East Wind, Rain

by Caroline Paul

  Abruptly Yoshio turned to Howard. Be back, he said. He tried to keep his legs steady under him as he moved fast in the posture of someone heading to the bush to urinate, but it was all he could do to keep from falling to his knees. He stumbled into the bright sunlight. He turned left, to distance himself from the girls, needing to escape from their sound, needing to go far away, needing to have this whole thing be over, but knowing that it was up to him to make a decision, soon. At a clump of scrub beyond the wagon, he stopped and put his hands on his thighs to catch his breath. He wanted to vomit, and wondered if it would make him feel better. Instead, he walked unsteadily to the wagon and then lay in its stingy shade. He closed his eyes, hoping to block out California’s insistent, mocking roar.

  People on Kauai had looked at him differently when he returned. He had lost weight and he spoke little and drank too much. They knew something had happened over there in California. Yoshio wanted to tell them that it was the endless march of small humiliations that cracked a man. But in his case, this was only partly true. There had been one final moment, as dark and narrow as an alley, as unforgettable as a kick in the ribs—yellow sissy—that had ultimately crushed him. Without this moment his sense of self would have been crimped and pockmarked by the ceaseless rain of stifled laughs, sideways looks, and spit, but even in pieces it would still be there. Instead, a whole part of him had fled. This was why he loved Niihau so much. She was eroded by constant winds, pounded by a merciless sun, trampled by cows and sheep. But she held up, always the same island every dawn, no matter how badly Mother Nature had treated her. Nonchalant, even scornful. Confident. But if the Japanese came? Perhaps it would be her own terrible moment, and he would see how she would endure.

  He allowed himself a few more minutes under the wagon. Then he pulled himself up and leaned against its wooden sides. He would have to go back to the warehouse soon, he didn’t want to arouse suspicion. As he straightened and wiped the sweat from his brow, something caught his eye at the far end of the wagon. It was small and dark: the pilot’s flying cap.

  It had stiffened in the sun, and one earflap had curled. Yoshio held it for a few moments; his fingers pressed the cracks of the leather, his eyes squinted at the decorative seams. He guessed the pelt that lined the inside was made of rabbit, but he couldn’t be sure. On its front he noticed a raised circle of leather, inside which was a small, five-pointed star. He ran a finger over it carefully, as if the sharp points might cut him. Then he dropped the flight hat on his fingertips and held it upward to get a better view, as it might look on a man’s head, allowing the earflaps to fall around his thumbs. Hung like this the cap seemed to exude power and certainty. It was the mantle of a man with a purpose. Yoshio glanced right and left, and then toward the warehouse. Well, no one would see him, and it wouldn’t hurt. He squatted behind one wheel and with a deft movement pulled the cap on his head.

  He only let it rest there a little while. He wished he had a mirror, but wearing it was enough. When he reluctantly withdrew it from his head, his hands were no longer shaking. He left it where he had found it, and walked back to the warehouse, his step quicker and firmer than it had been, and something beginning to take hold in his heart.

  17

  They rode harder than they usually did. The bridles clanged, and sweat gathered around the cinches like foam on waves. The two kerosene lamps, which would be used with the reflectors to transmit the emergency signal, made the saddlebags bulge. The three men, Ben, Hanaiki Niau, and his son Little Preacher, talked low and kept impassive faces, unwilling to show one another their excitement, but the horses felt it anyway and strained against the bits and flicked their heads to and fro. Despite this and even though it was late afternoon, they wouldn’t keep this pace for long. Ultimately the men slowed their mounts to trots with murmurs and tightened reins. They knew that up ahead there was a spring where they would stop, and then the long, steady climb of Mount Paniau.

  The horses drank first, their necks extended, their nostrils flared. Then the men, flat on their stomachs, using their hands as scoops. Except Hanaiki Niau, whose bulk needed room on the embankment and who waited with his head turned away, as if he didn’t care much.

  Ben Kanahele—Ella’s husband—rose to his feet first and wiped his mouth. He looked up the scrubby slope with its thickets of kiawe and wiliwili. He didn’t like to light the lamps, for fear of a fire, but it had to be done, he knew. He hadn’t meant to stare at Hanaiki’s saddle. But as he had turned from the mountain with a small twinge of worry in his stomach, the leather had glinted like a star.

