The Islands at the End of the World

  “Yeah, they’d better figure it out. We can’t feed the whole bunch,” one Hawaiian grumbles. Another turns his catch bucket around to show us a bumper sticker:

  SUST `ĀINA BILITY.

  Dad and I laugh. “That’s fantastic,” he says. “Why didn’t I think of that?” `Āina means “land”; kama`āina means “child of the land.” But the word goes deeper. The play on words offers a glimpse of Hawai`i’s future. I’ve witnessed a lot in the past few days that leaves me hopeful—at least for Moloka`i.

  “The answer to our future is a return to our past,” the owner of the bumper sticker says.

  Grandpa always said things like that on his blog.

  I laugh, and then wince: Grandpa. I let the pain sit there. I miss him so much. It’s so sad he doesn’t have his blog anymore. But he’s okay. I know it. He’s always been a time traveler, effortlessly shifting back and forth between the past and the present.

  He knows so much about spiritual health and old farming and cooking techniques, he’s the perfect person to keep Mom and Kai safe—and the rest of us, once we get home.

  I try my hand with the spear several times, with no luck. Dad drifts away after a few minutes and sits down along the ledge of a rocky pool. I go to him. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine, honey. A little tired. Go have fun. I think Joshua likes you.”

  “You kill the whole thing when you say it out loud!”

  “Sorry.” He laughs as I pretend to swat him.

  A large green sea turtle surfaces just in front of our dangling feet. It watches us for a few seconds before dropping back down below the choppy surface. I lean against Dad, and we sit in silence watching the honu graze on the coral and pop up for breaths of air. I think I can see a kind of wisdom in its placid eyes—ancient, calm, and vast, something far beyond human intelligence. No wonder the Hawaiians hold the honu in such high esteem.

  A church bell rings in town. “Shall we go do this Mass thing?”

  “Look.” He points, smiling. A second turtle has joined the first. This one’s smaller. Dad makes no motion to rise. I relax and settle back down next to him. The turtles dance through the coral in slow synchrony.

  “Honu,” Dad says. “Aren’t they church enough? They kind of represent the true nature of God. For me.”

  “How’s that?”

  Dad smiles. “Did you know that some turtle species cross the entire ocean to lay their eggs? Why would they do that?”

  I shrug.

  “They didn’t always. When the supercontinent of Gondwanaland was just breaking apart, the turtles would simply swim across a narrow strait, lay their eggs, and head back home. Over the next hundred-or-so million years, the continents drifted apart, about an inch a year. The turtles went about their business, doing what they used to, what their parents used to do, each generation unaware of the imperceptible change. Now they cross oceans. And they’ll be here still, following their ancient paths, inch by new inch, long after we’re gone.”

  I absorb Dad’s story, watching the turtle feed obliviously beneath us. “And you see God in that? It just makes me feel smaller than ever.”

  “I do. To me, it makes Him bigger than ever.” Dad shakes his head.

  “Does everyone become a philosopher when they get shot?” I ask. The bells ring again. We help each other up. “Saved by the bell,” Dad says.

  “I think I’d rather listen to your sermons than some priest’s.”

  “That’s why you call me ‘Father.’ ” He winks at me. I roll my eyes.

  I wave goodbye to the fishermen, and we shuffle back into the heart of the village.

  We’re caught off guard by the size of this Mass. People have gathered outside the church. Folding chairs cover the spacious lawns surrounding the building, sprawling in large blocks out from a wide center aisle. We find seats along the aisle.

  The sound of ukuleles and ipu drums roll over the crisp morning air, and everyone rises. We turn to watch the priest walk up the aisle and my jaw drops.

  “That’s him! He’s the priest.”

  Uncle Akoni is adorned with a faded white habit, a hand-woven green stole, and leis of kukui nuts and plumeria flowers. As people sing a hymn, he advances up the aisle of folding chairs and camp stools, holding high a leather-bound gospel for all to see. Two young altar servers walk beside him. He scans the crowd attentively, offering warm smiles and a few jovial winks. He sees me and his eyes light up. I smile sheepishly. Why has he taken such an interest in me? Or does he treat everyone as if they are important?

