The Promise

by Jane Peart

  “I’ll have to ask,” Jana hedged.

  By this time, they’d reached the hitching post where Edith, who usually rode to school, tethered her horse, Malakini. As Edith swung herself easily up into the saddle and picked up the reins, she said confidently, “Don’t worry. Papa will come and speak to your folks. He can persuade anyone to do anything.”

  Jana and Akela exchanged a knowing look. Both the other girls were used to their friend’s self-assured manner. Rarely did Edith Preston fail to get what she wanted. And no wonder. She had everything: money, position, beauty. Edith rode off, and as they continued walking, Jana asked, “Will you go?”

  Akela shook her head. “I don’t think so. Our whole family will be celebrating Christmas together in Kona.”

  Of course, that was to be expected. Immediately the word ohana came into Jana’s mind. Ohana, the Hawaiian word that symbolized family. A beautiful word, a beautiful reality, which the Kipolas reverenced. But it meant much more. It meant an unbroken circle of relationship that extended beyond the immediate family and included many others. Ohana meant a bond of love that surrounded, protected, the individual so that no one ever needed to feel alone. Jana envied that closeness she’d glimpsed within the ohana. Her own father was an orphan, and her mother’s family lived far away in the southern part of the United States.

  “But couldn’t you even come for a few days?” Jana persisted. “Over New Year’s, like Kiki said?”

  “Well—” Akela blushed slightly as she said, “Pelo’s family will be there, too.”

  At the mention of Pelo Kimura, Jana gave her a sharp glance. Were Akela’s feelings for Pelo more than friendship? They had known each other from childhood, been playmates. Just as she and Kimo, Akela’s cousin, were.

  They had reached the fork of the road where they turned to go to Akela’s grandmother’s house. No more was said about the Prestons’ house party as they started up the winding hill that led to the home. It stood high on a windswept cliff, overlooking a stretch of white-sand beach and a crescent of blue ocean. Through an arched gate, they passed into a garden lush with color—purple, orange, yellow, pink—and fragrant with the mingled scents of hibiscus, gardenias, and plumeria.

  They sat down on the porch steps to take off their high-topped boots, as it was Hawaiian custom to remove one’s shoes before entering a home.

  Unlacing her shoestrings, Jana asked, “What do you want to do when we finish school, Akela?”

  Akela looked startled. “Do? I don’t know. I haven’t thought.”

  “I want to be an artist.”

  “You’re very good. Your paintings of flowers and all.”

  “I want to do more than just pretty pictures. I mean really paint. My parents want me to go to teachers college in California. They want me to start sending out applications.” Jana made a face. “Ugh! I don’t want to teach! All I really want to do is stay right here and have my own little studio where I can see the sky and the sea, and paint!”

  Akela smiled. “That sounds nice.”

  “So when we are finished with school,” Jana persisted, “deep down, what do you want to do?”

  Akela’s expression became dreamy. “I suppose—something like you—stay on the island, be happy.”

  Just then they heard Akela’s grandmother’s voice calling, “Is that you, girls? Come in, I’ve poured some guava juice, and there are fresh cookies.”

  “Coming, Tutu!” Akela called back.

  Any further discussion of the future interrupted, they pulled off their stockings, ran up the steps and into the house. Mrs. Kipola, tall and silver haired, stood at the door waiting, holding herself like a duchess.

  Pekila Kipola’s regal bearing came rightfully. The Kipolas were descendants of an ancient clan of royalty called the alli.

  Inside it was dim and cool. The girls settled down on the floor on straw mats to sip their juice and munch on crisp macadamia nut cookies while Tutu, seated nearby on a fan-backed rattan chair, picked up one of the quilts on which she was working.

  Jana glanced at Tutu, then over at Akela. Hawaiian women were all so beautiful—velvety eyed, satin skinned. Kipola had an unusual face, but one of rare beauty. Her full lips seemed lifted in a perpetual smile. Her nose was strong, the nostrils slightly flared, and her dark eyes shone with an inner light. Akela’s beauty was more delicate. Her dark, wavy hair framed a perfect oval face. Her hands were slender, graceful. Beside Akela, Jana was always aware of her own haole appearance. She took after her father, having sandy brown hair, hazel eyes, skin inclined to freckle.

