by Austin Aslan
From time to time the cliffs dip to the sea, and the naked peak of Mauna Kea can be seen touching the bluest part of the sky. The observatories crown the sacred summit. Such a joy to see this familiar sight. I really am home. We made it. In spite of everything.
The sheriff shouts orders to anchor in the bay up ahead.
And then I recognize where we are. I’ve never seen it from the water, but it’s Onomea Bay, the refuge of the Hawaiian Botanical Gardens. Our house is several miles up, directly above.
We’re going to walk home.
“Close enough,” the sheriff commands.
The mainsheet is released and several of the crew dip paddles into the water. We hover within several hundred yards of the wave-wracked inlet. An old dining-room hutch bobs in the surf to my right. Tsunami debris.
“Jump?” Dad asks.
The sheriff nods.
I look between them. I can’t help it. “Why … why are you doing this?”
Kana`ina stares at me. He doesn’t answer.
The hair-pulling thug sidles over and leans in close. I shrink back, try not to show my disgust. Just a few seconds more. Don’t make them change their minds.
He says, “He owed your Grandpa one big debt.”
The sheriff overhears. He glances down at his polished boot, silent.
“Oh,” I say.
The hair puller grabs my upper arm and pulls me to my feet. “Remember: we only do what it takes to rebuild Hawai`i.”
I stare at him. They think they’re, what, part of ancient Hawai`i’s noble warrior class? A shiver goes down my spine.
Kana`ina turns to Dad. “You tell Lani Hawika to stay out of this. My price. His debt. Don’t make me regret it, yeah?”
“I’ll tell him,” Dad agrees.
“You make him.”
“I know.”
“Go.”
“Dad,” I whisper. “Our stuff? The iodide?”
He shakes his head. “Get ready to jump.”
“Leilani,” the sheriff says. I turn.
He tosses something at me. I catch it, barely. My Hawaiiana book. In a ziplock freezer bag. I look up at the sheriff. He turns away.
I leap into the water, half expecting to be shot in the back. Dad is right behind me.
CHAPTER 28
THURSDAY, JUNE 4
We scramble up the boulder-covered shore and race into the trees, come upon a narrow path with a bench, and sit down. We’re in the botanical gardens, surrounded by overgrown tropical plants. A bright red sign stands erect next to the bench, broadcasting one of the great dangers of an ancient past:
WARNING
DO NOT STAND HERE
FALLING MANGOES
I point the sign out to Dad; we burst into laughter. Then we’re crying, holding each other, exhausted. “We’re on the Big Island,” I say. “We’re home.”
“I never allowed myself to believe that he would make good on that,” Dad says.
I inspect the freezer bag with my book. Looks dry. I won’t open it until we get home. I’m grateful, but the sheriff’s gift doesn’t fool me. “That is a bad, bad man. A moke’s moke. I hope I never see him again.”
“There’s going to be more where he came from. A lot more.”
“I know,” I sigh. “What was he doing? What are they going to do with all those guns? Arrows?”
“He wants to rule the islands.”
“He said that?”
“Not in so many words. But yeah. He already controls the channel between Maui and the Big Island, most of east Maui, some of the Big Island’s Kohala region. With the military gone, he’s thinking big. Off to pick a fight with several families in Puna right now.”
“He’s gonna ambush Puna?” That’s the large area on the Big Island south of Hilo. Hawai`i’s Wild West. Some antigovernment types, people who live off the grid and like to be left alone. “That’ll be epic.”
“Strike hard. Put his own man in place there, control the orchards, run all the firepower that’s piled up there.”
“Wow. Every man, woman, and child in Puna probably owns a gun or two.”
“I know. They don’t call them Punatics for nothing.”
“What was all that about Grandpa?”
“He and your grandpa were once partners on the police force.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Back on Maui. In Kahului. That sheriff is why Grandpa retired.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know. I’m just connecting the dots the best I can.”
