The Islands at the End of the World

  “Amen.”

  The old life isn’t all gone. Our bonds haven’t completely disintegrated. The weave is in our DNA, isn’t it? We’ll always start again. “Moloka`i was working. Starting fresh. What if all this technology and braininess got in the way, and now we can finally be back in touch with reality? What if it’s an opportunity? If Uncle Akoni’s right, and the Emerald Orchid’s actually absorbing radiation, what if it’s all for the best?”

  Dad is silent. “I’ve heard that crisis and opportunity are the same word in Chinese.”

  “Hey, yeah.”

  “A global catharsis. A do-over. Yeah. Remind me to get stoned with you more of ten.” Dad suddenly belts out in song. “We’ve got to get our-se-elves back to the Gaaaaarden …!”

  Some seventies thing. I laugh.

  Dad lies down. “I can’t believe it happened this way. I always thought it would be some Malthusian catastrophe: water wars, soil collapse, disease, swine flu, heat waves, ice ages. You name it. But no. It’s a Georgia O’Keeffe painting. Some … giant … fertility goddess from outer space finally did us all in.”

  “Dad!”

  “Well, am I wrong? Look at it! Am I wrong?”

  I stare at the Emerald Orchid. I may never unsee what he just put in my head. Leave it to a guy to get all anatomical. It’s just a cloud. Definitely not a UFO. It’s a glowing cloud of gas or plasma or whatever. Like puffy summer clouds, you can see anything you want to in its shape.

  This thing hasn’t changed shape much, though; it’s more rigid than a cloud. More substantial. But it’s different now. Out of focus. There’s something that wasn’t there on the first night I saw it.

  “Dad, you see that other thing? Like a separate flower. Inside it, maybe? Behind it? I can’t tell.”

  Dad sits up. “Yeah, I do. I saw that a couple of nights ago. It’s moved since then.”

  It reminds me of the jellyfish at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. I recall an image of those beautiful orange globules and their neon tentacles, serenely suspended within their aquarium against a dark blue backdrop. The baby jellyfish and the adult jellyfish, all see-through and seemingly tangled, would align behind the glass the way this Emerald Orchid and its …

  It is a good thing. It is done and my purpose is done.

  Suckle. Gather your strength.

  I gasp.

  A whirlwind of memories assails me, each building on the next. Those dark seizurescapes, the snatches of imagery, the voice, the echoes of thought flowing through with my own consciousness like ropy folds of bloodshot pahoehoe flowing over rocky `a`a.

  I do not want to remember any of my seizures. Or what follows. But I can’t bury what I now see. It’s all coming back, like a furious swarm of hornets rattled from a hive, and the truth stings white-hot:

  The Emerald Orchid is no cloud.

  CHAPTER 25

  I have dreamt of these shores. I was born here, but I slipped away. Now I have reached the shallows, at long last, guided across the endless waters by ancient stars. These islands and their sacred tides call me forth.

  “Dad!”

  “What?”

  “It’s alive. The Orchid’s alive!”

  There is new heat within my belly, and I yearn to spill the urge …

  Dad is playful. “Whoa. I like it: some ancient, alien creature stirred from the cosmos itself. That’s … stellar.”

  “No! I’m serious!” I want off this high. It’s no fun anymore. My mind is afire, racing to assemble the last pieces of a puzzle. I can’t believe it; it’s all so obvious now.

  I belong here, and I am well. It is almost ready to come out.

  “Dad. It’s come here to calve! It’s given birth. It … It’s …” The words can’t keep up with the flood of imagery, the snippets of consciousness. I can hear its thoughts!

  “The EKG is broken. I’m trying to make sense of your chart from yesterday. I compared it to your records from Hilo—the pattern is totally different—gibberish.”

  “Have you heard them?”

  “You a good listener, Leilani?”

  The EKG could detect it. And Uncle Akoni could. He was half right: the Orchid surges through our minds as well as our motherboards! I wasn’t hearing transmissions, though; just thoughts. The signals churned unnoticed through my wandering thoughts as familiar imagery, forgotten once the black shroud of my fits had lifted.

