The Islands at the End of the World (32 page)

I want to stay. It is safer to stay and grow strong and protect the one that I gave and do the fastness later
.

Yes. To stay is good. I want to stay and make myself and the one that I gave stronger. That way the long fastness will be even more pleasant and the one that I gave will have an
advantage over all the other new ones and the sweetness is too sweet to let go especially now when I am weak from the giving and the one I gave is still weak and I want to stay not long just until all the oozing is spent and then I can go I want to stay for now and enjoy the sweetness which is hard to find I like these shores the surf the seafoam rocks me the one that I gave will be with me and we will be together for longer and it is good it is good to stay it is what I want to do it is what I yearn to do it is good and the sweetness is good and I am very satisfied.

I yearn for the seafoam of the shores where I gave the new one. I yearn for the hotness sweetness and we will stay here until we are strong and safe and all the sweetness is gone
.

I am Leilani. We are Leilani. We will stay. It is our purpose now. We are one. We are
ali`i nui
. We are the guardians of the shores and the surf and the islands and all the mysteries that dwell within. We hunger for the rumbling of rock, the creeping swirl of orange light. We have dreamt of these shores. We were born here, but we slipped away. Now we have reached the shallows, at long last, guided across the endless waters by ancient stars. These islands and their sacred tides call us forth.

We are home.

We are Leilani. Spellbound, we blossom.

We are Leilani. Spellbound, we blossom
.

Hilo has always been dark at night—dimly lit to assist the observatories in their endless safaris through the skies—but it was never
this
dark. Squares of candlelight seeping through kitchen windows hint that the town remains home to tens of thousands of people, but the streets seem deserted on this green, moonless night.

We drive by Tami’s. I see candles in their windows! The house is fine. In the van, I blink back tears. I’ll find her tomorrow. But we can’t stop.

Home first.

We retrieve the Civic as we retrace our path. Dad is so relieved to have his car back, as if that’s the thing that has been pressing on his mind most. I stifle a laugh.

I glance out the window to admire the two Star Flowers. They are fully separate now; everyone will know there
are two. They blossom much larger and nearer than they ever have. I may be able to hear the mother’s guileless mind even now. A switch has been flipped in my brain; some door, once seamless in the walls of my mind, remains propped open. Yes, I do believe I can hear … something.

Can she still hear me?

I think she can. We are Leilani, after all. We are somehow one.

I did it. I brought them back. And I can
feel
the mother, somehow. It’s like beginning to wiggle a foot that has fallen asleep. She’s a part of me now. So odd. So marvelous. I can sense her drawing up radiation from the Earth’s surface, neutralizing it. The sensation reminds me of a bone-dry sponge in my hand, growing soft and moist as I press it against a countertop spill.

We were right to do this. We saved the world. Everyone.
Everyone
. Our race may still have a future.

My eyes study the silhouetted slopes of Mauna Loa. Pele’s home, where she stopped running and took a stand. Her throne does not rise as high toward the sky as Mauna Kea, but she exerts a greater force upon the world. She simmers within, biding her time, shaping her paths with infinite confidence and patience.

The bearer of the future, she rises, and at the pace of her choosing.

* * *

An old Jeep is in the driveway as we pull up.

A freshly skinned pig hangs from a hook in the carport, and Grandpa’s hunting knife lies on the cement below it.

My heart soars.

And now, in the headlights, I spot Kai jumping up and down on the porch. He turns and yells into the house. I am melting. I am finally coming undone.

“Oh, my God,” Dad manages.

I jump out of the car before it comes to a complete halt. My rubbery legs carry me up the steps, and Kai and I slam into each other with formless cries of joy. Mom is at the window beside the porch door. Grandpa stands behind her. Her eyes are frantic and ravenous and wild with hope.

And then she sees me.

The door whips open, and all five of us seize each other. We are finally together. Once more, underneath the watchful, starry eyes of majestic and mysterious forces, we are whole.

Kai has fallen asleep with his arms wrapped tightly around me. I’m half sitting, half lying on the couch, my brother draped like a warm blanket over my tucked legs. I run my fingers through his dark hair. My hands tremble. I can’t help it.

