The Islands at the End of the World (21 page)

The sudden question and the word “fits” throw me for a loop. Such a casual term to hear from a stranger. “A few.” I cover my wrist.

“I’m an epileptic,” he says. “No shame with me.”

I look up and study his eyes. His honesty shows. “I’m running out of meds,” I say. “Do you have any?”

“For epilepsy? Not here.”

I slump.

“Maybe it’s an opportunity, Leilani. Especially now, yeah? Everything’s changed.”

“An
opportunity
? No offense, but no thanks.” I pause. “What’s your name?”

“Akoni. But I go by Uncle.”

“Uncle?” A Hawaiian title bestowed upon respected elders. “Are you from here?”

“I’ve been on Moloka`i awhile,” he says. “Maybe I was one of St. Damien’s misfits. Who knows, eh?”

“Leprosy?”

“I never had the disease. I came to minister long after segregation ended.” Akoni plucks at my bracelet, as if he’s read my mind. “Our disease—leprosy of the mind, I used to think. Helped me fit in. Helped me belong.”

“Helped you ‘fit’ in,” I joke.

His high-pitched chuckle bounces out of his belly and makes me smile. “Exactly.” We settle into another silence.
Akoni’s expression grows penetrating, and he asks, “Have you heard them?” This appears to be a difficult question.

“Who?”

He continues to study me. Finally, his expression lightens. “The nurses, I mean.”

“No.”

“Hey,” he says, “no worries. Do you want to get settled in while you wait for your dad?”

“Settled in?”

“Come on.” He rises. “I’ll show you around. Your bags will be waiting at the camp. Then we’ll come right back.”

Another refugee camp?

I follow Uncle Akoni outside to the sidewalk back toward the beach. We turn the corner and he leads me several blocks through a small town bursting with purpose. Everyone seems to be immersed in some task. A pear-shaped haole man, an obvious stranger to hard labor in his previous life, pushes a wheelbarrow full of sand up the sidewalk. A trio of Asian women hoist sloshing pails of fresh water across an intersection. Hawaiian carpenters assemble underneath the awning of a shop, tool belts sagging from their waists. Two Hawaiians march toward the shore with long fishing poles balanced in their fists. Nobody is suppressing them, overseeing them. No military police patrols with weapons ready; no barbed wire; no elderly people sick and dying on their moldy cots, forgotten in plain sight.

Most people wave as we pass. Many say, “Aloha, Uncle!”

He waves back and often answers them by name.

“How—didn’t this town get pummeled by the tsunami?” I ask.

“A bit. The damage was easy enough for this group to make
mo’ bettah
.”

It all feels out of place and out of time. Like a modern-day place of refuge, akin to the Big Island’s ancient Hōnaunau, where vanquished warriors and
kapu
transgressors once found sanctuary.

“I thought people from Moloka`i hated outsiders.”

He smiles. “But they call this the Friendly Isle!”

I roll my eyes.
Tell that to the surfing crowd
.

Akoni gives that squeaky, bouncy laugh again. “This island never really warmed to tourists,” he agrees. “Especially our hemmed-in little shelf here. But now it’s different. We were made for this. People are beginning to get a little weary, but we’ll make it work as long as we can. Damien is patron saint of the outcast, yeah? We’re all castaways now.”

We arrive at the end of the village, where a field has been mown into a rolling lawn that houses collapsible shade structures, tents, and folding tables and chairs and cots—shanty living quarters for who knows how many families. The makeshift cityscape is ragtag, but open and airy—people are free to enter and leave—and not nearly as muddy and slovenly as the ball fields on O`ahu. It feels inviting, somehow. The strumming of a ukulele welcomes me. Potted seedlings bask in the sun. They seem hopeful. Clotheslines run from one structure to the next.

Our bags are propped against a rusted electrical box at the end of the track. The box has old graffiti painted on it. One of the words has been crossed out with new paint and replaced:

eat poi
4
brkfst
evah

“Pick out a spot,” Akoni says. “I’ll take you back to your father. No one will bother your bags.”

I wander through the camp for several minutes and come to an edge of the field that offers some elbow room. We lean the bags against a woody green bush of naupaka. I study the tiny white half-flowers blooming everywhere and think of Kai. Once we went beach camping and he annoyed me by slopping gooey marshmallow all over the sleeve of my shirt with the end of his roasting stick. So I pushed him into a naupaka bush, trapping him in the springy branches. I waited before helping him out. He then smacked me in the nose with the end of his marshmallow stick. I tossed him right back in the bush as he cackled with laughter.