  “So how was school today?” Tutu asked in her low, melodic voice.

  “History!” both answered in unison. Then Akela said, “We’re learning about the Civil War and President Lincoln.” She looked over at Jana. “Tell Tutu what you told me about your mother and father being at the theater the night Mr. Lincoln was shot, Jana.”

  Tutu looked up from her quilt, shock replacing her usually serene expression. “How dreadful.”

  “Yes, it was terrible,” Jana nodded. “Mama has a quilt she made—not like the ones you make, Tutu, but one they call a memory quilt or crazy quilt. It’s made out of all sorts of different materials and fabrics cut from dresses or cloaks that have special meaning in their lives. Mama was wearing a blue velvet dress that night to the theater. And after the shooting and President Lincoln’s death, she vowed she would never wear that dress again. So she cut it into scraps and pieced them together for a quilt. She bound the whole thing with black satin ribbon from the bonnet ribbons she wore to his funeral.” Jana paused. “It was all very sad.”

  “It sounds like a sad quilt, a sad memory to keep,” Tutu said mildly.

  “Well, it’s not all sad. The whole quilt, I mean. She also has pieces of her wedding dress in it, and the cloak she wore when she traveled through enemy lines with my father when they were eloping.”

  “Eloping?” echoed Akela, looking puzzled.

  “Yes, isn’t that romantic? They had to run away to get married, because Mama’s family didn’t approve.”

  “Oh, now that is sad,” murmured Akela. “To be married without your family! How awful.”

  Jana looked from one to the other. She saw at once they did not think it romantic at all, but tragic. To be married without your family, your ohana, was truly a tragedy. The bonds of the Hawaiian family were very strong.

  They went on to talk of other things, until at length Jana got to her feet reluctantly, saying, “I’d better be going.”

  “Will you stay and eat with us, Koana?” Tutu asked, using Jana’s Hawaiian name. “Uncle Kelo’s coming, and there’ll be plenty of ‘tell story,’” she promised with a throaty chuckle.

  “Mahalo, Tutu, thank you. I wish I could, but Mama’s going to her mission circle this evening, and Papa is over in Kohala at a school board meeting, so I have to be there with Nathan.”

  Jana’s regrets were sincere. She liked nothing better than to be in the midst of the Kipola family. Even an ordinary time there was like a party to her. There was always such relaxed congeniality and laughter, and Tutu’s brother was an excellent storyteller. He held them all spellbound with his tales and legends of old Hawaii. He liked best to tell stories about the menehuenes, the mysterious “little people” of the islands. They were the Hawaiian equivalent of the brownies, elves, or Irish leprechauns.

  After Jana said good-bye, she walked down the hill and along the road past the school, deep in thought.

  She was truly sorry to miss what promised to be an entertaining evening. She loved the feeling of being accepted as one of them as she dipped poi, the starchy mixture of mashed taro that Hawaiians are weaned to and most wahines can’t tolerate. The first time she had taken a meal at Tutu’s, she hadn’t liked it, either. But with Kimo’s eyes challenging her, she had defiantly stuck her finger into the calabash, twirled it, and taken a mouthful. Truthfully, she had hardly been able to swallow it, but she had refused to give Kimo a chance to make scornful fun of h
er. Nowadays she managed to take one or two fingersful just to feel part of the family.

  The Kipolas represented what to Jana was truly the best of Hawaii: the aloha spirit. She had heard that term used so often by her father that one day she had asked Tutu what it meant.

  “What is the aloha spirit? Well, little one, I can only give you my interpretation. The first a stands for akaha’i, meaning kindness expressed with tenderness. The l stands for lokai, meaning unity expressed with harmony. The o stands for olu’olu, meaning agreeableness expressed with pleasantness. The h stands for ha’aha’a, meaning humility expressed with modesty. The last a stands for ahounu’i, meaning patience expressed with perseverance. This is the philosophy passed down to me from my ancestors.”

  Jana understood Tutu’s explanation, for it was what she herself found most appealing about the Hawaiians she knew: their warmth, charm, and sincerity.

