East Wind, Rain

by Caroline Paul

  The villagers laughed, which startled the pilot momentarily. He stopped eating and the crowd quieted, sorry they had alarmed him. After a moment they spoke again, but this time in lower voices.

  What will Ka Haku Makua say when he arrives? We must tell the visitor to leave now. What, ask him to swim? Mr. Robinson will be as mad as when the fever came from Malia’s nephew. It’s not our fault he fell here like a rock from the sky. He was madder when the church candles disappeared. Look, you all, there’s nothing we can do but close that cut on his head. Mr. Robinson comes tomorrow. Tomorrow. Ka Haku Makua arrives tomorrow.

  Howard sat back and listened to his neighbors talk. He wanted to stay in the excitement of the moment, and not let his mind wander to more troublesome things, but he felt a small knot in his stomach. What was a soldier doing so close to Niihau? Why had he crashed? It was possible a boy so young had simply been completely overwhelmed by the powerful machine. Howard remembered that his own eight-year-old son had been thrown from a high-spirited horse just yesterday. Howard himself had once been bested by an especially small calf that he’d attempted to hog-tie, a fact that he shared with no one, not even his wife, Mabel. The strange boy had simply lost control of his plane. But even so, this pilot was a soldier. Though there were many soldiers on Kauai, this one had come from a faraway place, and soldiers, with their guns and papers, were never a good sign.

  Howard had not understood much of what the pilot tried to tell him or these questions would have been answered by now. After the crash Howard had led the pilot by the elbow to his house to feed him, and when he had seated him, the pilot had become agitated and had begun to speak quickly. Howard thought he heard some English words, but he could not be sure. Slow, he’d answered back in English, elongating the word, keeping his lips rounded for seconds after the sound ended. But the pilot only spoke louder, as if Howard was deaf, leaning forward with an expression of great concern. Finally the pilot pulled a pencil from his flight-suit pocket and Howard peeled the label off a condensed-milk can.

  To Give Me, the pilot wrote in blocky letters of English on the back side of the label.

  Howard was one of the few Niihauans who spoke English, and one of the even fewer who could read the white man’s language—he’d gone through sixth grade at the Kauai missionary school—but he did not understand this. The pilot then mimed searching in his flight-jacket pocket, looking for something. He pointed at his holster and back at the paper. Howard, understanding now, shook his head amiably and offered the pilot more food. He had the gun under the bed in the next room, the papers in his pocket. The pilot would not understand that guns weren’t allowed on the island, and that Howard was simply saving him from Robinson’s disapproval. And by the excited way the man was acting about it, he clearly wasn’t in his right mind. That was a nasty enough cut, and surely the crash had rattled his brain. Howard was going to feed and care for his new guest; the particulars would be taken care of by Mr. Robinson, when he arrived on Niihau tomorrow.

  The torn-off label on the table was now picked up and passed back and forth. Each person squinted from a wary distance, holding the paper at its edges as if it held some kind of disease; those few whose courage surged stroked the penciled letters carefully with one finger. It was hard not to be swept away in the excitement; after all, little changed on Niihau that was not molded by the wind or the water; when it did the Niihauans preferred to let their boss handle it. The result was a wide-eyed excitement only heightened by their concentrated effort to remain uninvolved, at least until Mr. Robinson arrived.

  By now Howard’s house was quite full—surely the whole village was here—and Howard considered telling his story yet again. But there was that twist in his stomach and the realization of one more thing that bothered him. A small, nagging memory of an event he had repeatedly read about, but had been unable to put in any meaningful perspective.

  Perhaps it was nothing.

  In fact, it probably was nothing.