  -What’s this? he asked, pointing below the pommel, to something bright and round, recently riveted into the saddle.

  Hanaiki had finally lowered himself to the spring and he wasn’t about to turn and look, not now, when the cool water was at his mouth and it felt so good to drink.

  -Wait, he grunted. He splashed his face and arms with care. He took a final sip. Then he pushed himself slowly to his feet.

  Ben pointed, Hanaiki shrugged.

  -Came from the plane, he said.

  -Sure it isn’t bad luck?

  -It’s metal, that’s all.

  It was thick and beautiful, a deep gray color that reminded Ben of a sky that promised rain.

  -Mr. Robinson won’t like it, Mr. Niau. Could bring disease.

  He said this gruffly, despite the fact that he had already run his palms down the plane’s flank more than once and had even reached below the instrument panel to touch what he did not know were the rudder pedals, twisted and now useless. He too had felt the urge to take something, though he had no idea what he specifically needed. Almost everything on the island was provided—free taro root, free fruit, and as much milk as one needed from any cow. The rocks at low tide were covered with opiki, which were easily pulled off and then picked nimbly from their shells. The fish were plentiful. Wild boar roamed the island. And though each worker paid rent, the houses had been sturdily built with wood shipped in by the Robinson boat, with Robinson money. The ranch hands were outfitted with work clothes for a fair price, often handed down from other cowboys, yes, but sturdy and useful. There was even the store his wife, Ella, liked to visit for extra things like flour or beans. His salary of $1.50 a day (par with or even a little better than the pay of other plantation workers on other islands) left enough for these luxuries. In sum, Ben had never felt before the lack he’d felt as he rummaged in the cockpit pushing and pulling at strange buttons and flat stirrups and small leather-covered chairs. He had none of these things in his life, and though he knew that on the one hand he wanted nothing to do with a machine that flew in the sky, he also knew that it represented a whole world he did not know and, worse, could not comprehend. Before this, he had never wanted to comprehend it, agreeing with the Old Lord that the best things were simple and godly. But faced with it, in the form of this downed plane, he felt an odd, inexplicable pull. Not to mention the high emotions it had sparked in Ella. She was ornery to begin with, but she never defied him. Yesterday, though, she had argued that she wanted to visit the plane despite his stern prohibition. He had been angered by her impudence, but in many ways he understood that the plane had a strange effect on everyone. Now as he stared at the bright, jagged ornament on Hanaiki’s saddle, he wished he too had taken something when he’d had a chance.

  -What’s it good for, there on the saddle? muttered Ben, shaking his head.

  Hanaiki shrugged amiably.

  -No use. I just like it.

  They said no more after that, and slowed their horses to a walk.

  As they neared the top, the brush got scrubbier and the soil began to show its molten beginnings. The fine red beads crunched like bones under the horses’ hooves.

  -Why has he forsaken us? asked Little Preacher suddenly. The young boy rarely spoke in the presence of his father, Hanaiki, so Ben was startled.

  -God? said Ben. God is all around us, He hasn’t—

  -Mr. Robinson, the boy interrupted. It’s been th
ree days and he hasn’t come.

  -Son, we know he’s got good reason. He’s an important man, with important things to do. He doesn’t know yet that we have a stranger here. After we signal, he’ll launch a boat immediately, I guarantee it.

  Little Preacher looked doubtful. He shook his head.

  -Everybody’s getting worried. I heard Mrs. Kaleohano say that it’s a bad sign, the Old Lord late, and a foreigner we don’t know what to do with.

  -Hush, boy, said his father. No sense talking about bad luck. That’s superstition, and God would not approve.

  -Yes, agreed Ben. You’ll learn as you get older, Little Preacher, that listening to the women can get you in trouble. Isn’t that right, Mr. Niau?

  The men laughed. Little Preacher smiled uncertainly, looked up the mountain. By now, they could see the ocean on three sides. They rode on in silence. Only a few hundred feet from the summit, Ben frowned.

