Once There Was Fire

by Stephen Shender

  “What is the boy’s name?” Alapa‘i asked.

  Keku‘i released Kameha and an awkward silence settled on the group. The little boy had never been formally named. In the old days, we named our children during a ritual cutting of the umbilical cord. But on the tumultuous night of Kameha’s birth, the ritual had been overlooked.

  Kameha himself had never wondered about his name. Observing how sturdy he was, even as a baby, his Waipi‘o foster parents had taken to calling him Pai‘ea, after the hard-shelled crab. Nae‘ole, on the other hand, had never addressed him by anything other than “boy.” Now Kameha looked confusedly from one adult to the other. “All at once I realized that even my name was not real,” he would later recount to my father.

  Keku‘i broke the silence. “His name,” she said, “is Kamehameha.”

  “Ah, ‘the lonely one,’” said Alapa‘i. “That is a fitting name for one who has spent his first years so far removed from his parents and estranged from his mō‘ī’s court.” Keku‘i looked away. Keoua continued to rest his palm lightly on Kameha’s head.

  “My lord,” Keoua said, without looking at Keku‘i, “since our son has been so long away from your court, perhaps he should remain with you now for his education in the ways of the ali‘i and the warrior. Please take him in hanai to raise.”

  “That is wise,” Alapa‘i responded. “Your first-born son, Kamehameha, shall stay here with us for the time being. Nae‘ole will continue as his tutor and Keakaka‘uhiwa will be his foster mother.” Keaka was one of Alapa‘i’s wives, and the mother of his oldest son, Keawe‘ōpala. Keoua nodded his assent. Keku‘i said nothing.

  And so it came about that my uncle Kamehameha, reunited with his parents at long last, was immediately given over by them to the care of King Alapa‘i, who had once plotted to murder him at his mother’s breast. Kameha, who would not come to understand Keoua’s reasoning until much later in life, only felt the sting of rejection.

  “At the time, I did not understand why our mother and father did not want to keep me close to them,” he told my father years afterward. “But later, I realized that Keoua meant to reassure Alapa‘i that he bore him no grudge for his plot against my life—and he believed that by entrusting me to Alapa‘i’s keeping, he would forestall any further plots against me.”

  “Wohi!” The older boy hurled the insult at Kamehameha like a short ihe spear. He pressed close to Kameha, towering over him. “Prostrate yourself before me, wohi!” the boy demanded. The older boy was Kameha’s cousin, Kiwala‘ō, the son of his uncle, Kalani‘ōpu‘u.

  By this time, Kameha had lived at Alapa‘i’s court long enough—several years—to know that coming from Kiwala‘ō, “wohi” could not be an insult. If anything, Kiwala‘ō was lower-born ali‘i than Kameha. While Kamehameha’s parents were second cousins, and their grandparents were half-brother and half-sister, Kiwala’ō’s parents were not even distant cousins. Furthermore, young Kameha understood by now that even as a lower-ranked wohi, he need not prostrate himself before any other ali‘i, not even his mō’ī. For months afterward, other boys at court had teased him about the way he had thrown himself to the ground like a worthless kanaka before Alapa‘i.

  Now, instead of lying down before Kiwala‘ō, Kameha bulled into him. “Lower-than-wohi,” Kameha challenged him. “Make me!”

  Kiwala‘ō hesitated. For though Kiwala‘ō was a head taller than Kameha, the younger boy was solidly built, and he had already won a reputation among the other boys as a fearless wrestler and boxer.

  “Make me!” Kameha repeated, shoving Kiwala‘ō hard in the chest and glaring up into his startled eyes.

  Kiwala‘ō was debating whether he should shove back when Kameha’s kahu—his tutor, Nae‘ole—approached. “Kamehameha,” Nae‘ole called out, “come away now. It is time for your instruction.”

  Kameha stepped away, keeping his eyes fixed on Kiwala‘ō’s. “Perhaps you can make me prostrate myself before you later, Kiwala‘ō.”

  “What was that about?” Nae‘ole asked Kameha as they walked away.

  “That kuhaulua wanted me to prostrate myself before him.” Kuhaulua were the lowest-ranking ali‘i.

  “That kuhaulua is your own ‘ohana, Kamehameha,” Nae‘ole replied. “You would do better to make him your friend, rather than your enemy.”

  “I will try, Nae‘ole,” Kamehameha said, “but family or not, Kiwala‘ō would do better to stop irritating me.”

