East Wind, Rain

by Caroline Paul

  He turned to the drooping figure of Jesus, on the wall behind him, whose unnaturally incandescent white skin, mistaken sometimes for grace, could still be seen in the graying light. Then he pushed away from the lectern and hurried down the aisle.

  The villagers scrambled to their feet, unused to seeing Howard so scared and flustered. They scattered, all 130 of them, into the low scrub and dry ground behind Puuwai and beyond. Some grabbed horses, some fled on foot. Howard instructed Mabel to stay close to Hannah. Then he found an unclaimed mare and vaulted onto her back.

  -Signal! he cried to Hanaiki Niau. Go to the mountain! Then he galloped back to his house.

  25

  Ella leaned one shoulder against the outside church wall and watched her neighbors fade up the dirt road. Only her husband stood by the church door, holding it open until the last of the villagers had scurried past and then shutting it carefully and standing motionless, as if undecided about what to do next.

  -Come on, he finally said. We’ll get the horses and head to the caves at Kawaihoa.

  -I need to talk to Mrs. Harada. Find out what’s really going on. Ella picked up her lantern and sighed. Ben walked quickly to catch up with her.

  -We know what’s going on! And it’s not good! The only thing to do now is hide and wait for Mr. Robinson.

  -Mr. Robinson’s not coming. There’s a war out there, you heard Mr. Niau. And it’s about to arrive on our island! No one can help us now but God and ourselves. No more waiting for Mr. Robinson. You run like a child to the caves if you want, but I need to talk to Mrs. Harada.

  -But the woman’s on their side. She must be!

  -She bought Christmas ornaments, Ella said, as if this would explain everything. She drew up her shoulders and lifted her chin. Her hands clutched her broad hips. She glared at Ben. I invited her to string leis with us.

  Ben blinked, puzzled. He shook his head and put his palms to the heavens.

  -Okay, Mama, he said.

  Ella rode sidesaddle behind Ben, who kept his horse at a slow canter. Just outside Puuwai they heard the heavy sound of hammering, which Ella guessed meant that the guns were being unhitched, just as Howard had said. Her temper rose again, but she forced herself to think only of speaking to Mrs. Harada, and what they would do then. It would be all right, she thought. Mrs. Harada would tell her that Mr. Harada was just playing along, waiting for the right time to alert his neighbors to overpower the young pilot.

  As they rode up the final hill, Ella saw that the house was completely dark. Ben knocked on the door anyway, and there was a movement at the side window. Ella called for Irene, who finally opened the door. Her small face glowed white against the black of the house inside.

  -Your husband! Ella cried.

  -What about him? gasped Irene.

  -He’s crazy as a boar. The foreigner too, yelling, waving his guns. It isn’t true, he’s not helping the pilot, right?

  Irene’s hands flew to her mouth.

  -He’s been shot? she cried.

  -No, Ella said with disgust, but someone will be. It’s the plane, isn’t it? It’s made him crazy. The foreigner will kill us all. Come with us, tell him to stop, tell him to—

  Ella moved forward, but Ben grabbed her shoulders to keep her from charging into the house. Irene’s hands still covered the lower half of her face. She stepped back, startled, as the old woman advanced furiously.

  -Please! she cried. Leave! You don’t understand anything.

  -There’s a war on, we know that. And the pilot wants papers he had when he landed and he’s willing to kill for them. You must talk to your—

  -I cannot do anything. Irene’s voice rose to a shriek. She slammed the door and stumbled back into her kitchen. She would fetch Taeko and they would hide in an outer shed. They would lock the door from the inside and the villagers would leave her alone. They would want to hurt her perhaps, but they wouldn’t destroy Robinson property to do it.

  Ella walked back to the horse as if in a trance. Ben put one arm around her shoulder but she shrugged it off.

  -She’s no better than a flying cockroach! She wants to kill us all. Ella shook her head in disbelief. We just went shell hunting yesterday morning…the most beautiful shells…

  -Hush, Ella, said Ben. We’ll get to the caves, talk about it then.