  Why had she hesitated to question Akela about Pelo? For all their closeness, there was a reticence about Akela, an invisible line over which Jana had never crossed.

  Jana’s friendship with Edith was entirely different. They’d had frequent “falling outs.” Both were strong-willed individuals, which led to arguments. They had times when they weren’t speaking. Jana found her uncomplicated relationship with Akela much easier. Edith, used to having her own way, tended to be bossy, which Jana refused to tolerate. Edith was independent, impatient, restless—but she was also generous, kindhearted, high-spirited, and fun loving, with an adventurous streak that matched Jana’s own. When they were in one of their “spats,” Jana found she missed her, so their fights usually did not last long.

  One thing they quarreled over was when Edith brought up her royal heritage, haughtily reminding Jana that her mother was a Hawaiian princess. Edith would declare that her mother’s heritage made her more Hawaiian than Jana. In turn, Jana would furiously argue that she had been born on Oahu, while Edith’s mother had gone to San Francisco for her birth. That made Jana the more Hawaiian of the two. This argument usually ended in a stalemate, with neither girl giving an inch. A few days might pass before they would make up and the old argument would be forgotten.

  As they grew up, Jana realized that some of Edith’s snobbishness was Colonel Preston’s fault. From a prestigious eastern family, the Colonel had come to the island as a young man and made his fortune in cattle ranching, a new enterprise on the island. He had built his hilltop mansion, married an American heiress, and had a son, Bayard. Widowed a few years later, Preston had remarried. She was Edith’s mother, who had tragically died two years later.

  Edith was the adored, cherished child of this brief, blissful second marriage. Surrounded by luxury, Edith had grown up without discipline, lavished with love. Once Jana accepted that Edith’s behavior was not entirely her fault, she overlooked the flaws and loved her wholeheartedly.

  Kiki, as she preferred to be called, was so much fun, and going to the ranch such a treat, that it was hardly worth it to stay angry at her long. At the ranch, Jana got to ride, and enjoy the life lived by the Prestons. They were allowed almost unrestricted freedom by Colonel Preston. Wearing wide-brimmed sombreros and split skirts, they rode along with the paniolos, Preston’s hired cowboys, and watched them herd cattle. These men were colorful characters, with their multistriped ponchos and their boots with jangling spurs. They adored Edith, treating her with a combination of courtesy, respect, and loving indulgence. They showed the girls rope tricks, tried to teach them to lasso and how to cut and herd the cattle.

  Yes, Edith Preston’s friendship was one Jana valued in spite of their differences.

  Within a few days, Edith’s prediction proved right. Colonel Preston—big, handsome, jovial, attired in a white linen riding coat, polished boots, and a wide-brimmed Panama plantation hat—cantered up to the Rutherfords’ house. Dismounting from his sleek white mare, he marched up the porch steps, carrying an armload of gifts—a bouquet of the spectacular red-gold bird-of-paradise flowers, a basket of fruit from his orchards, bags of macadamia nuts. He then proceeded to charm Jana’s mother. His gallantry reminded her of her southern male relatives as she recalled her own North Carolinian background. It took only a half hour’s visit to win her approval for Jana to attend the house party. So it was settled that Jana would come up to the Preston Ranch after Christmas to stay over New Year’s.

  Chapter Two

  The Wednesday before Christmas, Jana took her Sunday school class—children ages five and six who had learned carols in both Hawaiian and English to sing at the midweek evening service—into the small red frame church.

  They filed up crooked steps into the little choir loft. Stationed there, she could oversee her charges as well as lead the singing. She also had a view down into the sanctuary.

  They had been practicing for weeks, and now the children’s clear voices rose sweetly. “O come all ye faithful, E hele-mai ou-kou-ka, joyful and triumphant, po-e ma-nao i-o…” The beloved song was familiar to her in both languages. It had been sung to her in her cradle by her Hawaiian nurse when they lived on Oahu, and her mother had sung it to her in English. Almost as soon as she could speak, she had sung it, too. Listening to it now in the church, which had been built by some of the earliest missionaries to the island, she sang along with the children.

  All at once the words halted in her throat. She saw him enter the side door of the church. Kimo!