  Akoni celebrates Mass with solemn wonder. It seems so fresh for him, though he’s probably performed thousands of Masses. The chanting, the standing, the kneeling are all a blur. I only remember his face and his eyes—and his homily:

  “Shhh. Listen. Can you hear it? Can you hear the whisper?

  “Our first reading may have escaped you. Old Testament babblings from First Kings. But speaking for myself, today, I am forced to listen—and to marvel. To marvel at the profound insight we are offered into the fabric of our creator. To marvel at the wisdom of our ancient prophet Elijah, who, in the context of his time, could only have assumed that the great forces churning around him were the works of an angry and righteous hand, and yet who ignored all of it, focusing instead upon the truth so plainly etched into the fibers of our being.”

  Is he looking directly at me?

  “I’ll repeat it for you. And you should listen this time. For it has already been written as well as it could ever be said:

  “And the Angel of the Lord said to Elijah, ‘Go outside and stand on the mountain. There you may find the Lord.’ Elijah did as he was told, and traveled to the mountaintops to find the Lord. There he witnessed a strong and heavy wind rending the mountains and crushing the peaks—but Elijah did not seek the Lord in the wind. And after the terrible blowing of the wind there came an earthquake—but Elijah did not search for the Lord in the great tremblings of the earth. Following the quake there arose a white-hot fire. The mountainsides were scorched in blazing flame, and still Elijah found no sign of the Lord. Yet, after all these mighty displays, Elijah heard a whisper. Only then … only then!—did he hide his face in his cloak and drop to his knees before the mouth of the cave. And at last, the Lord God spoke to him, saying, ‘Elijah, why have you sought me?’

  “Shhh. Listen. Listen well! Take this simple truth with you in these frightful times: the mighty God of the cosmos has no need for grand displays when His whisper will do. But can you hear it? Can you hear the whisper?”

  * * *

  Mass ends, and we linger near our folding seats while the crowd thins out. The shadow of the nearby cliffs has receded, and the sickly sun is warm against my skin. Dad’s eyes look red.

  “How are you doing?” I ask him. “You okay?”

  “I’m okay. Thinking about Mom and Kai. I’m glad I came. How about you?”

  I nod. My eyes drift to Uncle Akoni, working his way slowly through a crowd of admirers. Finally, the three of us stand face to face.

  He shakes our hands and inspects the stitches on my forehead. “You have a nice memento, there. It’ll heal well, though.” He turns to Dad. “And you’re looking good, too! Shot four days ago and you’re sitting through my homilies!” Akoni laughs. Chuckles putter out of him like smoke from an old steam engine.

  “Thank you for all you’ve done,” Dad says.

  “I don’t deserve much credit. All of us want this.” Akoni turns to me. “Leilani. Any fits lately?”

  I glance down. “No.” Such a weird question.

  Akoni smiles at me. “I’m so glad you came. So glad you’re doing better.” He beckons Dad and me to move closer and lowers his voice. “Listen, I was hoping we could talk more. But I don’t have time right now. Things aren’t going very well up the cliff, and it’s going to spill over fast. Our council needs to head back up there. Everything we’ve built here is at stake.”

  “Can we help?” Dad asks.

  He shakes his he
ad. “This isn’t your struggle. If you guys want to get home, I suggest you leave now. Things are shifting. I can get you to Maui on an outrigger tomorrow, but that’s it, at least for a while. I know you’re still recovering, but I know you want to get home, too.”

  “Wait,” I say. “A free ride to Maui?”

  “Tomorrow only,” Akoni repeats. “We need our boats.”

  “We’ll go!” Home suddenly feels closer than ever. “Thank you.”

  Akoni nods. Dad says, “What’s going on? More turf wars?”

  Akoni chooses his words carefully. “It’s getting harder to convince people of the long view.”

  He pauses, then leans in. “Listen, they still have a working ham radio up the cliff. There’ve been confirmed reactor meltdowns everywhere. Arizona. At least two on the East Coast. One in Japan. A handful in Russia. Europe. Australia. I doubt that’s all.”

