“How dare you strike me?” he shouted at his unknown assailant. “Don’t you know who I am? I am Lilihae, the sorcerer. It is certain death to threaten me.”
“And I am Kalani‘ōpu‘u, the high chief of Ka‘ū,” came the cold reply from the darkness above him. “And for certain, dead sorcerers are no threat!”
A sudden chill coursed through Lilihae’s thin frame. The last sound he heard was the rush of air that preceded the skull-smashing blow of Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s war club.
“Kamehameha and Kekūhaupi‘o wanted to slay Maile on the spot,” my father recounted, “but Kalani‘ōpu‘u would not allow it.”
“No,” Kalani‘ōpu‘u said. “We will send him back to Keawe‘ōpala and his dog, Ka‘akau.” He turned to Maile, who quavered on his knees before him. “Go and tell the son of the usurper to meet me in open battle, if he dares.”
Though both were now old enough to fight, neither Kamehameha nor Kiwala‘ō took part in the great battle that ended in Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s accession to the throne of the Big Island. Kalani‘ōpu‘u would not permit it. “Neither of you have experienced war,” he told them, “and this is not the place to begin. I could not bear it if either of you should fall today. You will have many opportunities to prove yourselves as warriors, but I must defeat Keawe‘ōpala first.” Kameha and Kiwala‘ō were thus kept well away from the fray, as was my father. They remained in the rear with Kalani‘ōpu‘u, only later learning of the battle’s bloody events.
“It was a terrible fight that went on for several days,” my father told me many years later. “The ground was rough and uneven, with many hidden holes, and thus the warriors could not fight and support each other in orderly lines,” he said. Instead, my father explained, they fought makawalu—in roving bands—and so it was very difficult for one side to gain a clear advantage over the other. “At first, much blood was spilled with no gain,” he said.
Kalani‘ōpu‘u finally turned the awful tide in his favor by violating a sacred custom. In those days, when a clash of great significance occurred, such as a contest for the kingship of the entire island, it was customary for the high priests of each side to lead their people into battle. These kāhuna nui were the mihaus, chaplains of their respective armies, and by tradition, their persons were kapu—inviolate by any combatant—even in the midst of the fiercest fighting. They would carry a tall branch stripped from a hau tree and topped with white feathers so that their own people could see them and no opposing soldiers would mistake them for warriors. Wherever they stood, the mihaus would often plant this branch in the ground or among the lava rocks. Most fighters believed that their own side would prevail as long as they could still see their mihau’s hau branch.
It was Holo‘ae, newly installed as Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s high priest, who urged him to disregard the kapu, sending the message through Kekūhaupi‘o. “If that is what must be done,” Kalani‘ōpu‘u responded, “then do it, and quickly!”
At this time, Kalani‘ōpu‘u was still keeping well removed from the fighting, standing with Kameha, Kiwala‘ō, and my father in the middle of a large group of young, relatively untried warriors armed with long pololu spears. This was the way of things for the high chiefs when the order of battle was the helter-skelter fighting of makawalu. Keawe‘ōpala was doing likewise at the opposite end of the sprawling battleground.
Kekūhaupi‘o set off with some of Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s personal guards. He had no trouble finding Ka‘akau, standing as he was where fighters on both sides could easily see him. He was holding his hau branch high and waving it back and forth. Maile was with him. Maile was alarmed when he saw Kekūhaupi‘o and the enemy warriors running toward them, but Ka‘akau did not flinch. “They will not harm me,” he said. “I am mihau.” Squaring his shoulders, Ka‘akau watched with amusement as Kekūhaupi‘o and his men approached.
“What brings you here to me, Kekū?” he asked, when Kekūhaupi‘o stood before him at last. “Has Kalani‘ōpu‘u sent you to sue for peace?” It was not uncommon when two sides were evenly matched for one or the other to suggest a truce to avoid further bloodshed, and this battle had already been raging without resolution for several days.
Kekūhaupi‘o smiled at Ka‘akau, but said nothing. He moved toward the priest as if to hug him. Ka‘akau stepped forward as well. Maile, who saw in Kekūhaupi‘o’s broadening smile only the cold whiteness of his teeth below the hard glitter of his eyes, took a step backward.