  Howard did not know exactly where this event was taking place, except that it was far away. Still, he thought he should mention it, even if it would worry his neighbors. It was, after all, a war. Howard pursed his lips and frowned. A war. A soldier. There might be a connection. He leaned back in his chair and harrumphed in his throat to speak, then stopped. There was, of course, another thing to consider. It might get back to Robinson that he had told people about this war, and that would lead to uncomfortable questions. Sticky questions, about how Howard had come by this knowledge. As it was, Howard often arranged for the Kauaian boatman who ferried Robinson to and from Niihau to buy tobacco, which was forbidden. The boatman stuffed Bull Durham into an old sock and Howard would find it later that afternoon in his fishing gear, limp from the seawater on bad-weather days, stiff from the heat on others. But sometimes the tobacco would come wrapped in an old Kauai newspaper, and Howard would sit down and read. His large, rough fingers slid under each word, his lips moved as if in prayer. If he got the front page, he read sporadically about a faraway war, with its strange-sounding cities and battles. But mostly he got the pages that dealt with fish prices and sugar yields. Even these did not seem relevant to his life on Niihau. A war in a distant country was positively remote. No, thought Howard, it would be more trouble than it was worth to mention this to his neighbors. There was a good reason that Mr. Robinson had never talked about it, and that was that it had no bearing at all on their lives here on Niihau. Besides, Howard could not risk Robinson finding out that he smoked.

  -The boy needs a poultice, said a gravelly voice, and Howard looked over at Ella Kanahele. She was shorter than the other Niihauan women, but she was wide and sturdy. She pushed forward, her dark hair falling loose from her bun so that it sprayed around her face like a waterfall. Her eyebrows were in a characteristic frown. Once at Howard’s shoulder, she thrust out one hand.

  -He’s got a good knock on the head, she said, and nodded at her fist, where a paste oozed out, smelling faintly of fish and perhaps pineapple.

  -Here, she said, some laau.

  She swung her arm toward the pilot, who flinched at the sudden movement and then put up his hands to deflect her wrist. She frowned and shushed him.

  -Trying to fight an old woman! Put your head over here, young man. I’ve been known to get grumpy. Just ask my husband.

  The villagers laughed again, and some of the tension in the room was broken as men slapped Ben Kanahele’s shoulder kiddingly and the women guffawed. Ben was not much taller than his wife, and as wide as a honey crate, a lumbering, quiet man known for the fact that even at fifty-one years of age, he could throw two ewes over his shoulder with little effort. That hearty strength, however, evaporated in front of a wife like Ella, who could get as bad tempered as a boar. But her touch was gentle as she spread the paste on the pilot’s forehead and then patted his shoulder with one small hand.

  -You may have that fancy uniform on, but you’re just a boy. You need taking care of. Now I’m going to say a prayer, because ultimately it’s not us that does the healing, but the good Lord himself.

  And with this she dropped her head and began to murmur, eyes closed. There was a respectful silence until she was done.

  -Amen, Howard said. And too bad he doesn’t understand what we say. I’d like to know why he’s here, on Niihau of all places.

  -Well, said Ella, squinting at the boy. You think he’s Japanese. Bring the Japanese to talk to him.

  -The Japanese, Howard agreed, and someone ran for the head beekeeper, Ishimatsu Shintani. Shintani had been born in Japan, though he had been on Niihau for as long as anyone could remember.

  Old Shintani was pushed to the front of the room by excited hands. Always wizened and a little sour looking, today Shintani looked as if he badly wanted to be somewhere else. His deeply browned skin paled at the sight of the military pilot. His eyes widened. He began to shake his head. The pilot spoke quickly and with enthusiasm as he got close. Shintani, pushed right into the table by his smiling neighbors, st
ood rigid, with his eyes averted. The pilot continued to talk, leaning forward intently.

  -What’s he saying? Howard asked, looking from the animated pilot to stiff, unmoving Shintani and back again.

  Shintani gripped the table edge and kept his eyes fixed on a spot somewhere to the left of the tabletop as the pilot continued to speak. Once, the pilot reached across the table, as if to take hold of Shintani’s wrist, and Shintani suddenly unfroze and stepped back as if he had been stung.

  -I don’t understand this dialect, Shintani finally stammered in his fluent but oddly accented Hawaiian. Howard nodded and shrugged. The Niihauans passed around the news: Shintani the beekeeper could not tell them why the pilot was here. There were disappointed murmurs. Shintani continued to look as if he wanted to run or collapse.

  Shaking his head, Shintani finally backed out of the room.

  -Fetch Mr. Harada! said Howard.

