She flung down the weeds in her hand and ran.
The snap and crunch of leaves and vines being trod underfoot awakened Moko, who saw his unwilling servant dashing up the slopes of the crater and cried out, “Hey! Goddamn it!” He sprang to his feet and started after her.
Rachel scrambled up the slope, Moko no more than a dozen yards behind her. She slipped, fell, and in the few seconds it took her to right herself the gap between them closed even further. Panicky, Rachel grew even clumsier, falling and tumbling back down the slope several feet until she stopped her descent by grabbing hold of a tree root. Moko was now almost upon her, cursing, eyes ablaze. Rachel cast about desperately for some sort of weapon.
She lunged for a moldering tree branch as Moko called her a little shit and pounced at her.
Rachel twisted around and propelled the stick with all her strength into the old man’s throat.
Flesh tore; blood spurted. Moko gagged and grabbed at his throat. The stick had not penetrated too deeply, but it had obviously caused him considerable hurt.
Good, she thought, shinnying up the slope as fast as she could. She didn’t look back until she reached the summit: Moko was on his knees, moaning, holding his bloodied throat.
Rachel’s hands found the crater’s lip. She pulled herself up and over, then tumbled down the outside slope.
She quickly got to her feet and ran through the prickly, smelly lantana scrub, finally locating the trail she had ascended two days ago. She glanced back to see if she was being pursued, but there was only sunlight behind her. The trail was no longer so muddy and she covered its length in half the time it had taken during the rainstorm.
When she reached the main road she had no idea which direction to take, and didn’t care. She stopped for only a moment to catch her breath, then ran down the road.
When it became apparent Moko was not following her, Rachel slowed to a fast walk. She was thirsty, tired, and achy, but she did not stop.
After what seemed like an hour but was probably only half that, Rachel was startled to hear a sound behind her. She turned, prepared to run again.
It wasn’t Moko but a man on a horse, moving at a leisurely gait up the road. When he saw Rachel his eyes widened and he brought the horse to a stop.
Rachel took a step backwards, uncertain what to make of this. The man was a leper, not as old as Moko, and he was smiling puzzledly at her.
“Aloha,” he said cheerfully.
Rachel just stared silently at him.
“You lost?” the rider asked.
Rachel nodded hesitantly.
“Where you tryin’ to get to?”
Rachel told him, “Kalawao.” She added, “I’m looking for my Uncle Pono.”
“Kalawao’s where I’m headed, too. You want a ride?”
Unsure whether she could trust him, Rachel shook her head. “No thanks.”
She turned and started off down the road again, at least confident now she was heading in the right direction. The rider seemed amused and paced her on his horse. “Well, how ’bout I tag along? That okay with you?”
Rachel shrugged. “If you want.”
“How’d you get all the way out here, anyway?”
“I walked.”
“From where? Kalaupapa?”
She nodded. He made a low whistle. “That’s some walk,” he said admiringly. “And you still got a ways to go. Sure you don’t want that ride?”
After five minutes Rachel finally relented and allowed the man, whose name was Nohi, to lift her up onto the saddle in front of him. She grabbed hold of the saddle horn, and they went galloping up the road—like real cowboys!
By noon they had arrived in Kalawao, where their presence was made known to Brother Dutton. Dutton rounded up Sister Catherine, now searching farther down the coast, and whose joy on seeing the child was considerable. “Rachel!” she cried, running in a most indecorous manner to meet her. Rachel fell into Catherine’s arms and wept with exhaustion and relief, her anger at the sister not forgotten but insignificant. Catherine held her, stroked her hair, and thanked God for bringing her back safely.
Brother Dutton rewarded Nohi with a bountiful lunch at Baldwin Home. Catherine replaced the rag on Rachel’s leg with a clean bandage, then took her to Pono’s house.
When Rachel saw her uncle she knew that despite everything she had been through, she had been right to come to Kalawao. Though his drawn face brightened on seeing her, for once he didn’t make a joke upon seeing her; he seemed unable to collect his thoughts to think of one.
Haleola and Catherine watched from the doorway as Pono tried to tickle Rachel in a weak mimicry of his old self. “It’s like he wants to be Pono,” Haleola said, “but he’s forgotten how.”