  “Aoa,” he said simply. Hanaiki looked over at him and nodded. Yes, the wind was coming strongly from Hanapepe, Kauai, an aoa wind, perfect for a crossing. Usually this was cause for celebration, but today it was an ominous sign. It would have been one thing if there had been kiu-kulepe, a fierce wind, or even the typical lehua, afternoon northeastern trade wind. That would explain the Old Lord’s tardiness. But the wind yesterday and today had been a steady east wind, the water ruffled but easily manageable by the large boat. There was no reason for him to be late.

  The wind brought many things to Niihau, depending on its direction. Rain clouds lumbered over from Kauai. Birds glided in from the open sea. The first Niihauans may have been blown here by a whimsy of the weather. So it was no wonder that the Niihauans had given the wind so many names—kiu-pekekeu for light, cold winds; kiu-koolau, moderate cold winds; kiu-mana, a cold wind from Kauai; unulau, a wind from the northeast that brings rain and a vision of the mysterious island, to name only a few. Ben realized that this wind was aoa, but in his bones he felt suddenly another wind, kiu-peapea, the cross wind that brings with it war, strife, and disharmony. He wanted to stop his horse and double-check by swiveling his cheek in all directions, but he did not want to alarm his neighbors more than they already were. That was all they needed: Robinson not here and an omen like that. It would be too much. Ben said nothing.

  The final few minutes upslope they sat a little taller, pushed their heels tighter to urge their tired mounts a little faster, and when they finally got to the summit, dismounted quickly, without looking around too much, to unpack the lanterns and kick clear a place in the red-black soil upon which to set them.

  Ben finally raised his head to check the view. He did not come up here often—when was the last time?—and he had forgotten how much one could see. The small dock at Kii stretched out like a stick at Kaunuopou Point, and though he thought he could make out the buildings, he could not spot Howard, who was no doubt moping a little because the Old Lord still had not come, and was perhaps on his way back to Puuwai. Just above that, along the shore, he could see a clearing in the brush that would be the remains of Pahau, once the place to which unlucky lepers were sent, and beyond that the nearest heiau. There were many of these sacred temples on the island, built by the ancients for the gods they had believed in, and though the Niihauans now knew that there was only one God, the heiaus were secretly deemed important in their way. Even the Old Lord had not been told where all of them were; Ben suspected that he knew this, though he probably did not like it. Ben turned in the direction of Puuwai; he could not make out any houses, but finally, after staring for a long time, he saw the white glint of the beloved church.

  The clatter of the lanterns stilled. Hanaiki and his son straightened to look. They stood in reverent silence for a few moments, hearing only the whistle of the wind and the intermittent snort of the horses nuzzling at the brush. Then they continued their work, and when it was done, sat and waited for dark.

  They began at dusk, arguing a little about whether they should have a steady light or try to attract attention with an intermittent beam. Ben had been told once by Howard that there was an actual flickering system that signaled certain things, like letters in the air, but the other two looked at him blankly.

  -We’ll get the light trained on Kauai and then we’ll pray, said Little Preacher. This was self-evident, that God would transmit the actual message.

  And so the three men went slowly, carefully, to their knees. After a while Little Preacher began to sing, low at first. The hymn was his favorite, one that he hummed when he was afraid or angry or when powerful, embarrassing feelings came over him, like when he was near Mrs. Keale’s daughter. When he was done he peeked through lowered eyelids at the lantern light, which, it seemed to him, shone brighter and steadier than ever. Buoyed, he went through every hymn in their Hawaiian Bible and then back through them again as darkness came quickly and the light narrowed the world to just what fell within its large cylindrical beam. Insects, fooled into thinking the moon was nearby, whirled and glimmered like sudden stars as they flailed across its path. Sometimes Ben and Hanaiki joined in with the singing but mostly they stared up at the night sky, and thought of the plane, and of the Old Lord, and why he had not yet come.