  Dad’s expression is blank. My throat feels dry. Akoni continues. “The meltdowns will progress one after another, too. Several hundred power plants out there, yeah? As gas runs out, as backup generators fail, as local communities break down, plants will continue to malfunction. Even in the most stable places, nuclear engineers are eventually going to stop showing up for work in the morning. They’re going to head for the hills with their families like everyone else. It’s … bad. Really bad. Each time another one blows its lid—we’re not talking near disasters like Three Mile Island and the Japan tsunami fiasco. Not even Chernobyl. Months from now, new explosions are going to keep happening. On a bell curve. Like popcorn kernels on a stove top. A few to start out with, then a whole bunch in short order, and then a handful of stragglers at the end.”

  “Jesus,” Dad croaks. “Except each kernel could blow up the kitchen all by itself.”

  “Much of the globe could be a nuclear wasteland for the next geologic age.”

  “Jesus,” Dad whispers again.

  “It’s not even bombs. It’s just … power plants.” Akoni shakes his head. “Here’s the mystery, though: we aren’t detecting any fallout. Nothing. Nothing. No radiation.”

  “That …” Dad’s voice cracks. He tries again. “That doesn’t make any sense. What equipment are you using? Maybe it went kaput with everything else.”

  Akoni’s eyes brighten. “No. Not that. An old Geiger needle doesn’t require integrated circuitry.”

  “We are in the most isolated place on Earth,” Dad says. “Stands to reason that even trace amounts of radiation would get here last.…”

  Akoni shakes his head slowly. “No. Not that, either. Dr. Milton, surely you understand that we’d be able to read something. But there aren’t even normal levels of radiation. I think I know what’s happening.” He points to the sky. “They are mopping up the radiation.”

  “Huh?”

  “Everyone wants them to leave. God forbid they do.”

  Dad frowns. “Uncle Akoni, I don’t think I heard you correct—”

  “Yes, you did. Listen. Listen. Leilani knows what I’m talking about. I’m sure she does. We can hear their communications. Something about our epilepsy. There’s a kid up the cliff who’s heard them, too. During seizures.”

  I laugh—one short bark. Dad stares blankly ahead. Uncle Akoni doesn’t care. Maybe he’s used to this reaction; maybe he assumes what he’s saying is obvious. I don’t know. Other islanders approach. He plows quickly forward. “The Orchid. I believe it’s a ship. Maybe several vessels. They’ve touched down, too. All that ‘meteor’ activity. It’s only a matter of time before they descend upon Hawai`i, too.”

  “Wait,” says Dad, frowning. “Do you have proof of this? Or are you—”

  “No proof.” He shakes his head. “But I’ve heard them. You will, too, Leilani, if you just listen. Funny, right, coming from a priest? But I’m not talking about God this time. They’re out there. I’m sure of it. I don’t know why they’ve come. But whatever else they’re doing, they’re preventing our global nuclear winter. Makes sense, right? What’s the point of usurping a wasteland?”

  Someone tugs on the sleeve of Father Akoni’s robe. “Get some rest, Mike,” the priest says. The crowd is pressing in on us now. “Get home. Focus on your family. And Lei: one more favor, yeah?”

  “Anything.”

  “Nānā i ke kumu.”

  “Nānā i ke kumu,” I repeat. “ ‘Look to the source.’ ”

  Akoni starts. “You know that phrase?”

  “I love Hawaiian.”

  “Well, you know the words, but do you hear? Look to the source. A wise Hawaiian proverb for seeking fundamental answers to our problems. Learn to listen, Lei. The second you reach Hilo, you go up on the mountain. Stand at the mouth of the cave. And when you hear the whisper, see if you can’t answer back. You promise?”

  He’s not making any sense. What am I supposed to say? His gaze is penetrating, insistent. “Okay, Uncle.”

  “Lord knows we’re running low on Hail Marys,” he says. And then his sea of followers closes in and we drift apart.

  CHAPTER 22

  MONDAY, MAY 25

  We rush quietly over the waters at midmorning in a large wa`akaulua—a boat with a double hull—pushed by the powerful trade winds blowing along the upside-down triangle sail. The boat we’re on is much smaller than the vessels the original Hawaiians would have arrived here in, but it still looks impressive.

