtyard of his hale.
In observance of the kapu, Nae‘ole squatted before the mō‘ī. “I bring greetings from Kalani‘ōpu‘u, my lord,” he said. “He wishes you well and desires nothing more than peace between you and him.”
“So my nephew now regrets his past impertinence?” Alapa‘i replied. Nae‘ole said nothing, merely lowering his head as if to suggest agreement. “Then why does he not come to see me himself with this news?”
“He is much occupied with matters of governance at Ka‘ū and he regrets that he could not come in person, my lord,” Nae‘ole said. “But he begs that his beloved nephew Kamehameha join him in Ka‘ū.”
“It is sad that a man as young as Kalani‘ōpu‘u should already have so many regrets, Nae‘ole,” Alapa‘i responded, part in jest and part in irritation. “Ah well, I welcome Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s offer of peace. You may return to Ka‘ū and tell him so. As for young Kamehameha, his company pleases me. My time grows short and I would keep him by my side. He may leave after I am gone, if he wishes. Tell Kalani‘ōpu‘u that also.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Nae‘ole replied. “I will tell him all you have said.”
Later, Nae‘ole visited Kamehameha and Kekūhaupi‘o.
“Kameha, you have a child, a healthy boy,” Nae‘ole said, after the three men had wailed and hugged each other in greeting. “The baby’s name is Pauli Ka‘ōleiokū and Kalani‘ōpu‘u has adopted him as his own son.”
Kamehameha smiled. In truth, he had all but forgotten Kaneikapolei’s pregnancy. But he well remembered her pliant body and her gentle favors. “And how is Kaneikapolei?” he asked.
“She is well,” Nae‘ole said.
“I hope I will see her again soon,” Kameha said.
“You won’t,” said Nae‘ole. “The old man will not hear of you leaving his side while he lives.”
“And if we do not take care, Nae‘ole, others will ensure that Kameha never again sees Kaneikapolei, or Kalani‘ōpu‘u, or his own new child,” said Kekūhaupi‘o, emphasizing the last three words. “You still think too much with your worm,” he reprimanded Kameha.
“Then it is true that Kameha is in danger here, Kekū?”
“He is in grave danger, Nae‘ole,” Kekūhaupi‘o replied. “Already, Keawe‘ōpala plots against him. In truth, Kameha’s life depends upon Alapa‘i’s breath. And Alapa‘i is not well.” Kamehameha remained silent as the two men spoke, glancing from one to the other.
“And what will you and Kameha do when Alapa‘i breathes no more?”
“Holo‘ae will help us,” Kameha said at last.
“Alapa‘i’s own kahuna?” Nae‘ole was surprised. “How can he help?”
“He has promised to warn us when Keawe‘ōpala decides to move against us. At least, Keawe‘ōpala will not be able to surprise us.”
“Kameha,” Nae‘ole replied, “it is one thing to know when your enemy will strike and another to be prepared for it.” He turned to Kekūhaupi‘o. “Kekū, what will you do when Alapa‘i dies?”
“You can be sure we will not stay long to mourn him,” Kekūhaupi‘o said. “But in truth, I do not yet know how we will contrive to leave.”
“Perhaps you should leave before the old man dies,” Nae‘ole said.
“It is kapu for Kameha to leave the court while Alapa‘i still lives, Nae‘ole. And Keawe‘ōpala’s people watch us very closely. If Kameha were caught trying to leave without Alapa‘i’s permission, it would almost certainly mean death for him.”
“Then he must find a way to quit the court without being perceived as leaving,” Nae‘ole replied.
Quitting Alapa‘i’s court—in any manner—was not possible for Kamehameha while the old king remained in Waimea. Still alert and in good spirits despite his failing health, Alapa‘i would summon Kameha to his side almost daily to regale him with stories of his old battles and to demand of the young man: “Kameha, tell me again how you moved the Naha Stone.” Alapa‘i never tired of hearing this story. Kamehameha would always relate it in the same laconic fashion, concluding on the same self-effacing yet immodest note: “It was not I who moved the stone, my lord. It was the god Kūkā‘ilimoku who moved it from within me.” And Alapa‘i’s response was inevitably the same: “E Kameha! Kūkā‘ilimoku truly moves within you? He favors you then?”
“No, Lord,” Kameha would always reply. “He does not move in me or favor me. He merely took pity on me that one time.”