  I see the sacred honu … heaved ashore, bridging sea and surf, pushing back the sand to lay its eggs …

  “A cosmic sea turtle.” I test the words.

  “Yeah.” Dad is still having fun. “A heavenly honu, drifting through space, coming to shore.”

  “Dad, stop. Listen to me. That thing is alive. Uncle Akoni was almost right. We can hear its thoughts.”

  He’s looking at me now. I say, “I only put it together just now! But it is a … cosmic sea turtle! It was born here. It’s just returned to lay its eggs, or spawn, or whatever it does. It’s feeding on the atmosphere. That’s how it works!”

  Dad stiffens. “Damn. Could this thing be a creature? Does it come cyclically?”

  “I’m not crazy,” I say. “I’m not. It’s really true: I heard it. I didn’t realize. Maybe epileptics can hear it. Like our neural … weirdness … allows us to tune in to the signal.”

  “Lei, calm down. I’m following you, okay?”

  “Fo’ real?”

  Dad stares up at the Orchids. I watch him closely and lose track of time. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but his mind is in overdrive. Finally, he says, “Maybe you’re right. What if you are? This could be the answer to the riddle! Depends on how often it comes to … to calve. But this could be the reason for each mass extinction. Could it be iridium based? Could iridium interfere with electronics and stuff? Maybe in combination with some other ionization? Does it drop meteors and muck up the atmosphere each time it comes?”

  I’m trying to follow. “Wait. You’ve got to be kidding—the dinosaurs?”

  “I’m serious. I think you’re on to something. We’ve been seeing lots of meteor-like activity. What if this … species … came and … shed materials, striking land and sea—the haze in the sky, the tsunamis. Last time it killed off the dinosaurs. And before that: the Permian-Triassic extinction that wiped out all trilobites; and—”

  “Dad! No one cares about that.”

  The sudden silence is startling. Dad looks over as if I’ve just slapped him. “I believe you,” he says. “All this talk about aliens. I was debating it in my head more than you know. It primed the pump. But this … this feels like it actually fits, somehow.”

  I squeeze his hand. “You believe me, though? Really?”

  He nods. “I mean, this very well could be a natural phenomenon, repeated again and again over millions of years. The Earth absorbs the blow, resets. This just happens to be the first time we’ve been around to witness it. Unless the Mayans knew something, eh? But the impact on our technology would be purely side effect. I can’t even begin to imagine the anatomy and physiology of some creature that lives out its life cycle in the vacuum of space, but, damn, I guess it’s possible. It’s so crazy, you really do have to be stoned to entertain the idea.”

  We both lie down and stare up at the Emerald Orchid—and its baby.

  My own mind is tying itself in knots.

  Others have been here all along! They roam the spaces between stars. I catch a glimpse of my father’s wonder: if our terrestrial turtles will cross oceans, unaware of the drifting continents, then how much grander are these creatures, who voyage between worlds?

  This is right.… This one has not warmed before. I will linger, then, as I have done on other shores.…

  Other shores? Have other civilizations suffered? The universe has shifted under my feet, and I fall back, spinning.

  My home is an island, cut off, adrift. And so is my world.

  I stare through the mesh of our tent at a real alien creature blossoming across the night sky, and I surf the waves beyond th
e stars.

  What else do you have to say?

  I glance over at Dad. He’s asleep. Imagine that. His exhausted body vanquished his excited mind. My muscles cry out for me to follow his lead, and I leave the mysteries and the majesty of the cosmos behind.

  * * *

  It’s morning. I’m lying awake inside the cramped tent. My head feels fine, and my thoughts are clear. Focused. Last night my mind was all over the map. It was like I was in one of those carnival booths with a million dollars cash and a wind machine blowing at hurricane strength, but I couldn’t reach out and snag even a single bill.

  This morning there’s only one thing on my mind:

  I’m an alien psychic.

  I laugh.

  “Wuh?”

  I nudge Dad. “Wake up. Let’s get going.”

  He props himself up on his elbows and presses his palms into his eyeball sockets.