  The shores of Maui drift by to our right, a short distance away. As our craft rises and falls on the large ocean waves, the deeply gouged slopes of the West Maui Mountains bob rhythmically in the near distance. I study the rugged terrain that we’re effortlessly skipping past with a profound sense of gratitude. The Moloka`i coast is only ten miles behind us. Maui and Moloka`i and Lāna`i and Kaho`olawe were all once connected as one island. The set of islands is known as Maui Nui by scientists and others—Greater Maui. But to me they’re as isolated and different as O`ahu is from the Big Island.

  For the moment, home is growing nearer at a swift fifteen knots.

  Our trip will end along the bay of a small town called Paia on the slopes of Maui’s grand mountain, the volcano of Haleakalā—“the house of the sun.” Dad and I will head east, toward Hana. Once we find our way around Haleakalā, the nearest tip of the Big Island is another thirty miles.

  We’re opposite Kahului Bay now, the twin cities of Kahului and Wailuku sprawling along Maui’s valley floor to our right. I see several cars driving along. The sky’s sickly haze has been lifting bit by bit each day, but here there is a tall, hot fire spewing brown smoke and gray ash into the sky behind the airport.

  “The Maui pyre,” one of the three crew members explains in a low voice. “It’s been burning all week.”

  I study the pillar of smoke with morbid fascination. That’s people.

  “Why?”

  “Maui’s nothing but tourism and corporate farming. And just like O`ahu, the waterworks—the irrigation—it’s all belly-up,” our captain says as he adjusts the mainsheet. He’s the same one-legged man who helped rescue us on Wednesday. “Folks aren’t getting along so well. Keep to yourselves if you want to hang on to those bags.”

  The column of ash is massive, and my understanding of the disaster that’s unfolding on these islands billows. In spite of all our heartache these past weeks, we’ve been the lucky ones.

  There are so many dead that the bodies are burned instead of buried.

  I envision pillars of gray ash rising from the slopes of Hilo and bat the images back. I focus instead on the faces of Mom, Kai, and Grandpa. Tami. I’m sure things are better there and they’ve all been spared this nightmare. I have to believe that.

  “It’s only a matter of time before they descend upon Hawai`i.…”

  Like a recurring dream, it keeps coming back. I don’t believe Uncle Akoni’s theory for one second, but I can’t shake it. He was such a nice guy. Why did he have to end up being nuts? Harsh, but true.

  Dad’s already put it behind him. Of course we talked about what Uncle Akoni sai
d. To Dad, Uncle Akoni is just one more guy with one more guess. On the weirder end of the spectrum, but just a guess, all the same. Why can’t I let it go?

  “… I’ve heard them. You will, too, Leilani, if you just listen.”

  We near our target bay. Our crew scans the coast and the slopes for signs of danger, and then we dart in toward shore. The captain says, “I wish we could take you all the way, but this run is pushing it as it is.”

  “You’ve been a great help to us,” says Dad. “Give Uncle Akoni our gratitude and our loving wishes in his efforts to unite the island.”

  The captain gives Dad a stern look. “You need more strength before you march for Hana. Get into the trees and rest up for a few days. Don’t trust anyone to help you.”

  Trust—the “spirit of Aloha.” I used to think it was everywhere but the Big Island. But now I wonder, Could it be the other way around?

  We beach and quickly disembark. The crew helps Dad fit his backpack around his tender shoulder and wishes us well. We travel with only our food, our tent, the iodide, and minimal clothing.

  As we turn a woman and a teenage boy scramble down the embankment. “Please, can you take us toward Kaua`i?” one asks the crew. “We need to get to Kaua`i.” She’s haole, in her late forties.

  “I can take you as far as Moloka`i.”

  The woman nods.

  The boy and I share a glance. “Where are you coming from?” I ask him.

  “Hana. Kona before that.”

  Kona! That’s on the Big Island! His white T-shirt is stained and shredded. He looks much the same as I feel—as if he’s been through hell and hasn’t yet seen the finish line.

  “How’s the Big Island? Have you been to Hilo?”

  “No. Just Kona. Things were a mess there, but nothing like here.”

  “How crazy is it here? The military? What’s the best route?”

  “No. Militant locals. We’ve been shot at twice. Stay off the roads. No cars. The checkpoints are airtight. Only older cars work anymore anyway. And stay off the obvious trails. They’re using pig-hunting dogs. Make sure you have a gun, or at least a knife.”