We just had a luau’s worth of food. Stuffed ourselves like … it was the end of the world. I’m savoring every silky stroke of his hair, but still I’m nervous that this isn’t real, that I’ll awaken from a dream at any second and all this will be gone.

A row of ten kukui nuts is aligned on the coffee table. Grandpa places a lighter above each one until they’re all consumed in flame. The ancient Hawaiians used these oily nuts as candles. I feel our family entering the past as the darkness softly lifts. For once, we’re going backward in a good way.

Grandpa knows the path between the past and the present better than anyone.

Beyond the kukui light, on the opposite couch, my parents hold each other.

Grandpa breaks off a stem of the naupaka branch I brought home and chews on it. He was delighted that I had it, because it helps to heal cuts and scrapes and rashes. Grandpa transfers the mashed-up stem into a koa-wood bowl and begins to sing the prayer of enlightenment and healing he once taught me:

Ai, Ai, Ai
.
Ho`opuka e-ka-la ma ka hikina e
Kahua ka`i hele no tumutahi
Ha`a mai na`i wa me Hi`iaka
Tapo Laka ika ulu wehiwehi
Nee mai na`i wa ma ku`u alo
Ho`i no`o e te tapu me na`ali`i e

His voice is so beautiful. Tears sting my eyes.

He nears me as he sings, motions for me to sit up. I rest Kai’s head on my lap. Grandpa rubs the naupaka into the scar on my forehead with his thumb. He applies it to the bite marks on my leg, and to the mosquito bites and scrapes along my arms, legs, and neck.

In the flickering orange kukui light, he starts a new chant to treat Dad.

E ola mau ka honua
,
E ola nau ke ao lewa
,
Ho`ola hou ke kanaka

Long life to the earth
Long life to the heavens
Restore life to the person

After a moment of silence following Grandpa’s chant, Mom explains, “We prayed for your safety every morning and every evening. The three of us never missed a prayer. Your brother has developed a beautiful voice over the past month.”

I smile, look down at him. My hands still tremble as I absently stroke his hair.

“I had … moments of doubt,” Mom says. “But I found hope. Always. It was a battle of patience; I knew you’d get here as soon as you could.”

“Did you get any of my letters?”

“Just one. Right before the military left. It did more to upset me than calm me down, to be honest. To know that you were still on O`ahu nearly two weeks after the blackout …”

“I’m sorry for that.” I think of Aukina, who promised the letters would get to Hilo. I wonder how long he’ll linger in my dreams.

“Oh, Lei, you were right to try.”

“Your mother was very strong,” Grandpa says. “One of us went into town at least every other day. We developed a checklist of places to search, where others had been arriving. We also heard plenny horror stories. But we tuned them out.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Mom says. I can see the toll those trips into town took on her. “We’re all here now. We’re all safe.”

“Hilo doesn’t look very good,” Dad says. “I wouldn’t exactly say we’re ‘safe.’ ”

We all stare at him. “Sorry, but we have to be realistic. Someone was in our house when we got here. He had a gun. He was nothing, but … We need a plan for when that happens again.”

“I’ve been talking story with Hank,” Grandpa says. Mr. Miller from up the road. He and his wife used to keep to themselves. “He’s been saying the same thing. We’ll go see him tomorrow, eh? He’ll be thrilled.”

“Good,” Dad says. “Hank Miller—I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a basement full of heavy artillery.”

We all laugh, but it dies off in a somber note.

“And what about this sheriff, Lani?” Dad asks Grandpa. “He nearly executed me. He knows who we are. He’ll come calling for favors at some point down the road—”

“Mike.” Mom cuts him off.

Grandpa’s features are stern. “You don’t owe him anything. We’re even now.”

“Why?” Dad asks. “What’d you …?”

“We’ll deal with that
moke
,” Grandpa answers. His eyes broadcast:
Not tonight
.

We’re silent, waiting on Dad.

“Fine,” he answers. “Meanwhile …” He hesitates and glances at me. “There’s more to our story.”

I look down at Kai, make sure he’s sleeping. I bite my lip, studying Mom and Grandpa closely. Then I dive in. I tell them about the Orchids—the Star Flowers. I tell them everything.
Explain why we disappeared up Mauna Kea, why it couldn’t wait. What we did when we got there.