Now Ka‘akau planted his hau branch in the ground and opened his arms. Kekūhaupi‘o gripped the priest tightly by his shoulders and murmured into his ear, “Don’t be so familiar with me, old man. I was never ‘Kekū’ to you.” At this, Ka‘akau stiffened and tried to pull away, but it was too late. Kekūhaupi‘o grasped his head, twisted it sharply, and snapped his neck. Ka‘akau’s spirit fled at once. With a sigh of disgust, Kekūhaupi‘o flung the priest’s body aside and kicked over the kahuna’s hau branch.
Horrified, Maile turned and fled. “Let him go!” Kekūhaupi‘o ordered, as several warriors made to run after him. “He is of no consequence now. I will settle with him later.” Then, pointing at Ka‘akau’s body, Kekūhaupi‘o said, “Pick that up and take it to Kalani‘ōpu‘u.”
Maile proved to be of some consequence after all. For as he fled from the awful scene of Ka‘akau’s murder, he spread panic among Keawe‘ōpala’s people. “Ka‘akau is dead! Ka‘akau is dead! His hau branch has fallen,” he wailed. “We are lost!” His fear was contagious, and soon many of Keawe‘ōpala’s warriors had joined Maile in his headlong flight from the field of battle.
While Kalani‘ōpu‘u remained in the rear, Ke‘eaumoku and his half-brother Kame‘iamoku had led the fight against Keawe‘ōpala’s forces. When they saw their enemies begin to break and run back towards Ke‘ei, they shouted for their own men to pursue them. A disjointed chase commenced as their orders were relayed from fighting group to fighting group. In some places, small bands of Keawe‘ōpala’s people turned and fought, inflicting serious casualties among their pursuers before they were overwhelmed. In other places, larger groups fled like flocks of nene—mountain geese—flushed from cover. Some were cut down as they ran, but many others escaped. As the rout of Keawe‘ōpala’s warriors began, Kekūhaupi‘o sent a young warrior back to Kalani‘ōpu‘u to tell him to join the pursuit. Then, with a jubilant shout, he joined the chase himself.
Well to the battle’s rear, Keawe‘ōpala did not understand what was happening at first. When he saw his own people running toward him, he thought they were coming with news of victory. But then he made out the cries of distress. He could not fathom what had changed. Both sides were still more or less equally matched. If anything, he held a slight numerical advantage. His warriors had matched the enemy in ferocity, but now many of them were in flight. Why?
As if in answer to his puzzlement, a ragged form burst through the phalanx of warriors in front of Keawe‘ōpala and collapsed at his feet. It was Maile.
“My lord, we are lost!” he gasped. “Ka‘akau is dead and his hau branch has fallen.”
“Ka‘akau, dead? The branch fallen? How can this be?”
“Kekūhaupi‘o slew him,” Maile wailed. “He kicked over the hau branch.”
Keawe‘ōpala exploded. “And for this reason, our people are running away?” he shouted. “Ka‘akau is mihau. It is kapu to harm him! It is kapu for any man to touch the hau branch. Kekūhaupi‘o has offended the god Kūkā‘ilimoku, and Kalani‘ōpu‘u will surely pay for it!” Without a further word to his retinue, Keawe‘ōpala rushed forward to rally his scattered warriors.
A more cautious leader might not have acted so hastily amid all the confusion. But Keawe‘ōpala had never been one for circumspection. For that, he had depended first on Alapa‘i, and then on his high priest, Ka‘akau. But Ka‘akau was gone, and so now, certain of his own cause and with no one to restrain him, Keawe‘ōpala dashed onto the battlefield well ahead of his personal guard. It was a foolhardy move, for it was no
t his own people he found first, but Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s.
Keawe‘ōpala saw a group of men running in his direction, and thinking they were warriors loyal to him, shouted at them to turn back. “This battle is not yet decided!” he cried. “Stand and fight! I order you to stand and fight!”
“We are fighting,” one of the warriors shouted back as the group closed on Keawe‘ōpala. “And who are you to order us?” he demanded. This particular band of warriors was composed of younger men from the Puna District who did not know Keawe‘ōpala on sight.
The warrior’s challenge brought Keawe‘ōpala up short. He froze in his tracks, dumbfounded by the question. “Who am I to order you?” he roared at the men, who had likewise stopped running and were now arrayed in a semicircle some ten or fifteen paces from him. “I am your mō‘ī, Keawe‘ōpala!”
“Then we do not answer to you,” replied the warrior, who was the group’s leader. “Our ‘mō‘ī’ is Kalani‘ōpu‘u.”