  “Do you … do you remember what we figured out last night?” I ask.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And you still believe me?”

  “Hon, I’ll believe anything.”

  “Even the part about being able to hear it?”

  He hesitates, but pats me on the shoulder. “I’m open to it. It might explain why your blackouts have been so unnaturally long. You’ll have to explain it again.”

  “Okay.”

  “On the trail, though. Let’s go,” he says. “We’ve been in one place for too long.”

  I take a pill. Now I have two left. Two left.

  We break camp and continue our slog.

  My thigh feels a little better; I think it’s going to heal. The mosquitoes, though, are unrelenting. If we stop for even forty-five seconds to adjust a belt strap, we become a feast.

  I tell Dad about my dreams and the visions during my recent fits. I explain how I confused the consciousness of the Orchid with the familiar mo`olelo of my Hawai`i. I pictured islands, not planets; tides instead of gravity; volcanoes, not radiation.

  And this one spits fire. It oozes the heat.… I will linger, then, as I have done on other shores, and we both shall have our fill.

  Her consciousness has come to me in other ways. Snippets of thought directed at her baby.

  You are Leilani. I am Leilani.

  And what does it matter, anyway? So what if my mind can randomly tune in to and translate the signals? I feel like Cassandra from Greek mythology: I have knowledge, but I’m powerless to act. What can I do?

  Dad listens. He doesn’t say much. But he knows that I believe what I’m saying.

  And one other person shares the truth with me. How did Uncle Akoni figure it out? He got the details wrong, but he was keen enough to notice something was happening. Would I have stood by these crazy notions if Uncle Akoni hadn’t paved the way? Or would I have thought that I was going insane?

  His statements run through my head:

  “Nānā i ke kumu. Look to the source.”

  “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.”

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

  It’s clear that Uncle Akoni wants me to try something. But can I succeed where he hasn’t? If I can hear its thoughts, can it hear mine? It’s one thing for me to be aware of a being hovering over the world unmindful of its own destructive force. It’s another thing entirely for it to notice me. Have I ever singled out the interests of one frazzled ant scurrying atop a flattened anthill? And even if it could hear me, would it realize it? I mean, it took me five weeks to put this connection together. Would it understand me?

  And even if all those obstacles were surmountable, what would I say to it? Then I remember Uncle Akoni:

  “I love the Big Island. Wish Moloka`i had mountains like that. Mauna Kea’s, what, fourteen thousand feet high?”

  Does Uncle Akoni think that our connection will be stronger the nearer we can get to it? Maybe fourteen thousand feet will make a difference. Once I’m home—once our family is whole again—I will go up on Mauna Kea. I will make the pilgrimage of my ancestral ali`i, pay my respects to the most sacred of places in Hawai`i, and talk to the gods.

  But we have to get there first.

  The interminable gorges continue. Every hour, like clockwork, we must descend steep ravines, cross waterways of varying size, and scale back up the opposite slope. The rain comes and goes, sometimes heavily. I have no idea how far away Hana is. There seems to be no reward for our progress—we’re incessantly death-marching through a gorgeous hell.

  “They call this paradise?” I joke.

  Dad grins. “Yeah. We were the ones raptured. Welcome back to the Garden.”

  CHAPTER 26

  We step out of the trees and onto the four-wheel-drive path, sheets of rain stinging us, and the long shaft of an arrow sinks into Dad’s backpack. If I hadn’t been behind him and seen it appear, it’s possible that neither of us would even have known. Like magic, it’s just there.

  The fletchings of the arrow tilt upslope. I wipe my eyes, turn to look—and my throat goes dry.

  An archer with a sheriff’s badge stands in the middle of the path, about fifty yards away. Farther back, two deputies jog into view, holding back a leaping mass of growling dogs. “Come on. Hand it over,” the archer shouts over the rain. “I could’ve hit you.”

  “No,” Dad whispers. “Don’t do this. Dammit. No.”

  “You got more pills?”

  Dad and I share an uncertain glance. Our hesitation triggers a response. The pack of hunting dogs barrels down upon us.