  Yoshio had just finished cleaning a saddle, which he’d hoisted onto a rack and then leaned against before going on to the bridle, when he heard the horse canter up the driveway. The rider called his name and then came to a halt in front of his house, so Yoshio stepped out of the shed and squinted up the hill to the commotion. Mr. Robinson is back early, he thought first, because the master’s arrival always brought a kind of hysteria to the island, the suppressed excitement of a king’s visit. Some villagers traveled the fifteen miles to meet him at the boat dock. Others came to the door when he rode through town. But he could not remember a time when someone had actually heralded his arrival with such a ruckus.

  “Mr. Harada! Wikiwiki, hurry, hurry,” the boy yelled. Yoshio saw Irene open the door and frown at the skittish horse and its braying rider, the unnecessary dust they kicked up. Yoshio began to walk toward them. The yelling stopped as the boy seemed to speak to Irene, though from where he was it was impossible to know what was said. He saw Irene step back, and then the flash of her mu‘umu‘u in the sun as she raised her arms like wings. The dust shimmered and cut into his eyes, the sun heated up his neck. Irene’s voice, high-pitched and urgent, called his name. Yoshio began to run.

  It was a two-mile ride from the Robinson ranch house property that the Haradas took care of to the village of Puuwai, but they covered the ground quickly in their cart. Irene, who usually complained about the dust, said nothing, only held three-year-old Taeko close. When they pulled up to Howard Kaleohano’s house, the villagers overflowed from the inside of the house, to the porch, and down into the dry yard, but parted when Yoshio and his family mounted the steps. The women hissed at the small children to stand aside, the men touched the brims of their hats with their thumbs and nodded. Yoshio felt Irene clutch at his sweaty shirt and for a moment he was glad. But then the kitchen table came into view. He stopped and opened his mouth, but he was suddenly unable to remember the language he had grown up with.

  -I am Naval Airman First Class Shigenori Nishikaichi, the stranger at the table greeted him in clear, precise Japanese. Then he said gravely, Your Pearl Harbor has been attacked. We have invaded the United States.

  Yoshio heard the words in slow motion, a dust of sound caught momentarily in a breeze that fell through the inner workings of his mind. A. Tak. Pe. Erl. HA. Boor. In. VA. Aded. Then the words went from dust to scree, rumbling and screeching on the incline of his brain, gaining sound and momentum. He felt Irene’s own suppressed cry, even as she stood completely still, as if the words were instead a solid rock that had fallen in her path and she was frozen first in horror and then with the suddenness of a multitude of choices: turn back, go left, go right. He wanted to step back himself, stumble, more likely, to put immediate distance between him and this murderous pilot, but another part of him knew instinctively that it was not the time to alert his neighbors to anything wrong.

  -What do you mean? he stammered in Japanese, trying to keep his face impassive even as it drained of blood.

  -Everything’s gone, destroyed. The Imperial Navy did its job well. You should be proud of your native country.

  Yoshio only blinked at him. The pilot’s face, which had been taut with sudden pride, slackened. The Japanese couple was not as pleased as he would’ve liked.

  -Why are you here? hissed Yoshio. Already he could feel Howard’s eager impatience, wanting to know what was being said. Taeko had begun to whimper. The room was as quiet as a room full of people could be. There were no loud noises, but it rustled with the sway and murmur of bodies packed tightly together.

  -Bullets hit my gas tank. An emergency landing—

  But Howard now jumped up with his wide, foolish smile.

  -What’s he saying, Mr. Harada? Does he know the Old Lord?

  The villagers crowded closer to hear Yoshio answer.

  -I mean, why’d he land here, of all places? Howard waved his arms around the room. We’re not used to guests, and the Old Lord will be angry when he comes tomorrow. You know the rules.

  Yoshio nodded and felt Irene’s heavy silence behind him.

  -Yes, the rules, he said slowly. He frowned and looked down.

  He wanted to shout, Destruction! Death! Mayhem! Stand back, all of you. It’s evil, right here, in our kitchen. Truss this boy like a chicken, put a knife to his throat and make him beg. Strip him of his flight suit and that stern expression, throw him into the sea. All of you, listen, listen. America and now Niihau have been attacked by the Japanese.