Realizing his mistake, Keawe‘ōpala glanced back to see the warriors of his personal guard racing toward him. “To me! To me!” he shouted to them over his shoulder. “Come kill these dogs of Kalani‘ōpu‘u!”
Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s warriors exchanged apprehensive looks. They were isolated on the battlefield and suddenly outnumbered, with little chance of outrunning their foes. But their young leader understood what must be done. Without hesitation, he hurled his long pololu spear at the mō‘ī of the Big Island.
When he was younger, Keawe‘ōpala had taken part in mock battles, like all ali‘i warriors, but he was clumsy and had never excelled at throwing, catching, or dodging spears. As he grew older and more fearful of injury, he avoided these competitions. Now he was out of practice. He tried to sidestep the oncoming spear, but he stumbled and the weapon caught him almost squarely in the middle of his chest. Keawe‘ōpala screamed in agony and sagged to his knees, clutching the spear’s shaft. At this moment, his guards arrived.
“Kill them! Kill them, now!” Keawe‘ōpala moaned. He was still on his knees, and as he spoke, blood poured from his mouth.
For a brief moment, no one on either side moved. Keawe‘ōpala’s guards gaped in disbelief at their gravely wounded king. Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s warriors stood by as if they were no more than shocked bystanders at a terrible event.
“Kill them,” Keawe‘ōpala moaned again. “Kill them.” He fought desperately to remain on his knees. He could no longer hold his head up and he was mumbling into his own chest.
The leader of Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s small warrior band locked eyes with his counterpart among Keawe‘ōpala’s guards over their chieftain’s bowed head. Then, before any of Keawe‘ōpala’s people could react, he grabbed a war club from one of his comrades and swung it at Keawe‘ōpala’s skull. It was a mortal blow. Keawe‘ōpala sighed once and toppled over.
The opposing warrior bands faced each other in silence. No one moved. Then, almost in unison, Keawe‘ōpala’s guards dropped their weapons, fell to their knees, and commenced wailing. With their mō‘ī dead, their cause was lost. For Keawe‘ōpala himself was their cause, and now they had no one and nothing left to fight for. Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s young warriors made no move to harm them. They did not cheer or gloat. Instead, they stood by quietly.
It was upon this tableau of death, sorrow, and subdued satisfaction that Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s party and the forces led by Ke‘eaumoku converged some time later, drawn from various quarters of the battlefield by the loud keening of Keawe‘ōpala’s people. Kekūhaupi‘o, who arrived soon afterwards, set off almost immediately in search of Maile.
All the fighting ceased with Keawe‘ōpala’s death. Kalani‘ōpu‘u took Keawe‘ōpala’s body back to Hōnaunau and ordered his corpse baked with Ka‘akau’s in a special imu. He sacrificed their charred flesh on the altar of Kūkā‘ilimoku. Holo‘ae presided at this ceremony, and father said that he “took great pleasure in it.” Afterward, Kalani‘ōpu‘u ordered Ka‘akau’s remains thrown into the sea. He ordered Keawe‘ōpala’s flesh stripped from his long bones and likewise discarded. He kept the bones for himself. “He had them carved into fish hooks and other trinkets which he distributed to the chiefs, and to Kiwala‘o, Kamehameha, and me,” my father said.
Kalani‘ōpu‘u claimed that by acquiring Keawe‘ōpala’s relics, one would also appropriate the slain man’s mana. Kamehameha was dubious as to its value, however. “Keawe‘ōpala was so easily defeated that his mana cannot be very strong,” he said.
Kekūhaupi‘o did not return to Hōnaunau until well after dusk that day. When Kamehameha and my father asked him where he had gone, he replied simply, “I went to settle a debt for Nae‘ole’s spirit.” Maile was never seen again.
That night, there was a great feast. There was much dancing and chanting. In the midst of this celebration, Ke‘eaumoku turned to Kalani‘ōpu‘u and asked, “What shall be done with Keawe‘ōpala’s people?”
The new mō‘ī of the Big Island looked at him with some puzzlement and then replied, “Why, nothing, of course. They are all my people now.”