  Howard stepped into his decimated kitchen. He kicked aside a few cans of string beans and bent to replace the pot that tilted against the wall. He strained to listen for sounds of breathing, but soon decided he was alone in the mess. A search of the cupboard showed they’d found the pistol—he shook his head at his foolishness. He hurried to his bedroom. He stepped over the few clothes they owned and past the tipped-over side table. He reached under Mabel’s bed. It was a miracle, a God-given miracle, but the papers were still there and intact. He stuffed them into his waist belt.

  He rode like he’d never ridden before, head close to his horse’s fluttering mane, heels flapping against her flanks to urge her on. It was dark now and there were no oil lanterns or imus to guide him; everyone had fled. But he had lived here long enough to know his way around by the faint bluish light of a thinning moon. He counted the houses as he rode by—dark, hulking shadows he mentally ticked off on his fingers, until he came to his mother-in-law’s. She too had gone, but he knew of an old floorboard she had asked him to fix, which he pulled up now, scraping the skin off the tips of his fingers in the effort. At her doorway he rested, hands on his knees, breathing heavily from fear and exertion. In the quiet night, he could hear the distant sound of a hammer against the plane.

  Mr. Harada and the pilot would successfully dismantle the guns soon. Howard felt his heart lurch. Still breathless, he mounted his mare and kicked her toward Mount Paniau.

  Howard found men already there. Hanaiki Niau, with a cut on his knee and a few scraps of straw still in his hair, straightened as Howard rode up.

  -The lamps aren’t enough, he cried. We’re going with a signal fire.-You sure? said Howard, dismounting quickly. Dangerous, with everything dry like this. He looped the reins of his horse on a nearby rock.

  -Then they’ll know something’s really wrong, Hanaiki insisted.

  -We light the fire, and then pau, no more relying on others to help, said Howard fiercely. We’re alone, we do what we need to do ourselves, like our ancestors would’ve done.

  Hanaiki snorted.

  -Okay, brother, what do you have in mind? Shoot them with slingshots? Throw pebbles? They’ve got guns, these crazy Japanese.

  -We paddle to Kauai, Howard said.

  -You’re crazy now. Hanaiki shook his head with disgust. You and Mr. Harada both.

  -Just like our ancestors, urged Howard. It’s only sixteen miles.

  -There’re headwinds.

  -And a moon we can guide by.

  -Currents.

  -We’ll get Captain to guide us. He’s a good fisherman; he knows these waters like his horse.

  For a while no one said anything more. They worked fast to clear a safe space for the fire and soon someone rode downslope to collect kindling and firewood. Howard rolled his shoulders once or twice to loosen them and then stared out to sea, toward Kauai.

  -They’re all dead? asked Hanaiki, following his gaze. This war the Japanese told us about, it’s killed everyone out there?

  Howard said nothing.

  -Mr. Robinson doesn’t come, that can’t be good, Hanaiki said quietly. I can only think the worst.

  -We’ll take our chances with the lifeboat, said Howard. It’s built for heavy seas.

  -Crazy again. It’s a sheep trough with oars, said Hanaiki.

  This was true. And it was old, used mostly to ferry goods ashore and, back when ships found Niihau a place of interest, to rescue seamen from a luckless boat. It was built for short trips and stability, not a channel crossing.

  -God helps those who help themselves, Howard said.

  When Howard rode back down the mountain, he looked back only once. He wanted to see the bonfire a
s Kauai might see it, a celestial rising from the ocean, a volcanic eruption. He kept his horse to a trot and glanced only quickly, but in that brief moment his mouth dropped and his scalp tingled. The flames leaped high. Black smoke began to cover the stars. Even from this distance he heard the angry crackle of wood giving way. Sparks ricocheted like glowing bees. He didn’t want to look too long, afraid it might hypnotize him or beckon him back to the peak, which now seemed imbued with the fire’s power, a sacred, untouchable place of spirits and gods. He imagined his neighbors staring at their tremendous bonfire with mournful eyes, their large hands in their pockets, not speaking much. O God, keep the wind down, he prayed. O Ancestors, keep the air calm. Had they taken on too much? And now he was proposing to row across the ocean.

  Howard kicked his horse to go faster down the scree.