I look at the naupaka’s half-flowers—only four petals on one side, looking as though the other four have been plucked. I think of the myth: Naupaka was a princess who fell in love with a commoner. The two were forbidden to marry, and during their last embrace they tore a flower in two, each taking half. One headed for the mountains while the other remained
by the sea. The plant grows at high elevations and along the shores, the flowers always incomplete.

I cup one of the small half-flowers in my hand.
I will make you whole
.

“I’m coming,” I whisper.

I wipe tears from my eyes with the back of my wrist as I straighten. Akoni casts me a silent smile, and we turn back toward the clinic.

We pass a church on our way, and I’m surprised to see a young man with a pair of binoculars leaning out of the bell tower above us.

“Ahoy!” Akoni shouts up to him.

“Ahoy, Uncle!” the man calls, lowering his lenses.

“Any giant salamis today?” Akoni’s belly laughs tumble out of him.

“No tsunamis,” the lookout reports.

We continue on our way. Akoni says, “We have a constant eye on the sea. No satellite warnings anymore. And who’s to say that we’re not in for more Orchid debris strikes?”

“Great.”

Outside the clinic we see a giant flock of large birds pass overhead, darkening the orange sky. The flock is very high up, thousands of birds stretched out over miles.

“What is that?” I wonder aloud.

“Not the first flock I’ve seen. I think those are mainland birds. Geese. Storks. Cranes, maybe.”

“But migratory birds go north to south. That flock’s aimed for China, yeah?”

Akoni shrugs. “The Orchid’s scrambling more than just circuit boards.”

“The birds are on the fritz,” I test the notion. “Weird.”

“Not just the birds.”

I sigh. “Can’t wait for Dad to see that.”

Akoni takes me back to the clinic counter. “Now, about payment …”

I feel hot. I’d been wondering when the other shoe would drop. I’ve just been had by a slick salesman. Not that I’m disappointed in Uncle Akoni; I’m ashamed of myself, for starting to believe in a world that could run on kindness.

“We don’t have any money. But maybe we can pay for all this in iodide tablets?”

Uncle Akoni frowns. “No one’s going to ask you for money. What good is it? This place doesn’t operate on a capitalist system. We’re a commune. Trying to be, anyway.”

“Oh. Really? Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”

“What’s this about iodide?”

Have I said too much?
This old man has lowered my guard. I need to be more careful. “I … I don’t know. I have some … tablets. Just in case. That’s all.”

“Where’d you get iodide tablets?”

I shake my head nervously. “The military on O`ahu were all taking them.”

“Really? This is the first confirmation I’ve heard of this.”

“I’m not trying to confirm anything—they could be doing it just to be safe, yeah?”

He leans close. “Oh, no. It’s real. The
hotness
. I’ve been putting it together, Lei. They know about it, yeah? They like it. It’s good for their ship.”

I stare at him blankly. He smiles awkwardly. “You really not with me on this?”

I shake my head.

“Well, later, then. You have more pressing issues. Meanwhile, stay quiet about those tablets. This ‘commune’ has shallow roots. If people think you have something they’ll need, you’ll be a target.”

“Okay. Thanks. I really appreciate your help. I can tell you’re busy. It means … a lot.” I blink back tears.

“I’m going up the cliff to Kualapu`u for a few days, but I’ll be back Sunday. Have you guys been to church lately?”

Are you kidding?
“I’m kinda mad at God these days.”

“Aren’t we all?” More of a statement than a question. “Even so, back to the matter of payment: If your father’s up to it, will you come? As a favor to me, if nothing else?”

“I guess. I hope so. You’ve restored my faith in people, anyway.”

“Good. That’s where it always starts. What we say and do to each other is the clearest sign of God’s presence in our hearts. But there’s
more
, Lei. We just have to learn how to listen for it. You a good listener, Leilani?”

At some point his tone changed. His question is dead serious, and I don’t get it. “Sure.”

“You have a gift, you know,” he says, tapping me on the
head. “You’re not using it, though. You’re not seeing it for what it is. We’ll get there, though, okay?”

“Okay.”