Pauoa, O‘ahu 1858
In the night I have a disturbing dream. In my dream, I am alone in a traditional hale of pili-grass construction. It is nighttime and a single kukui-oil lamp lights the hale. A gust of wind blows open the hale’s door, extinguishes the lamp’s flame, and plunges me into total darkness. I cannot see my own hand in front of my face, nor can I hear anything, not even when I snap my fingers. I feel panicky. Wakefulness rescues me from this nightmare, and I sit up in bed and take quick stock of my surroundings. I am cocooned in the vague shadows of a moonless night. Esther slumbers peacefully next to me. Her soft breathing calms me and I lie back once more. I fall asleep wondering if my dream is a presentiment of my own death or of something more.
I have been unwell and I have not touched my manuscript for several weeks. As always when I am indisposed, Esther is especially attentive to me. She has canceled her social engagements in town without complaint to stay home and care for me.
At times like this, when I feel poorly and am reluctant to rise from our bed in the morning, Esther brings me my breakfast. She plies me with hot tea and with juice which our servants have squeezed from the guavas and passion fruit they collect each morning from our trees. She brings me a tray with cut-up bananas—again from our own trees—soft-boiled eggs, from our own hens of course, and store-bought biscuits if I can bear them, or some porridge or broth if I cannot. I could not ask for a more loving partner in my old age.
Esther Kapi‘olani and I have been married for six years. She was just eighteen when we wed, and I was already an old man of sixty-one. Among our people, so many of whom have died prematurely of haole diseases, I am very fortunate to have lived as long as I have. In 1848 and 1849, successive epidemics of measles, mumps, whooping cough, and influenza—illnesses generally not fatal among haoles—took the lives of ten thousand people, and perhaps more. Thousands more died of smallpox in 1852 and 1853.
The haoles estimate that when Captain Cook first came upon our islands in 1778, the entire archipelago’s population numbered some four hundred thousand souls. Though I cannot prove it, I believe there were more than that. Today, according to the government’s last census, we number fewer than one hundred thousand.
Esther and I still entertain hopes of retarding this decline, at least in our own household. To date, unfortunately, we have tried without success, although certainly not without pleasure. My young wife is most pleasant to look upon. Her face is open, her eyes bright, her lips beckoning, and her shoulders elegant. And when Esther comes to me in her shift, as she has this morning, her bosom on glorious display, I yearn to reach out to her. But this day I do not. I hope Esther is not disappointed with me. It would not surprise me if she has taken a lover in town, but she never fails to return to me by evening and I am grateful to her.
This morning, Esther radiates warmth as she sits beside me in bed and shares breakfast with me. I cannot imagine now how I
once took it on faith that women must neither prepare food for men nor eat with us. In some things, haole ways are preferable.
Are you feeling better today, husband? Esther asks me as she softly strokes my arm.
Yes, I say.
Esther tells me she has been reading my manuscript. It is wonderful, she says. Promise me you will finish it.
I promise, I say. Eventually I rouse myself from our bed, throw on a robe, and return to my desk on the lanai to commence writing once more.
Kalani‘ ōpu‘u
E hume i ka malo, e ho‘okala i ka ihe
Gird the loincloth, sharpen the spear
Kawaihae and Hana, Maui 1766-1768
After the defeat of Keawe‘ōpala, Kalani‘ōpu‘u moved his court north to Kawaihae and consolidated his hold over the Big Island. Keawe‘ōpala’s own people had mostly sworn obeisance and Kalani‘ōpu‘u rewarded their submission by dividing the island equitably among his own followers and the former adherents of the fallen mō‘ī alike. Keawe‘ōpala’s lieutenants were grateful to Kalani‘ōpu‘u for this generous treatment. To those of his people who voiced dissatisfaction with this arrangement, Kalani‘ōpu‘u said, “We are all kinsmen here, and we must share our island as kinsmen.” Given the tangle of interrelationships among Hawai‘i’s noble families, this was the truth. The dissidents still grumbled among themselves, but they assented nevertheless. And thus, the island’s peace was secured for the time being.
Kamehameha and my father remained with Kalani‘ōpu‘u at his court at Kawaihae for some months. Life was pleasant there. They continued their rigorous military training with Kekūhaupi‘o and Mulihele, but they also had ample time for surf riding, swimming, and other sports. There were feasts nearly every night, followed by dancing, singing, and storytelling. And of course, there were wāhine—many wāhine. Kamehameha continued his amorous liaisons with Kaneikapolei. But he also found time to sport with other women.
Once There Was Fire: A Novel of Old Hawaii Page 16