  “No! Stop it!” Dad shouts.

  Instinct takes over. Dad and I run blindly, splashing over rocky potholes and lumps of worn lava. I’ve never run so fast or so hard in all my life. Still the dogs gain, barking with wild excitement, gliding over the rough terrain.

  We race along a slight bend in the road and come upon two trucks parked on the path, facing downhill. We dash over to the first of the four-by-four vehicles and scramble into the bed over the top of a network of dog cages. It takes effort to pull ourselves up onto the slippery-wet tailgate and over the cages, especially with our bulky packs. Dad winces as he lifts himself up. The bed offers immediate sanctuary; the pack of dogs swarms around us, unable to leap aboard.

  Panting, I look for a weapon. Only bungee cords, arrow packaging, dog food, and pliers. Wrenches. I grab a big one, feeling less naked. Dad peeks into the cab. The dogs are barking madly, circling like frenzied sharks. Dad points forward and says, “Get to the other one.”

  We climb onto the roof of the first truck and jump down onto the hood. The lead truck is parked near enough for us to jump between them. It’s a long jump, and the dogs snarl, but we manage.

  The dogs leap and scratch at the bed of the truck, baring vicious teeth. Dad sheds his backpack, and I drop my pack with its precious iodine tablets into the bed of the truck.

  “Give me that,” Dad says, wiping water off his face, and I hand him the wrench. He uses it to smash the back window of the cab, reaches inside, unlatches the sliding window, then shoves the shattered and jagged window frame to the side. “Can you fit?”

  “Sure.”

  I hear shouts over the pelting rain as our hunters appear around the bend. Dad motions me into the cab and I squeeze through the opening.

  “What’s going to happen?” I feel panic closing in.

  “Any guns in there?”

  I crawl into the front seat and open the center console. CDs. A deputy badge. The glove box houses a pistol. I stare at it, then snatch it up and pass it to Dad.

  He seizes the gun, whips away, turns, and fires four shots. I yelp at the sudden, piercing cracks. In the rearview mirror, I see two men fall back behind the storm-gray ridgeline.

  “Go, honey!”

  “What!”

  Drive? I look around for keys. This truck has a stick shift. He might as well ask me to fly us out of here.

  He ducks down and peeks in the back wi
ndow. “Key’s in the ignition. Just remember what Grandpa taught you. Release the brake and hold down the clutch all the way. Then give it a turn.”

  Yeah, but Grandpa showed me how to drive a clutch in a parking lot. “You do it, Dad!”

  “Go! They’re coming.”

  The dogs won’t allow Dad to jump in the truck using a door. I see one of the men poke his head up over the hill again. Dad fires another round, and a tendril of blood explodes from the side of the man’s face. Dad groans. I scream. The shouting reaches fever pitch.

  “GO!”

  I spring the brake release and punch the clutch all the way to the floor. The truck begins to roll even before I crank the ignition.

  Oh, my God, we just shot that guy in the face.

  The truck roars to life as I try the key. Dad shouts, “Good, hon. Just keep holding the clutch down. Don’t try anything yet.”

  The steering is incredibly stiff, but I pull on the wheel enough to guide the truck along the dual tire tracks in the rocky path. I can’t see anything; the windshield wipers won’t turn on. Behind me, Dad fires. I think I hear a tire blow on the truck behind us.

  “Okay, try releasing the clutch slowly while giving it gas. Just a little bit, though!” I do as I’m told, and the truck lurches to a halt, falls silent. The dogs are still with us, barking and growling. I turn to see our hunters appear over the hill, shouting. Gunfire. The man with the bow pulls back another arrow.

  I’m shaking. “Dad.”

  Dad drops below the level of the sides of the bed. “Hold the clutch down again. Keep it down this time,” he shouts. “We need some distance before we try again.”

  I push the clutch all the way in and urge the truck forward with gentle rocking in my seat. We begin to coast downhill and leave the dogs behind. I turn on the engine after we’re rolling. Another back window shatters. Something pokes into my back. I scream and twist around. An arrow point protrudes through the back of my seat.