“
A hui hou
, Leilani. Flower of Heaven.”

“K’den,” I say, more confused than ever. “
Mahalo
, Uncle.”

On Sunday morning Dad and I stand together on the beach amid a group of thirty or so newcomers, facing the high cliffs of Moloka`i, me with my train-track stitches and Dad with his arm in a ragged sling. We are participating in a traditional
oli kāhea
, a sacred Hawaiian chant of request to enter. This password ceremony doesn’t feel like “tradition”; it feels real. Dad and I don’t belong here. We are guests in need, in search of mercy, in a new world where you can’t count on any help. It is fitting to ask permission to enter this modern isle of refuge. We read our tattered pages and chant:

Komo, e komo aku hoi au maloko
.
Mai ho`ohewahewa mai oe ia`u;
oau no ia, Ke ka-nae-nae a ka mea hele
,
He leo, e-e
,
A he leo wale no, e-e
.
Eia ka pu`u nui owaho nei la
,
He ua, he ino, he anu, he ko`e-ko`e
.
Maloko aku au
.

To enter, permit me to enter, I pray.
Refuse me not recognition; I am
A traveler offering praise,
Just a voice,
Only a human voice.
Oh, what I suffer out here,
Rain, storm, cold, and wet.
Let me come in to you.

Dad’s breathing is a little shallow as he tries not to let his expanding lungs pull at his torn shoulder muscles. He should be resting, but he insists that he’s well enough to attend this ceremony and the Mass. His surgery went really well. The wound was shallow; the bullet had lodged against his shoulder blade, not in it. He’s doing so good. My relief is indescribable.

A dozen Hawaiians stand before us in a line. They chant the answer to our request:

Aloha na hale o makou i maka-maka ole
,
Ke alanui hele mauka o Pu`u-kahea la, e-e!
Ka-he-a!
E Kahea aku ka pono e komo mai oe iloko nei
.
Eia ka pu`u nui o waho nei, he anu
.

What love to our homes, now empty,
As one ascends the mountain of Supplication!
We call!
You are welcome; we invite you to enter.
The cold outside is the hill of Affliction.

We step forward, officially welcomed. Those who have gathered to witness the ceremony clap their approval. Moloka`i, of all places. It’s funny: there have been many times in the past few days here that I’ve felt more accepted than I ever have before. I could stay here. I could be Hawaiian here. My misfit self could belong.

But it’s still not home.

“Do you see him yet?” Dad asks.

I shake my head, trying to hide my disappointment. “I thought for sure he’d be here. He’d better be at the church.” I haven’t seen Uncle Akoni since we arrived, but I told Dad all about him as soon as he awoke.

He would like to thank Uncle Akoni, for protecting me and getting me stitched up, and for being part of a community that saved his life.

I’ve wandered these streets for the past four days, scratched beneath the surface of their Brady Bunch veneer. I keep waiting to discover something awful. It’s like I want to be comforted by familiar misery.

I’ve seen couples arguing; a fistfight; people doubled over in the agony of loss. A woman said her suitcase had been stolen. I overheard two men argue about how many people this shelf could support in the long term.

This experiment may not last. I don’t know. But people are trying, and they’re not fooling themselves. They’re protected in a new world by a new set of rules. They’re safe, and they’re comforted.

After the ceremony people spread out as they chat before Mass. Dad and I walk to a nearby rocky shore with a group of four young Hawaiian men. I talked to one, Joshua, yesterday as they returned from a morning of fishing. He offered to give me some pointers on spear fishing. I don’t know if he was planning on anyone else being a part of it, but Dad was eager to learn some new tips, too.

I pause for a moment on the road, let the group get a few steps ahead of me, and apply some lip gloss.

Joshua invited me out surfing yesterday afternoon. Surfing on Moloka`i! I could have died and gone to heaven. But I didn’t go. Dad never left my side at the clinic, and I couldn’t leave him now.

“Let’s try this for a bit, eh?” Joshua says. His buddies drop their empty five-gallon buckets and inspect their poles. Joshua readies his spear and moves me through the basics while Dad watches, his arm useless. Joshua spends most of his time talking about the fish and the coral. This cove has been protected as a fishery, so there’s plenty to catch.

“This island has always tried to be self-supporting,” Dad observes. “God help O`ahu and the other islands.”