  Yoshio called repeatedly for Howard, but the air was silent. Except for the occasional stamp of a horse he could not see, the whole village of Puuwai was deserted. It was eerie, and for Yoshio, disappointing. Finally, he’d hoped to explain to his neighbors why he and the pilot were doing this. That there was a war on and a Japanese squadron was on the way. They were taking a long time (Pearl Harbor had been bombed five days ago, he calculated), but perhaps that was the way war was. He would assure his neighbors that the pilot would keep them safe as long as they cooperated. But there was no one to speak to. No doubt, Mrs. Niau had told the whole village that Mr. Harada had stolen her cart. It hadn’t been that way of course—they’d only borrowed it to make things go more smoothly. But he remembered that look she’d given him, of disdain and fury. Now they had fled from him, ignorant, as usual.

  They had walked around the church twice before Yoshio raised the lantern and turned to Nishikaichi. It threw fearsome shadows under the pilot’s face.

  -I wish it hadn’t turned out this way, said Yoshio. The people running from us.

  The pilot only shrugged. He looked toward the church. The white walls glowed bluish in the moonlight.

  -Open the door.

  -We leave the weapons outside, said Yoshio.

  Nishikaichi looked at him without understanding.

  -It’s a house of God, said Yoshio.

  -Not our god, Harada-san.

  Yoshio had been inside the church only a few times—once to fix a pew and another to deliver a new batch of Hawaiian-language Bibles that had arrived with the store supplies. He hadn’t thought much of it then—it was like any of the rural churches on Kauai, crowded with pews, dusty, the eaves full of yammering birds. But tonight long, black shadows thrown by the lantern light swayed on the walls. The outline of that wooden Jesus sprawled like a large bat in front of him. Tonight the church was speaking to him, warning him, and he was scared. He wanted to run down the aisle and push his way outside. But Nishikaichi walked behind him and peered at every pew. He hissed at Yoshio to direct his lantern here, there. Yoshio concentrated on slowing his breath and stilling his shaking hands. He ignored the bang of the pilot’s gun against the benches.

  Then they heard it. The unmistakable whimper of a human voice. When Yoshio swung the lantern, he saw a kneeling figure in the front pew.

  Nishikiachi leaped onto a wooden seat and pointed the gun at the person, who wept raucously now.

  -He’ll shoot, cried Yoshio. The figure sobbed louder.

  -Little Preacher? said Yoshio. Again?

  The boy blinked rapidly as the lantern light hit him. His hands jerked to his face. Well, it made sense he’d be here, pleading with his god. His faith had not wavered.

  -Get up, Yoshio said as gently as he could. Little Preacher did not move.

  -I mean it, said Yoshio. I can’t account for the pilot and what he’ll do with his gun.

  -Yellow heathen, gulped Little Preacher. Japanese devil.

  Yoshio reared back as if he had just been hit.

  -What did you say?

  -Japanese devil! Little Preacher sobbed.

  There was a silence as Yoshio seemed to be deciding something. Little Preacher, startled by his own vehemence, sobbed louder. Yoshio blinked. Despite the noise he heard something low and harsh in his ear. Yellow sissy, came a whisper from somewhere inside him. Put your hands together and beg.

  -Get up! Yoshio was suddenly yelling. One of his arms was flapping, swiping the side of his own face as if something had bitten him. Little Preacher, shocked, terrified, covered his head. I’m in charge here! Yoshio screamed. Move or I’ll send you to your white god!

  They marched him through the village, Yoshio pushing a shotgun in his back with quick, forceful jabs.

  -Please, come…come back…, Little Preacher began shakily.

  -Louder, say it louder, grunted Yoshio.

  The young Niihauan began to call and shout and yell for his neighbors. The pilot wanted to get as many prisoners as possible, in order to pressure Howard into giving the papers back. Yoshio pushed the barrel hard into Little Preacher’s back, feeling the vertebral resistance and pushing harder. His hands were white hot. His eyes felt as if they had expanded in their sockets. This was a new feeling for him. He had felt angry before, but now he was angry and powerful.

  -Louder, he hissed again. Or I’ll make you beg. You hear me? You’ll beg on your hands and knees.

  Moments later there was an answering call from behind one of the houses.

  Kaahakila Kalimahuluhulu, a young cowboy known as Kalima for short, ran onto the road toward them.