  But he said nothing. His hands had begun kneading together, and a far-off memory roused itself. Japanese, the memory said, its voice slick with disdain.

  -Mr. Harada? said Howard.

  -It’s—he won’t say much. Yoshio coughed, dropping his hands at his sides. He—what does it matter anyway? Mr. Robinson will be here tomorrow, he’ll take care of all this. I’m sure the boy will speak more when he’s less tired and his wound has healed a little.

  There was a ripple of agreement in the room, and even Yoshio felt the palpable relief as the villagers willingly abdicated any real responsibility for the stranger. Howard sat back and nodded fiercely.

  -Right you are, Mr. Harada. We’ll let the Old Lord handle the mea mai ka ‘aina ‘e in the morning. Later, we’ll put him in the shed, keep him isolated, like he’d want us to. For now let’s eat more and treat our guest as Christians should.

  Someone plucked a ukulele and began to sing. Yoshio talked to the pilot for a little while longer, setting a few things straight, gathering a little bit more information, telling the pilot that tomorrow they would go to see the boss of the island when he arrived. Yoshio kept his tone neutral and his eyes away from the strange boy with the ramrod-straight posture; despite this his nausea and panic grew. Finally, he felt his horror about to burst. He excused himself quickly. He and Irene said nothing to each other as they pushed their way out the door. They nodded at their neighbors, smiled tightly. Errands, they murmured as convincingly as they could. They fled down the porch stairs, without looking back.

  6

  It wasn’t just the strange airman. Foreigners—mea mai ka ‘aina‘e—had been coming to Niihau for as long as anyone could remember. Perhaps it was the isolation and the accompanying promise of respite from the outside world. Perhaps it was something directly linked to the dry, flat landscape, which allowed one to see for so far without interruption that some might have thought they glimpsed the future. Something beckoned on that shorn, bare land, the promise of possibility that artists see in a blank canvas stretched before them. There is no other explanation for why Niihau was consistently described as a kind of paradise by the mea mai ka ‘aina ‘e who landed there.

  Niihau itself did not seem to care one way or another what was thought of it. It went about its island rhythms as it always had, yielding little rain, kicking up formidable amounts of dust. And so people left even more often than they arrived. For centuries the dry years had forced people to make the treacherous canoe ride to Kauai and settle there instead, often never returning. Kauai was lush and green. Its Mount Wai‘ale‘ale was the wettest place on earth
, receiving five hundred inches of rain a year. Only sixteen miles leeward, Niihau was a flaking, discarded peel of sand and lava. It was smaller than its neighbors, only eighteen miles long, and curled like a lemon rind. The wind was strong, rain was rare. Hawaiian lore stated—and science later confirmed—that Niihau was the first of the island chain to push its way from the ocean floor. Its explosive, frothy, molten birth seemed inconceivable now. It was an island of muted color, understatement, and calm.

  Though the rains that soaked Kauai rarely made the trip across the channel, others did. Old Ella Kanehele liked to tell the tale of her great-great-grandfather, and how he had been one of the first to welcome the famous explorer Captain Cook when he’d arrived in 1778. Another family said that they had a gift from one of the crew and frequently pulled a box from under a bed. They would open it reverently and rummage through a few bird feathers, a Bible, and a stick blessed by a kahuna, finally pulling out a large iron nail, red with rust and salt. Here, they would say. See?

  None of these claims could be verified. But Cook wrote affectionately in his log about Niihau, how he found scattered villages of grass huts and friendly inhabitants. He also found yams, thousands of them, a food item perfect for the long overseas voyages. Welcomed and feted, Cook saw the island as a kind of innocent paradise, despite the harsh landscape. His men saw it as an idyllic respite from the boredom of the high seas. When Cook made sail two days later, it was with the holds of his ship jammed with the hardy root vegetable and plans to return, though he lamented that he was unable to fill his water caskets from the trickle of brackish water Niihauans relied on. He and his crew left behind three goats, two pigs, pumpkin seeds, onion seeds, and venereal disease. All would irreparably alter the flora and fauna of this tiny island.