  By his twelfth birthday, three years later, Kameha was more than a match for the older Kiwala‘ō in size and strength. Abandoning whatever thoughts he had about besting Kamehameha physically, Kiwala‘ō no longer taunted him. For his part, Kameha was careful to avoid giving offense to his cousin. But neither tried to make a friend of the other.

  With his acceptance into Alapa‘i’s household, Kamehameha plunged into a tangled ancestral web woven of generations of “marital” unions and less formal partnerships of both political convenience and amorous opportunity. Genealogy was of paramount importance among the ali‘i, and it was Nae‘ole’s responsibility to tutor the boy about his forebears.

  “The first thing you must understand, Kameha,” Nae‘ole instructed one day, “is that your great-grandfather was Keawe, who was mō’ī of all Hawai‘i, and one of our greatest rulers.”

  “Before Alapa‘i?”

  “Yes, before Alapa‘i,” said Nae‘ole. “Keawe was a great king because he ended generations of fighting between two families over our island’s kingship.”

  “What families were those?” Kamehameha asked.

  “They were the Mahi of Kona and the ‘Ī of Hilo,” said Nae‘ole. “Your great-grandfather Keawe united the island by partnering with women from both families. One of Keawe’s sons was your grandfather, Kalanike‘eaumoku. Your own father, Keoua, is his son.”

  Kamehameha slowly repeated the unfamiliar name. “Ka-lani-ke-au-moku.”

  “Keawe had a son by another wife, who was of the ‘Ī family; this son was Kalaninui-‘I-a-mamao. Your uncle, Kalani‘ōpu‘u, is his son.”

  “Ka-lani-nui-I-a-ma-ma-o,” Kamehameha said, committing another forebear to memory.

  “Kalaninui-‘I-a-mamao was Keawe’s eldest son, and thus everyone expected that when Keawe died, Kalaninui-‘I-a-mamao would succeed him as mō’ī of the Big Island.”

  “Did he?” Kamehameha asked.

  “No, because he died before his own father died,” replied Nae‘ole.

  “Did Keawe’s other son, my grandfather Kalanike‘eaumoku, become mō’ī after my great-grandfather Keawe died?”

  “He tried,” said Nae‘ole. “But he was not successful.”

  “Why not?” Kamehameha asked.

  “Kalanike‘eaumoku had another half-brother: Alapa‘i. Alapa‘i’s father was Kauaua-a-Mahi, who had also partnered with the mother of Kalanike‘eaumoku.”

  Another name to remember. “Ka-u-a-ua-a-mahi,” Kamehameha slowly repeated.

  “Yes,” said Nae‘ole. “He was Alapa‘i’s father. Alapa‘i also wanted to succeed Keawe, and so he opposed Kalanike‘eaumoku,” said Nae‘ole.

  “But if Alapa‘i was not a son of Keawe’s, what right had he to become mō’ī?” asked Kamehameha.

  “Alapa‘i claimed that his right to rule was superior to Kalanike‘eaumoku’s because his father was of the Mahi family, whereas your grandfather was neither of the Mahi nor of the ‘Ī. He convinced many of the chiefs to side with him and he went to war with your grandfather and killed him,” Nae‘ole replied.

  “Alapa‘i killed his own half-brother?” Kamehameha was incredulous.

  “Yes,” said Nae‘ole. “That is how he became our mō’ī.”

  Kamehameha pondered this for a moment. Then he asked, “Nae‘ole, do you think that Alapa‘i had more right to rule than my grandfather?”

  “What I think at present does not much matter, Kameha,” Nae‘ole replied. “In any event, Alapa‘i has been our mō’ī for many years and it has been a long time since anyone
questioned his right to rule.”

  Kamehameha pondered this for a moment and then he asked his kahu, “Nae‘ole, what will happen when Alapa‘i dies? Who will succeed him?”

  “That is an excellent question,” said Nae‘ole. “Alapa‘i has proclaimed his son Keawe‘ōpala as his heir, but others may not respect Alapa‘i’s wishes after he is gone. And any such dispute will likely be settled on the battlefield, which is how arguments over succession have almost always been settled.”

  “Except for when my great-grandfather became mō’ī,” said Kamehameha.

  Kamehameha’s instruction in the nuances of ali‘i hierarchy had begun early in his life at court, starting with a brief lecture from Nae‘ole as he escorted the boy from Alapa‘i’s hale on the night of Kameha’s arrival. “You should not have prostrated yourself before Alapa‘i,” Nae‘ole had told him.