That’s crazy. But I see the truth in it. Grandpa has complained to me about his time on Maui more than once; too many hotheads on the force, corruption. Racism in all directions. I never thought to ask him all about it. Now I can feel his guiding spirit, protecting us even from the past. Something he did decades ago saved our lives this week. More evidence that he’s a time traveler. I smile. “Small world,” I say ironically; it’s something people say all the time on these islands.
“And getting smaller every day.”
“What about the man you shot?”
“He’s alive. Grazed. The sheriff seems more interested in settling an old debt with Grandpa than in taking vengeance for a bumbling soldier.
“Let’s move. I can’t shake the thought that he’ll decide to come back.”
We march up a steep garden trail, hiking side by side from the shore to the road. We’re high up on the bluff now, with a breathtaking view of Onomea Bay. The sheriff and his posse are nowhere to be seen. They’ve probably reached Hilo Bay by now.
I can think about only one thing.
Home.
I’ve waited so long for this moment. Letting go of the anticipation and bracing for the reality of what’s to come is almost painful. I reach for a naupaka plant, rip off a branch covered in white half-flowers. I whisper, “I want to see them so badly.”
“They’ll be there.” He squeezes my shoulder with a shaky hand. “We’re almost home.”
We continue to march mauka, straight uphill, my naupaka branch clutched in my hand. I’m surprised at how steep and long this road is. It takes us a good hour just to cross the highway that goes into Hilo.
As we cross I recognize a girl from school walking toward us from town. One of the local titas that was giving me the stink-eye at Honoli`i Beach. I tug on Dad’s shirt and pick up my pace.
“Leilani!” she calls. I stop. I had no idea she even knew my name. She trots up to us, a bright smile on her face.
I look down. No. Look up. I meet her eyes. “Hey, Aleka, howzit?”
“Haven’t seen you around. All good with you? You …” She glances at Dad. “You look … all banged up.”
“Uh, long story,” I say. “But, yeah, doin’ good, I guess. You?”
“Surf’s been touch and go. Only been out twice since … you know.”
“Oh, yeah? How’s the water? Lotta rubbish?”
“It’s getting better. See you out there soon, yeah?”
“Yeah, I hope so. Where you headed?”
“Waiting for a ride out to Laupahoehoe. My cuz is due any minute. You?”
“I’m walking home.”
“K’den.” She gives me a hug. At first I’m stiff, but then I return it. “So many people are missing,” she says, her voice cracking. “I’m glad you’re safe.”
“Me too. I’m glad you’re safe, too, I mean.”
She finally lets go, clears her throat, and continues on her way.
Dad and I resume our hike. “We’ve been here, what? An hour?” he says. “And you’ve already got friends bugging you to surf?”
I thought she hated my guts. But I smile.
When we step into our long driveway, my heart pounds like a drum. My legs grow weak. I’m squeezing the naupaka branch in my fist so tight that the stem has grown mushy. I can’t wait for Mom to know that we’re safe, to see her relief. I can’t wait to tell her what we’ve been through, and to see her eyes widen. I can’t wait for her to embrace Dad and ne
ver let him go. I can’t wait to have Kai run up and jump into my arms.
I can’t wait to tell Grandpa about the Orchid and my weird connection to it.
We reach the upper driveway. Why am I so nervous? Our old, beat-up Civic and the hybrid and Grandpa’s Tempo are parked in their spots. My legs grow weaker.
They must be here. I can scarcely believe that this moment is finally here.
“Dad, they’re really …?”
He nods, but his eyes are filled with hesitation.
We go up the lanai steps. My palms are clammy. Dad tries the doorknob. It turns. We step inside.
No one in the living room. Without a word, Dad goes upstairs; I drop my Hawaiiana book and the naupaka on the coffee table and head for the dining room. No one. The garden? I’ll approach softly. They’ll turn, and we’ll rush each other.
I enter the kitchen, and a strange man peeking into a cupboard barks in surprise. I bark back. He draws a handgun and fires a shot above my head. I scream and dive under the table.
“Get out!” the man shouts. “I was here first!”
Dad bolts down the stairs and into the kitchen and recoils as another shot goes wild. Dad bounds across the kitchen, tackles the trespasser, and pins him to the ground. The gun spins over to the dishwasher. “Where are they?” Dad spits.