“He hasn’t forgotten. He just doesn’t have the strength.” Catherine added gently, “It’s a hard thing, to love someone and not be able to show it.”
The tenderness, the womanliness, in the sister’s voice surprised and touched Haleola.
Rachel lay with her arms around Pono until, fatigued by the attention, he drifted off to sleep. Rachel wanted to stay there, to keep holding him so he couldn’t slip away, but Haleola gently took her in her arms and carried her outside. Feeling more grown-up than she wanted to be, Rachel asked her, “Is Uncle Pono going to die?”
“Yes, Aouli, I think so.”
“Can I stay?”
Catherine made a special trip to Kalaupapa and back to ask that very question of Mother, who agreed that she could—for a few days, at least. Over the course of those days Rachel rarely left Pono’s side; and in the middle of her third night in Kalawao, as she slept on a pallet between Pono and Haleola, Rachel woke to familiar laughter. Pono was sitting up in bed, awake and alert—and laughing that old cackling laugh Rachel recalled from so many a family feast. Haleola woke now and watched in amazement as Pono reached out and took Rachel in his arms. “ ’Ey, there’s my favorite niece!” he said in a clear, strong voice, tickling her with all the zest of Pono in his prime. “My special girl!” He held and tickled her for nearly five full minutes, continuing to laugh long after he finally let go of her and leaned back onto the bed, his eyes drooping slowly shut. He even seemed to be chuckling in his sleep.
He never shared the joke with them, but whatever it was, it must have been pretty funny.
B
rother Dutton had Pono’s grave dug in the little cemetery bordering Siloama Church. Its pastor, Reverend Waiwaiole, officiated at his funeral. Sisters Catherine and Leopoldina attended along with Haleola and Rachel, as did Ambrose Hutchison, who gave a brief eulogy for “President” Pono.
Rachel kept a brave face throughout the funeral, but afterward, alone with Haleola, she allowed herself to cry, mourning not just Pono but everyone she had lost so suddenly. Haleola cradled her in her arms and said, “You still have me, Aouli. Can I be your hnai aunt—your adopted auntie?” Strictly speaking, only blood relatives could hnai a child, but Rachel nodded gratefully. Yet even as she held onto Haleola’s comforting warmth she was afraid it too would be taken from her.
Rachel said hopefully, “Sister Catherine says that when people die, they go to Heaven.”
Haleola considered that. “Sister Catherine’s Heaven is not mine,” she told Rachel, “but certain things are true for both of us. In the old days it was said that the world beyond was made up of two realms: one of eternal sleep and darkness, and another in which the dead were reunited with the spirits of their ancestors—their 'aumkua. There were forests and streams in this place, and newcomers enjoyed life there as they do here—dancing, playing games, cherishing family. If that is Heaven, then yes, some of us go there.”
Disappointed, Rachel asked, “So you have to die before you see your family again?”
“No,” Haleola said, “not always. Our 'aumkua often look after us here on earth. Some take the form of sharks, and if a descendant is drowning in the sea, the shark may offer up its fin to pull them to shore. Other spirits become owls, fish, lizards,
whatever permits them to watch over their family.
“There is an old prayer: ‘'Aumkua of the night, watch over your offspring, enfold them in the belt of light.’ ”
Rachel smiled a little at this; for the moment, at least, her soul seemed lighter. And as the pali carried away the afternoon sun, it took with it the remainder of Rachel’s time at Kalawao. She got into the wagon beside Catherine, waved goodbye to her new aunt, and was back at Bishop Home by sunset. Emily and the other girls had already heard rumors of Rachel’s journeys and they stayed up late listening to Rachel tell her tale again and again, especially the part about the wild pig. Rachel skipped over her time with Moko, but that night it came back to her, unbidden. She dreamt she was back at Kauhak, washing Moko’s clothes, feeling the flat of his hand against her cheek, and she woke sobbing from the nightmare. As she wept she heard someone suddenly ask, “Who?”—but when she looked around, saw there was no one else awake in the room. She heard the query again and realized it was coming from outside. She went to the window, peered into the darkness . . . and saw, sitting on the branch of a small sapling, an owl. There was a momentary flash of moonlight in its great round eyes—then swiftly, silently, it took to the air, and Rachel watched its noiseless flight over the building and out of sight. Rachel smiled, somehow no longer afraid, and went back to bed: surrounded by darkness yet enfolded in light.