  “Why, Uncle?”

  “Because you are ali‘i yourself,” Nae‘ole replied. “You may be only wohi, but even wohi are exempt from the prostrating kapu.”

  “What is wohi?” Kameha asked.

  “Wohi are ali‘i whose parents are cousins, like your father Keoua and your mother Keku‘i,” said Nae‘ole. Left unspoken by Kamehameha’s kahu was the rumor that Kameha’s real father was Kahekili of Maui—who was no cousin to Keku‘i.

  In the weeks that followed, Nae‘ole and Kamehameha delved deeper into the fine points of ali‘i ranking. Kameha—young as he was—proved an eager pupil. Pi‘o were the highest-born ali‘i, because their parents were full brother and sister. Next came the nī‘aupi‘o, whose parents were half-siblings. Children born of parents who were of the same family but of different generations, such as an uncle and niece, were naha ali‘i. Next were the wohi, like Kamehameha, and last were the kuhaulua, whose parents were not closely related.

  “What is my father?” asked Kameha.

  “Keoua is kuhaulua, because his parents were not even cousins, but he still outranks most other kuhaulua, because his grandparents were half-brother and half-sister,”

  “What is Alapa‘i?”

  “Ah, good question,” Nae‘ole answered. “Alapa‘i’s parents were not related.”

  “Then Alapa‘i is not even wohi?” Kameha asked incredulously.

  “No,” Nae‘ole said. “He is kuhaulua, like your father.”

  “But he is still the king!” Kameha cried.

  “No ali‘i can change his birth,” said Nae‘ole, “but any ali‘i can change his destiny.”

  “How did Alapa‘i change his destiny?” Kamehameha asked.

  “By killing your grandfather in battle, as I have said,” Nae‘ole replied.

  “Nae‘ole, what is my destiny?” Kameha asked.

  Nae‘ole gave his pupil a thoughtful look. Then he said softly, “That is for you to decide.”

  “Kameha, do not look at that kanaka,” Nae‘ole commanded.

  “Why should I not look at him?”

  “Because he has not yet seen us and prostrated himself, as the kapu requires of commoners,” his tutor replied. “But if we take no notice of this for the moment, no harm will befall him.”

  Kamehameha and Nae‘ole were walking along the damp margin of the beach at Kawaihae. It was late in the afternoon and the sun was low in the sky. Silhouetted against the setting sun, their bodies cast long shadows on the pink-tinged sand. The commoner, a fisherman, had pulled his canoe higher up on shore. Intent on stowing his tackle and unloading his catch, he had not seen the two ali‘i approaching. Now their shadows caught his eye. Looking up and seeing Kameha and Nae‘ole at last, he fell to his knees and lowered his forehead to the sand. Knowing that the man could be severely punished for failing to bow to them, Kamehameha understood that ignoring the fisherman had been an act of grace, allowing him time to show his respect. Still, he questioned the severity of the law.

  “Why are our kapus so strict?” Kameha asked his kahu.

  “They are strict because otherwise they would not be obeyed,” Nae‘ole replied. “The kapus are necessary to maintain the right order of things.”

  As Kameha soon learned, all-pervasive kapus enforced the right order of things in every aspect of life. It was kapu for commoners to bathe in streams or pools reserved for ali‘i. Molesting pigs running free with a temple mark upon them and intended for sacrifice was kapu. It was kapu for women to eat plantains, bananas, coconut, pig flesh, and certain kinds of fish. It was kapu for women to cook food that was to be eaten by men. It was kapu for men and women to eat together. And in nearly all cases, the kapus’ command was simple: Obey or die.

  The eating restrictions especially puzzled Kamehameha.

  “Nae‘ole, why are women forbidden to eat certain things?” he asked his tutor one day. “Why are women not allowed to eat with men or even eat food cooked by men?”

  “The foods of which you speak may not be consumed by women because they are of Kāne, Kū, and Lono, who are all male gods. Pig flesh is of Lono, for example. Certain fish that are kapu to women are of Kū. Women may not eat white shark and tiger shark because they are of Kāne.”

  “But men may eat these things?”

  “Yes, because men are also of these gods. The gods’ mana is in this food and it is only for men. It is kapu for women to eat with men because it would deplete their mana, and for the same reason, it is kapu for women to eat food prepared by men.”

  “What is this mana you speak of?” Kamehameha now asked.

  “Mana is the source of your own strength,” Nae‘ole replied. “You must preserve and protect it at all costs, lest someone steal it from you.”