They listen patiently. Mom looks worried—like she’s trying to decide whether or not I’m crazy. She keeps looking at Dad, but he nods reassurances every time; he’s got my back.

Grandpa, on the other hand—Grandpa has a twinkle in his eye.

“You’ve always had a special door open in your mind, Lei,” he says when I’m finished. “A
puka
in your head. I’m not surprised by a single word.”

Mom smiles at me kindly.

“Malia,” Dad says, “I struggled with it, too. I followed her lead on faith. But the scientist in me now has proof. Those Star Flowers were leaving. They came rushing back. They’re here
because of
Lei.”

Mom maintains her smile, thinking hard. She’ll come around. I don’t blame her for her reaction. It still sounds completely
lōlō
to me.

We are Leilani
.

“So, what are we going to do with this?” Grandpa asks. He’s almost giddy. I can tell he won’t sleep a wink tonight.

“It’s late,” Mom says. “We’re not going to do anything about it now. Bedtime. Lei’s out of meds. That’s
my
biggest concern. She … needs her rest. Come on.” She rises, stern and motherly. But I can tell she’s overwhelmed and trying to hide it. “Upstairs. Everyone.”

I lower my gaze to Kai. Sound asleep in my lap. A little angel. “I’m just going to crash here with Kai, okay, Mom?”

She hesitates, smiles. “Fine with me. Dad, lock the doors before you go up.”

Grandpa sets to his task. Mom and Dad give us gentle kisses. Mom whispers into my ear, “My beautiful angel. My powerful woman. I’m so thankful to have you back.” Her tears drop onto my cheek.

She and Dad disappear into the upstairs darkness hand in hand.

Grandpa squeezes my shoulder and turns toward the stairs.

“Tūtū,” I say.

“Yes, Mo`opuna?”

“Hand me that naupaka branch, would you?”

Grandpa lifts the remains of the plant from the coffee table and gives them to me. He squeezes my shoulder again and disappears, the creaking of the stairs quickly replaced by the chorus of coqui frogs.

I’m left alone with Kai in the soft light of the four kukui nuts that still burn. I pluck two half-flowers off the branch.

I place them together, complete at last, into Kai’s palm. I press his hand into a fist, never letting go, and drift off to sleep.

Leilani’s story will continue in
BOOK TWO

This novel, and my long years of development as a writer, would never have been possible without the wisdom and patience of my amazing wife. Thank you, Clare, for making my life a dream, and for helping me to make the dream of publishing this book come true.

I owe a debt of gratitude to my top-shelf team of no-holds-barred test readers (oh, what a long road it’s been!): Liz Chamberlin and Sam Veloz, Jennifer and Jeremy Ridgeway, and Alex Bennett (who also took the photo of me that appears on the back flap). I give thanks also to journalist Lauren King, whose editorial ear helped me make my newspaper clippings sound authentic.

Thank you, Julie Just, my agent, for loving this book so deeply and for fighting for it every step of the way. And a special shout-out goes to Shoshana Shoenfeld for making sure Julie saw my query.

Wendy Lamb, my publisher and editor, I am especially indebted to you. Thank you for everything, for believing in me, for being patient, for sharing your unparalleled gifts, for loving Hawai`i, and for having a sweet tooth for crazy plot twists. I am grateful to your talented team members, as well, including Dana Carey; Alison Impey, whose cover design is amazing; Trish Parcell, for her attention and care to the interior design; and copy editors Ellie Robins, Colleen Fellingham, and Alison Kolani, who expertly navigated
not only the intricacies of English, but the Hawaiian language as well!

I’d like to acknowledge the Bishop Museum in Honolulu, and especially the `Imiloa Astronomy Center in Hilo, for inspiring a tale, and for letting me walk endlessly through their halls, absorbing the amazing stories and wonder of Hawai`i. I am also grateful to countless sources who have made Hawaiian culture and mythology publicly accessible via the Web. Alan Weisman, you may recognize a concept or two burrowed into these pages from your awesome book
The World Without Us
. Thank you for your thoughtful research and inspiration.

Any errors, typos, or failures in the book are mine alone.

Finally, I’d like to tip my hat to the life and great works of my father-in-law, Jerry, a teacher and a writer, whose final words of encouragement to me were “I know you’ll get published one day, Austin.”