  Akela had told her he was expected home for the holidays, but somehow she hadn’t been prepared to see him. Not quite like this. Her heart skipped a beat, and she lost her place in the hymnal. She had not seen him since last summer when he left for his last year at the Heritage Academy in Honolulu.

  Memories of their childhood days flashed into her mind: running barefoot along the sandy shore together; swinging on the low limbs of the banyan trees that fronted the missionary compound; eating the bananas and the soft, tangy mangoes and licking the juice from their fingers; building forts and sandcastles and playing pirates at the cove, their own private stretch of the beach. A flood of recollections swept up in her like the rushing tide. Now her childhood playmate was a grown man.

  Jana watched his tall figure as Kimo moved into the Kipolas’ pew, sat down beside his grandmother, kissed Tutu’s cheek. From Jana’s viewpoint, his shoulders looked broader. She couldn’t seem to stop looking at the back of his head, at how the dark hair grew in waves and clustered at his neck.

  It was with a start that she realized the service was over. Quickly she rose with the rest to receive the benediction and join in the closing hymn. The children around her stirred restlessly, eager to be out in the balmy evening. The congregation began its leisurely exit down the aisles of the church, stopping to exchange greetings and hugs with each other. Suddenly Tutu and Kimo seemed to have disappeared in the slow-moving crowd. Jana hurried to the door, shepherding her little group outside. There she had to control her impatience until each child in her charge found a parent. She looked around, frowning. She hoped she hadn’t somehow missed the Kipolas. They couldn’t have left already, she thought, searching the clusters of people to see if she could spot Tutu’s flower-wreathed straw hat. Tall as Kimo’s grandmother was, it might be easily seen. But no, there was no sign of her or Kimo. Disappointed, she gave a deep sigh and turned to leave. Just then she heard a teasing voice behind her say, “Johanna, banana—”

  She spun around.

  There he was. Tall, taller than she remembered. He must have grown at least two inches. His face might have lost its boyish contours, but the mischief was still in his dark eyes, and his grin was just as wide, his square teeth white against his bronze skin. “Kimo! I thought—,” she began, then said, “It’s been a long time.”

  “Too long,” he said softly. “Aloha, Koana.” He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks. It was the traditional Hawaiian greeting. Jana wondered why it had brought her tinglingly aware of him. Was it the way he had said her Hawaiian name that had taken her breath? They stood there
in the lavender dusk, looking at each other as if with new eyes.

  Jana struggled to regain her sudden loss of composure. “Tutu must be so happy. She’s missed you.” Her voice didn’t sound like her own at all. It was high pitched and shaky.

  “I missed her. I missed everything about the island. Everyone.” He paused as if to let the emphasis on the last word register. “We’re going to Kona for Christmas, but I’ll be back for New Year’s. I want to come to pay my respects to your parents. Then we can spend some time together. I have so much to tell you.”

  Jana was dismayed to find out that Kimo would be gone the entire week. The Prestons’ party was planned to start on the twenty-ninth. That meant she wouldn’t be at home when Kimo returned from Kona.

  “Oh yes, and I…The only thing is that—” She broke off.

  “What?”

  “Well, what day will you come? I mean, be back in Waimea? You see, I may not be—” Jana stumbled, flustered. For some reason, she didn’t want to use the Prestons’ party as an excuse. But there was no other explanation. “You see, Bayard Preston is coming home for Christmas, and he’s bringing some of his friends with him, and…“ Her words sounded awkward. That wasn’t what she wanted to say at all. What she wanted to say was, “Can’t you come to see me before you go to Kona, or come back sooner?”

  But as she was speaking, she saw Kimo’s expression change. “In that case…“ He shrugged with a show of indifference, leaving his thought unspoken. Then, tossing back the lock of silky hair that had fallen forward on his forehead, he said, “Well, it was nice to see you, Jana. Please give your parents my regards.”

  “Thank you, I will,” Jana replied lamely.

  Wishing her a merry Christmas and a happy New Year in Hawaiian—“Mele Kalikamaka and hau’oli Makahiki Hou”—Kimo turned from her.

  “Mele Kalikamaka, Kimo,” she repeated through numb lips. Helplessly she watched him walking away. In desperation, she called after him, “Give Tutu my love.”