  “How can someone steal my mana?”

  Nae‘ole thought for a moment. Then he said, “It is to protect our mana that we go into the bush where no one can see us to urinate and defecate, and that is why we bury our urine and feces afterward.”

  “So no one else can find it, because our mana is in it?”

  “Yes,” Nae‘ole said.

  “Is that why whenever Alapa‘i goes out someone always follows him with a gourd for him to spit in?” Kameha asked. “Because his mana is also in his spit, and no one else must get it?”

  “Yes,” replied Nae‘ole. “And that is also why it is kapu for a lower-born person to step on the shadow of the highest-born ali‘i.”

  “Even their shadows have mana?”

  “Oh yes,” said Nae‘ole. “And that is why these ali‘i should not walk about in the daytime. It is too dangerous for everyone else.”

  Kamehameha saw little of his own parents during this time at Kawaihae. In times of peace, such as the latter years of Alapa‘i’s reign, most ali‘i were preoccupied with pleasure: feasting, sport—and especially lovemaking. In the course of these pursuits—separately more often than together—Keoua and Keku‘i were rarely at Alapa‘i’s court.

  If Keku‘i dallied with other men, no one could blame her, for my grandfather Keoua was renowned for his own adventures. Keoua took no less than a dozen wives and partners that I know of, and he had children by most of them. Untangling the bloodlines of Keoua’s children, their children, and their children’s children would surely occupy serious students of ali‘i genealogy for days on end.

  One of Keoua’s many wives and partners was Kalola, the senior wife of Keoua’s half-brother Kalani‘ōpu‘u, and mother of Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s oldest son, Kiwala‘ō. With Kalola, Keoua fathered a daughter, Keku‘iapoiwa Liliha, one of Kamehameha’s many half-sisters and half-brothers. My father Keli‘imaika‘i was Kameha’s only full brother, and among his siblings, always his favorite.

  The haole missionaries may frown upon the many liaisons of my grandfather and grandmother. Let them. It was a different time, and concerning matters of the heart at least, nothing was kapu.

  “Nae‘ole,” Kameha asked his kahu one day, “Alapa‘i has named Keawe’ōpala to succeed him, but will anyone challenge Keawe‘ōpala?”

  “Your uncle, Kalani‘ōpu‘u, might oppose him, and many chiefs might support him becau
se he is the great Keawe’s grandson,” said Nae‘ole.

  “But my father, Keoua, is also Keawe’s grandson,” Kamehameha objected, “and because his father was king after Keawe, Keoua would be king today if he had lived. He should be recognized as Keawe’s heir.”

  “That may seem rightful to you,” Nae‘ole said. “But Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s father, Kalaninui-‘Ī-a-mamao, was Keawe’s senior son. And if he had not died so young, he would have become king after Keawe, not your grandfather. Now that Kalanike‘eaumoku is dead and Alapa‘i is king, Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s claim is superior to your father’s.”

  “My father could challenge him, as Alapa‘i challenged his half-brother Kalanike‘eaumoku,” Kameha persisted.

  “He could,” Nae‘ole said, “but it is not in his nature.”

  Indeed, it was not. My grandfather Keoua was close to his half-brother Kalani‘ōpu‘u and had no lofty ambitions. Moreover, after years of fighting in Alapa‘i’s wars, he had no appetite for further armed strife. Keoua preferred to spend his days in pursuit of pleasure, not power. He was also uninterested in court intrigue. Ultimately, Keoua absented himself from Alapa‘i’s court altogether, settling permanently in the Hilo District on the Big Island’s wet side, where Keawema‘uhili, Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s half-brother, made him welcome.

  In contrast, ambition to rule burned hot in Kalani‘ōpu‘u’s chest. He was ever conscious of his royal birthright and of his ‘Ī family heritage. Even as he soldiered in Alapa‘i’s many battles, Kalani‘ōpu‘u looked toward the day when he would supplant the heirs of the Mahi-family usurper on the throne of all Hawai‘i. Thus, he was often at Alapa‘i’s court, to better maintain close watch on Alapa‘i’s son—and his ultimate rival—Keawe‘ōpala.

  When Kalani‘ōpu‘u was not at Alapa‘i’s court, he tended to his own fiefdom in the Ka‘ū district, from which he would mount his inevitable challenge to Alapa‘i and Keawe‘ōpala. During such times, he kept well abreast of events at the royal court through reports from Kiwala‘ō.