  -Okay? Little Preacher, you okay? Kalima said breathlessly.

  They tied Kalima’s hands, though they kept Little Preacher’s free, which in later years would plague him. Had he not been enough of a man? Had they realized that he was not a threat to them, that he did not have the guts to do anything unexpected, that he was not wily and strong like Kalima, but a weak-willed, tearful boy capable only of empty prayers and acquiescence? When he became a minister a few years later, many of his sermons were about how the meek would inherit the earth, though he wasn’t so sure. Later in life he began to shun the New Testament, reading and preaching the Old Testament only, so that his parishioners always left his sermons slightly unhinged by his long descriptions of plagues and bloody animal sacrifices.

  But he didn’t think of any of this now. He was too busy repeating the Twenty-third Psalm as he lifted a machine gun from the plane and staggered under its weight.

  Nishikaichi, without a word, watched Little Preacher struggle. Yoshio, encouraged, started to say something disparaging about the young Hawaiian. But the pilot was uninterested in Little Preacher; he was staring instead at his plane.

  -It’s perfect, he murmured. Yoshio frowned. What did the pilot say?

  -The plane, Nishikaichi repeated. It’s perfect.

  Even as he said it, he knew it was not entirely true, at least not mechanically. The Zero was the best fighter plane in the skies. It flew higher and faster than anything else. But there was one fault. Nishikaichi knew it, all her pilots did: the Zero rolled too slowly when it turned to the right. The left turn was balletic, a welcome snap, a gut-wrenching twist. But the right: it was as if an unseen current pushed back on the wing. A novice airman did not notice, but the seasoned pilots felt it under their palms, in the pits of their stomachs, against their right shoulders. Too slow. They tried to adjust; each had a technique that they shared in training: dive first, less rudder, more rudder, dive late. But there was no real answer, just hopeful tactics and, for some, small superstitions—candles were lit over the rudder pedals, fruit laid on the right wing. After a while none of the veteran flyers talked about it much. But, Nishikaichi knew, if the American enemy found out this small weakness, the great strengths of the plane would be useless. It was the silent Achilles’ heel.

  Little Preacher fell to the ground suddenly. The clatter of the gun startled both men. Kalima shouted anxiously to his friend, who got to his feet clumsily and wiped his face.

  -To the cart with that gun! Yoshio turned from the pilot and his odd, intent focus on the plane. He became menacing o
nce again, poking Little Preacher with the nose of the shotgun and shouting. The two walked away, leaving Kalima cross-legged on the ground, his face collapsed in a scowl, his arms tied tightly behind him. Nishikaichi stayed too, and picked up the earphones one more time and fiddled with the radio knobs as if somehow, by a miracle, it would be working now, when he needed it to, as if the whole fact that his mighty plane was crushed and crumbled and disappearing into the earth was simply a trick of the light and that somehow, in the darkness, it had repaired itself.

  Little Preacher returned, looking shaken and exhausted. Yoshio was behind him, a strange shine to his face. His eyes were greedy and wide, his mouth sagged down at the edges.

  -You okay? said Nishikaichi.

  -I’m going to send Kalima to tell Irene we won’t be back tonight.

  -He won’t go, said Nishikaichi. He’ll just run and hide.

  -These Niihauans do what they’re told, hissed Yoshio. He poked the shotgun into Kalima’s chest.

  -Run to my house, tell Irene we’ll be back in the morning. He grabbed the ranch hand under one armpit and hauled him to his feet. Pushing his face close he whispered,

  -You don’t and I shoot your young neighbor here, and anyone else I find. Then he shoved him in the direction of Robinson’s ranch.

  Kalima set off, shuffling, lopsided, the ropes on his wrists burning. When he looked back and the plane and the men were out of sight, he cut into the scrub. He headed to the beach and its caves, where the Niihauan villagers hid and prayed.

  26

  On Friday evening Robinson fell asleep in a kitchen chair while reading a book on botany. His nose lay on Camellia sinsensis, but his thumb was fifty pages forward, on Flora mona-censis. He woke to a banging on the door. Thinking it was the army officer with news at last, he sprang from the chair and threw the door open. Foreman Shanagan stood panting on the doorstep.