  18

  Imperceptibly, the plane had begun to disappear. A piece here, placed by the imu. A piece there, dropped in a pocket and jangled every so often for good luck. In the Kelly household hung the sinew of electric cable across the corner of a bed, ostensibly for decoration but also because there had been a rumor that the blue and green and red held some key to amorous powers. The tire, whose saltatory dance upon impact left it far from the axle it had once belonged to, was gone from its place near the fence post, which itself now lay flat against the sand, mistaken for the island sugarcane by curious gulls. Ella thought she saw the rubber jutting from the Kaleohano outhouse, but Mabel shook her head fiercely and denied it. Ella couldn’t pursue it, for then there would be questions about why she was there in the first place, near the plane and thus with a clear view of the outhouse. Ella had of course very good reason for being there, and she practiced saying it aloud in case someone asked. Walking the long way to the beach. But of course she wasn’t going to the beach at all, because it was midday on Wednesday, December 10, and everyone who was smart was either in her house or on a horse fanning himself with a cowboy hat under the shade of a wiliwili.

  She had never wanted to know much about the outside world—it had seemed enough to push out her five squalling babies and then care for them in the heat and dust; life somewhere else couldn’t have been much different from where she was. Years ago, before the measles epidemic and the current drought, when more people had been allowed to leave the island and then return, freely, she had heard stories of the outer islands. Those stories made it clear that beyond a few more churches and a few more haoles, the outside world was not much different from Niihau. But now that the plane had crashed into their island, she was suddenly intrigued. She had questions: How does this fly and why? Who are the people who thought such a thing up? What other machines have they made? What is it like to live a life full of metal? The questions disturbed and animated her—she had asked them of her husband, Ben, but he had only looked at her, alarmed. Women weren’t supposed to ask things like that, he said. Then, for the first time since the beginning of their marriage, she had defied him. She had agreed not to go back there again and then she had blurted out that of course she was going, it was as much her plane as anybody else’s here on Niihau, and besides, Mrs. Niau said that Hanaiki’s saddle looked like a crown from a picture book, so much silver and jewels from the plane were now on it, and Ella wanted some for herself, after all. Ben had blinked at her and turned red. Later he’d complained that his hip, the one damaged in the horse accident, hurt, and she had soothed him, but there was still that rift between them.

  So now she was back to find out what had seeped into her blood so suddenly, with fervor not unlike the way her first child fell quickly to a strange disease that later someone called
influenza. The stranger himself, pale, just a boy, did not interest her—and anyway, it was unseemly for a Christian woman to show too much interest in a male guest. But the plane, its calligraphic strewing of shiny knobs and metal planks, glass, and rubber tires, was trying to speak to her. And what it spoke, now in a whisper, now in an insistent, clear shout, was of the outside world, strange, mysterious, and forbidden.

  The sun sprayed its leaden heat, the flies, numerous and persistent, lighted on her arms and legs, humming angry disapproval. Ella waved away dust (resigned to the flies), and remonstrated with herself to turn around and go home, that there were shells to be organized and food to prepare. But at each house, she continued to the next until she was by the church. Hot and thirsty and in need of some guidance, she stood to one side and debated whether to enter.

  It would have struck Ella as ironic to know that the church itself was a composite of strewn parts—stained glass brought around Cape Horn, benches hewn from Pacific Northwest trees, nails and metal brackets torn from a home on Oahu razed to make way for a military base at a place once called Puuloa, then renamed Fair Haven, and finally christened Pearl Harbor. The church’s tin roof had been thrown into the Noio, the Robinsons’ private boat, alongside cattle and sheep and some of the thousands of ironweed trees planted each year. It had been ceremoniously hoisted into place by many hands and blessed by the preacher of the time, Moses W. Kaaneikawahaale Keale. Also blessed were twenty-five stone plaques that were laid alongside the church walls, naming the head of each family on Niihau in that year of 1912, when the church was finished. Ella walked over to the stones now. They were hot to the touch, but she wedged the large, rough tips of her fingers into a few of the letters anyway. She was illiterate, but she knew the names of the families by heart, and she used to pretend to read them off the stones to her children, mixing it up each time, but naming all twenty-five without pause: Kahale, Niau, Lawai, Kalalua, Niheu—the names still thrived today. Ella thought of how that made Niihau as fine a place to be as any, if not finer—this long lineage of families who extended back into the past and would continue reaching into the future. She nodded her head in respect to the twelve stones on this side of the church and then pushed the front door open.