“What? Who? I don’t know! Please!”
Dad shakes his captive. “Where are my wife and son?”
“Dad!” I crawl out and grab the gun.
He looks up as if in a daze. His eyes seem to clear. He shifts his position and puts one of his knees on the man’s chest.
I’m just realizing that Mom and Kai and Grandpa aren’t here. The house has been empty long enough for a squatter to show up.
My worst fears from the past month are stirring awake.
They’re gone. You’ll never see them again.
Dad’s voice is strained. “How long have you been in my house?”
“Your …? I’m … I’m sorry. No one was here. I was just—”
“HOW LONG?”
“Just today. Today.”
“What do you mean, no one was here?”
“Nothing. Just … it was empty when I showed up.”
“And all three cars were in the driveway?”
“I guess so. Yeah.” He doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t know jack. We’re going to have to piece it together some other way. They were supposed to stay here, wait for us.
“What have you touched?” I hover over him. “What have you taken? Did you find any notes?”
The man shakes his head. God, does he smell. Do I smell that bad, too? “Nothing. I swear. Just some fresh eggs. In the fridge. Power’s out. Some tomatoes. I’m sorry. I’m just hungry. I’m from New Jersey. I’m just trying to—”
“Shut up.” Dad takes his knee off his chest and rises, takes the gun from me. Mr. New Jersey sits up and scoots against the cabinets.
“They’re around. They have to be,” I say to Dad.
“They haven’t been gone long. Fresh eggs in the dead fridge. And they would have taken some chickens or left a note if they were planning to go far.”
Did they flee for some reason? Did they leave with someone? Are they at a neighbor’s up the road? Out hunting pigs with Grandpa? Mom would have left a note—unless … unless …
Stop it, Lei. Don’t go there.
“Get out,” Dad says to Mr. New Jersey. He scrambles to his feet and runs out the back door.
Dad holds the pistol tightly. “Look for a note—anything that might suggest where they went.”
We both search. No note. But Mom’s and Kai’s hiking boots and rain jackets are missing from their rooms. I relax a little.
“They’re hunting with Grandpa,” Dad says, running a hand through his hair. “I’d bet the farm on it. Probably nearby. They wouldn’t leave the house unguarded for very long. Maybe we should try to look for them.”
“No,” I say. “Our turn to stay put. No leapfrog.”
Dad clenches his jaw. “Okay. You’re right. Now we wait.”
“How about a bath? Some clean clothes? And some food—I’m so hungry I’ll eat raw eggs like a lizard.”
“Yeah. Go get cleaned up. I’ll put something together.” The water comes out of the faucets just fine. Gotta love our private tank upslope. Dad’s right: maybe life hasn’t been as bad around here as on the other islands.
Even if that’s true, it’ll get worse. After all, if it took us this long to get to the Big Island from O`ahu, then it’ll take others even longer. But the hordes are still coming, I bet.
It gets me thinking: What if the sheriff has been keeping the flood of arrivals to a trickle? What if that blockade has kept this house, this area, safer?
“Remember: we only do what it takes …”
I shake the thought away as I stand beneath my cold shower. Don’t dare be grateful. Not even secretly. Remember the woman floating facedown in the river. He would have murdered Dad.
I haven’t had any medicine since the morning of the chase, and I left my pills on Maui. I rummage through my sink drawer and find two more bottles, each containing a dozen or so.
I’ll run out in a few weeks. So that’s it? Wear a helmet for the rest of my life? I swallow one and then head downstairs.
Dad and I chomp on fresh lettuce and tomatoes and scrape fresh, fried eggs off our plates.
“How much propane is left? Do you know?” I scoop up another bite of hot egg.
“About half. It’s down from when we left. More evidence that they’ve been around until recently.”
Another hour goes by. The worry gnaws at me. Dad’s doing what he can to keep busy.
“Should we try the Millers?” I ask.