Chapter 9
I
t was now painfully evident that Sister Victor’s “moods” seemed to have an almost gravitational pull on Catherine, who felt the currents of her own thoughts drawn in a dark tide toward Victor’s depression and instability. Hers was a soul in torment and Catherine could not abandon her—but the next time she sought a drinking companion Catherine declined, urging her friend to join her in prayer instead. On that occasion and a few others they knelt together in the chapel, in private or shared devotions; but as far as Catherine could see, to no visible effect.
Catherine’s first confession after her latenight swim brought a stunned silence from Father Wendelin, followed by a soft chuckle. “Ah, Sister,” he said, “it’s the sweet wines one has to be wary of.” He recommended zinfandel: “It has a bit of an edge to it.” Father Wendelin shared Catherine’s concern for Sister Victor, but as often as he extended a hand to the troubled sister it was rejected. And there was only so far Catherine could go without herself falling into the abyss.
Of more immediate concern to Catherine was the problem now facing Mother Marianne: whether Haleola, not a blood relative and a living embodiment of Hawai'i’s pagan past, should be permitted to continue visiting Rachel at Bishop Home. It deeply disturbed Mother that such a woman should have any influence over one of her charges, but Catherine knew how much Haleola cared for Rachel and argued that her occasional presence might discourage the girl from running away again. “And if we are to bar all remnants of paganism from the Home,” she went on, emboldened, “then I assume we shall not be putting up a Christmas tree this year.”
“Christmas trees,” Mother replied evenly, “do not spout heathen nonsense.” She was adamant: Haleola Nua was not to be allowed back onto the convent grounds.
Catherine could not disobey her Mother Superior, and Haleola was henceforth barred from Bishop Home.
But the Reverend Mother had said nothing about Rachel meeting Haleola outside convent grounds, and thereafter, by an odd coincidence, whenever Catherine took a group of girls to the beach, or to the pali, or exploring tide pools, Haleola just happened to be there, doing those very things.
On one such excursion—to a spooky sea cave along the shore—Rachel told her friends about the giant eel, Keko'ona, and his battle with brave Ku'ula. She quickly became a rollicking success as a teller of tales on black stormy nights. For Rachel, Haleola’s tales of the goddess Pele and the demigod Mui spoke of another world—a large, exciting, colorful world both far away and all around them. The bright pagodas of Japan, the Great Barrier Reef, China and San Francisco, all seemed impossibly remote now—kapu, forbidden. But these giants of Hawai'i’s past, straddling mountains and snaring the sun with rope, took the place of the kapu lands in Rachel’s imagination.
Josephina, the little girl who slept all day, confounded all expectations by making a complete recovery and was back playing tops and marbles with the other girls by spring; while another girl, Mary, who had seemed the picture of health, suddenly came down with pleurisy and was gone within a week. A rumor spread that her ghost was haunting the dispensary, and for a week and a half the younger girls scuttled past the building amid a flurry of whispers and a tingle of chicken skin. Then, having held on to Mary for just a little while longer, the girls quietly put the rumor to rest, and Mary with it.
Summer brought the arrival of Rachel’s old crony from Kalihi, Francine, who smuggled in candy and chewing gum the like of which could not be found at the Kalaupapa Store. With summer also came more and longer trips to the beach and a lassitude that seemed to infect everyone when it came to chores, even the sisters. On one such lazy day Mother Marianne personally led an expedition into one of the lush little valleys tucked into the pali, where the girls cooled off in the spray of a waterfall and picked newly ripened breadfruit, which the convent’s cook made into a fine poi.
Not long after, Rachel received a parcel mailed all the way from Buenos Aires, inside which was a beautiful sienna-skinned doll in a bright yellow flamenco costume. The accompanying letter from Papa was short but welcome; he would always recite a new chantey he’d heard, or describe a port he had just visited, and a month did not go by without at least a postcard from some exotic corner of the earth.