Alapa‘i would smile. “And how many can say even that, eh Kameha? How many, indeed?”
“Old Alapa‘i truly believed that the god was in me,” Kameha told my father later. “I think he was convinced that by keeping me close to him, his mana would be strengthened by mine.”
Even if the old mō‘ī had not taken such an interest in Kameha, it would have been very difficult for him to get away from the king’s court at Waimea. The surrounding countryside was open grassland that afforded little cover, and all the trails were closely watched, by day and by night. And had he tried to leave, he would not have gotten far, for Waimea was a long way mauka from the sea, which offered the only truly feasible avenue of escape. Ironically, it was Alapa‘i himself who opened that avenue for Kameha.
Alapa‘i set Kameha’s escape plan in motion by relocating his court from the highlands of Waimea to the Kohala Coast. “Kekū,” Kamehameha exclaimed to his kahu soon after their arrival in Kawaihae, “I know how it can be done.”
“How, Kameha?”
“I can take my leave on a surf-riding board. Keawe‘ōpala will not be looking for that.”
Kekūhaupi‘o was skeptical at first. “And how far do you think you can paddle on a surf-riding board, Kameha?” he asked.
Kamehameha pursed his lips and furrowed his brow in thought for a moment. Then he said, “I will paddle as far as I must to meet a canoe that you will arrange, Kekū.”
At about this time, Alapa‘i lapsed into his final illness. What was wrong with Alapa‘i, no one could say for certain. His breathing became labored. He walked with great difficulty. His appetite was failing. He even lost the taste for his beloved ‘awa. The healers generally agreed that Alapa‘i was afflicted by a loss of mana. But they differed on the cause.
“Evil spirits have entered the king’s body,” one said.
“His ancestral god is displeased with him,” another said.
“The source of Alapa‘i’s illness is surely sorcery,” a third argued. “Kalani‘ōpu‘u is praying him to death.” This last diagnosis was taken very seriously.
These healers of Alapa‘i’s court, kāhuna whose vocation was the treatment of illness, administered a variety of cures to the ailing monarch. They restricted his diet, barring him from eating squid, sea snails, and moss. They plied him with a potion made from ‘ōlena root—turmeric—and bark of the koa and mountain apple trees, to cleanse his blood. They fed him a tonic made of baked laukahi leaves to restore his strength. None of these remedies succeeded.
Now, in a hale hau—a small sick house—at Kawaihae, the healers called upon higher powers. First they gave the ailing Alapa‘i a steam bath, followed by such nourishment as he was still able to take. They sacrificed a hog to Alapa‘i’s family god; they seized an unfortunate commoner on the pretext of violating some petty kapu and dragged him to the heiau of Alapa‘i’s war god, Kūkā‘ilimoku, where they strangled him and left his body to rot on the god’s altar. Finally, in the gathering dusk, they prayed to Kanaloa to drive the sickness from the
king and restore his mana.
O Kanaloa, god of the squid!
Here is your patient, Alapa‘i
O squid of the deep blue sea,
Squid that inhabits the coral reef,
Squid that burrows in the sand,
Squid that squirts water from its sack!
Here is a sick man for you to heal, Alapa‘i
A patient put to bed for treatment
By the squid that lies flat.
Then they waited through the night for a sign from the god. If no rain fell, Alapa‘i would surely live. In that case, in the morning a fisherman would be dispatched to catch a “squid that lies flat”—an octopus—to cook and feed to the king. But if rain fell during the night, Alapa‘i would almost certainly die. Kawaihae was just north of the Kohala Coast’s lava desert, so the odds of a night without precipitation were in the king’s favor. But there was no need for the kāhuna to send out a fisherman the next morning. Rain did fall that night.
Alapa‘i summoned Keawe‘ōpala to his side. Holo‘ae and Ka‘akau were hovering over the king as he lay on his sleeping mat. The once mighty war chief struggled to raise himself on one elbow. “Keawe‘ōpala,” he said, “my time is almost at an end. When I die, you shall succeed me as mō‘ī of all Hawai‘i. All the chiefs know that this is my will.”
“Father, the chiefs will respect your wishes, or I will—” Keawe‘ōpala began, but Alapa‘i weakly waved him to be silent. Then, with much effort, he spoke in a tremulous voice that underscored his dire condition.
Once There Was Fire: A Novel of Old Hawaii Page 10