“Maybe tomorrow. Their gate’s locked. I just want to stay here in case they come home. I don’t have the energy to trudge up to the house. If I see one of the Millers coming, I’ll flag them down.”
“Okay.” Our nearest neighbors live more than two miles up a private drive.
Evening comes. The coqui frogs start:
Coqui? Coqui?
We sit on the lanai through the evening, willing headlights, flashlights—anything!—to come winding up the driveway. I use a candle to page through my book until my eyes grow strained. Aside from my clothes, this is my only possession that made it home. It feels too valuable to read anymore. I’ll put it away somewhere safe—a trophy.
If we live through this, I’ll read it once a year, gently. Add my own story to it. Then I’ll pass it on when I’m old and gray, full of mo`olelo for a new generation.
Dad guards his new pistol in his hands and constantly scans the perimeter of the property. Nothing. It grows dark as we wait.
The stars are brilliant, brighter than they’ve been since the hotel in Waikīkī. It only takes me a second to figure out why: the Emerald Orchids look just a little bit smaller in their corner of the sky, casting less of a green glow through the haze of the atmosphere. The haze itself has improved steadily over the days. The Orchids are still aligned in a way that would fool most eyes: one of them is directly in front of the other, so that you might think they were a single object.
“Well, isn’t that something?” Dad marvels. “A cloudless night in Hilo. Great view. They’re even smaller tonight. That’s the third night in a row.”
“Wait. What?”
“I wonder if they’re actually going away now. Could you imagine?”
“No,” I say, standing up. Once again memories from my blackout come flooding back. “They can’t!”
“What is it?”
“They can’t go away! They can’t!”
“Sure they can. Why not?” Dad places his gun on the railing and rises to meet me. “I’m not—”
“Dad! I heard the Orchid again. The mother. I heard it when I was out. Twice. I tried to talk to it, but it was useless.”
“Sweetheart—”
“No! Don’t sweetheart me! They are going away. It said they were going
to. Beyond the dark. Another … another galaxy.”
Dad sits down.
“Dad! That sheriff took our stuff. He kept the iodide.” Dad nods slowly.
“The Orchid and the newborn are feeding on the radiation. If they go, won’t our atmosphere be filled with it?”
“Hon,” Dad begins softly. I bristle. His tone suggests that I need to be gently reasoned with. “Akoni was wrong about his alien-invasion theory. Why should we take his ‘radiation mop’ talk to heart?”
“Please. The meltdowns are everywhere. They’re still happening, right? One after another for months, yeah? But these creatures are somehow sponging up the radiation. This isn’t a theory. It’s true.”
“But how can you know that?”
“BECAUSE I CAN HEAR THE ORCHID’S THOUGHTS!”
Dad leans forward on his porch chair, rubbing his forehead. “Okay. Just … just give me a second.” He holds his head in his hands. Finally, he looks back up at me in the soft, green darkness. “So you’re telling me those things really were preventing nuclear fallout? All over the globe?”
“I—I really think so.”
“What if … I mean, how can you be sure how much fallout there is?”
“Enough that it’s taken notice. It likes it. It’ll come back for it. But not for a long time.”
We will do the long fastness to the other pool. We will be long in the ocean between the pools of fire.
“Dad … It’s taking its baby to another galaxy. The Orchids aren’t coming back in our lifetime.”
“Another galaxy?”
“Far, far away.” And then it hits me. My thoughts tumble away. Dad had talked about how some turtle species that once crossed straits were fooled, over centuries, into crossing oceans. But these Orchids … They’ve been fooled, over eons, into crossing between drifting galaxies.
Dad’s voice pulls me back. He shakes his head. “I’d convinced myself that the iodide wasn’t a big deal, that we weren’t really going to need it after all. Either way, what good is cancer prevention if food stops growing?”
I shake my head. “If they leave now, we’re all dead. Other parts of the world might already be in trouble. We’re isolated. Maybe we’re safe for now, but … didn’t Akoni mention there were enough meltdowns to eventually sterilize a lot of the planet? The aircraft carriers around here, the submarines—would they eventually melt down? What if that’s why the military bolted?”