But letters from Mama were becoming far less frequent. At first Rachel got something from home nearly every week, and that same day Rachel would sit down to compose a reply:
Dear Mama,
Today we went to the beach and I swam and saw lots of fish and the biggest turtle ever. I swallowed a lot of water and got sick. Sister Catherine says it’s O.K. to throw up if you really have to. Do you think so?
But gradually Mama’s letters went from once a week to one every two weeks to once a month, and then . . . once in a while. When two months went by without any letter from Mama, Rachel dropped her a note on the pretext of telling her about the girls’ trip to the sea cave; but no reply came on the next steamer, or the one after that. Rachel wrote again, a bit more plaintively this time.
A week later, Rachel’s neatly lettered envelope came back to her with a red, rubber-stamped frown across its face: MOVED, NO FORWARDING ADDRESS.
Rachel must have stared at it for ten whole minutes. She convinced herself it was just a mistake and prepared a new envelope, making absolutely sure she had copied the address correctly, then re-mailed the letter.
A week later, it too bounced back like a boomerang, an ink smudge obliterating Rachel’s old address in Honolulu.
Was it true? Had her family moved out of their little house two blocks from Queen Emma Street? She waited for a letter from Mama that would explain everything, give her their new address, tell her about their new home.
It never came. Rachel breathed in its absence and felt increasingly anxious, restless, afraid. Week after week her only letters came from Papa; but where once she thrilled to see the colorful stamps of Argentina or New Zealand or Hong Kong, now she wanted nothing so desperately as a Honolulu postmark and one of the familiar brown portraits of King Kalkaua, or the violet likeness of Queen Liliu'oklani (now branded with the words PROVISIONAL GOVT).
But the only such stamps she saw were on letters received by other girls, and when yet another Steamer Day passed with nothing for Rachel—and she noticed, on Hazel’s bed, an envelope with a return address on O'ahu—Rachel waited until no one was looking, and stole it. She read it over twice, pretending it had been written to her, then hid it under the mattress of her bed.
She was found out quickly enough and sent to bed without supper. Soon she was stealing other things: one of Emily’s dolls, a family photograph
from another girl’s bedstead. Each time the theft was discovered and the culprit obvious; Rachel regularly felt the sting of Sister Albina’s ruler across her knuckles.
She and Francine resumed their truant ways, playing hooky to body-surf at Papaloa as they had once cooled off in Kalihi Bay. After three or four whacks of the ruler, Francine was deterred from further truancy, but not Rachel.
Sister Catherine was baffled by her behavior. “Rachel, what on earth has gotten into you?” she asked, but Rachel would just shrug and say, “Nothing”—or angrily declare it was none of her business, and to leave her alone!
Concerned, Catherine wrote to Rachel’s mother, asking if there had been any bad news from home that might have disturbed Rachel. It went out on Thursday’s steamer, and Catherine was startled to see it come right back the following week, stamped with lettering as red as leprous sores: MOVED, NO FORWARDING ADDRESS.
The words cut Catherine nearly as deeply as they had Rachel.
While Rachel was in school she peeked inside the old cigar box of Pono’s in which Rachel kept her letters from home. The peek sadly confirmed Catherine’s suspicions.
The next day, during chores, Catherine took Rachel aside and led her, quite to Rachel’s astonishment, to a back door at St. Elizabeth’s Convent. Rachel hesitated on the threshold. “I—I’m not supposed to go in there.”
“I know,” Catherine said, and opened the door for her.
Ushering Rachel into her spartan quarters, Catherine confided, “I’m quite sure Mother would punish me for this.” A smile passed between them at this flaunted kapu. Catherine sat on her bed, motioning Rachel to join her.
“It’s good sometimes, isn’t it,” Catherine said, “being punished? When you think you’ve done something wrong. Maybe when you don’t know what you’ve done wrong.”
Rachel stared at her blankly. Catherine reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out the envelope she had mailed to Dorothy Kalama, now defaced by mocking words, and let it drop like a leaf onto the bed.