Speaker for the Gods, week 19

Hale Waimanalo, part 1

All of Waimanalo turned out to greet us under a deep purple sky. Over a hundred Kane crowded shoulder to shoulder on either side of the road, jostling one another for a glimpse of the High Speaker as she approached the first huts. Two lines of torches spat merry sparks outside a makeshift gate hastily constructed from wooden trellises and garnished with white plumeria. Cheers heralded us through the passage, and the tooting of bamboo fifes like fairies’ laughter over galloping tribal drums. I shot Ienith a look—you want me to carry Kapono while you take the lead?—but she insisted on bearing her stricken herald all the way through the throng to the village’s beating heart. Seeing her labor under the arm of this blackened blood-streaked man, the lahui’s bubbling chatter hushed to a reverential hum.

Eight large huts stood in a loose oval around a grassy commons heavily trod and barely clinging to life on dry sandy ground. Smaller homes trailed off towards the sound of waves. The biggest single structure, a one-story building in the Western style, I took for the Cult of Luther’s school. Stone cairns anchored bright torches on tall poles around a team of drummers at the commons’ center.

Six fat old men beat on a mix of big gourd drums, rattles built form smaller gourds, wooden rods split at their ends that clacked together and a barrel-sized bass drum skinned with peculiar iron-grey leather. The sticks kept time for the most part, the man banging the bass drum helping them along with wordless barks. In the sunset’s last glow with evening sweetening the day’s bitter heat, with the hot salty smell of food on the way, with happy singing behind the drums, we could collectively imagine the war was far away. Tonight we could smudge the worry lines out of mothers’ faces and dream up reasons why there wasn’t a single man to be seen between twenty years’ age and forty.

The music built to a dramatic height; we came to a stop and the people closed in around us. Everyone was making some kind of noise, whether blowing flutes or singing or clacking together smooth black stones like castanets. As I looked around, I saw they were all of them haggard. Dark circles under their eyes, skin pale even in the warm torchlight. Cramps had wracked my lower half for the last hour, providing a painful explanation: water toxins. Keone’s movements and unrest in the hills must have cut off water delivery days before. Waimanalo was sick with no aid coming. But to desperate folks, crumbs look like salvation. So tonight they celebrated—their favorite daughter returned home, albeit in the company of gore-crusted haoles.

“Waimanalo!” Ienith roared at full throat despite the weight on her shoulders. The place exploded; Kane conversation fell like an avalanche on my exhausted brain. Well-wishing and prayers packed my ears. Women in blue dresses with enormous arms came from the crowd to take Kapono. Ienith kissed his cheek as they led him away. A very old man in white robes appeared, shuffling slowly forward, assisted at the elbows by two young ladies. He was blind with irises of shattered brown glass. Wavy white hair ran like a spring-swollen stream down his back and cheeks to meld with a long braided beard. A proud nose and square jaw kept him handsome, like a great silver lion.

“Speaker Makapu,” stated the attendant on his right, her voice high and brittle with nerves. Ienith approached and pulled him close. His arms tried quavering to embrace her, but found it awkward with the girls supporting him. Instead she whispered into his ear and his lips moved in response, a beatific smile spreading over his face. The High Speaker pulled away from her aged inferior, tears flowing down both their cheeks as the village joined in pouring out their emotions. Waimanalo drummed and sang as it wept. Staves brushed away the small boys trying to touch his shiny swords. I expected Ienith’s family to present themselves but saw no one obvious. She was led away towards the smell of cooking meat, which melted my nausea like so much delicious pork fat.

We walked to a bluff past the village, overlooking the sea. Five young men worked at a smoky hole in the ground, shining with sweat, shoveling burning stones from the pit with blackened wooden paddles. At the pit’s base waited a whole pig, buried for hours to roast, swaddled in a thick wrap of green leaves that spat hot vapor at the workers and made them yelp.

The sea was a smooth basin below; indigo so deep it called you below, layer by darkening layer, into the ocean’s heart to lie down and sleep. Cooking fires glittered onshore, roasting small fish poised on skewers above. Wide-hipped women tended them while their children played on the beach. Shadows dashed around in firelight, melded into one another, slipped and fell shrieking with glee in the clammy sand. Songs danced in the air, two or three at a time since nobody could agree which came next. Waves crashed on olive sand, white foam stood out in the dark and sucked back downshore—with each beat youngsters rushed and fled the waterline like sandpipers. Someone put a banana frond in my hands like a plate, loaded with boiled taro leaf and rice bits of fish so hot they burned my fingers. They had no tables, so I found a clear spot on the packed earth and sat down cross-legged to eat with the leaf’s bottom scalding my lap. My fingers shoveled it in so fast I burned the roof of my mouth. I liked the rice from the pot bottom best: crunchy and sweet.

I left a few fish pieces, the ones I couldn’t identify. The eyes were fine: black shriveled things that burst like briny currants between my teeth. Cheek meat was oily and succulent. I sat alone with children staring at me behind their own servings. Staves was nowhere in sight. Ienith embraced two strapping young men with matching sea-dragon tattoos all down their right sides. I felt a flash of jealousy quickly doused by shame—she had two brothers, after all.

The roasted pig was our second course, finally exhumed and chopped to pieces with a rough iron cleaver representing the first metal I’d seen in town. Kapono returned to us, delivered to the bluff by his nurses, his left shoulder swaddled with kapa bandages; he looked worn to the bone but grateful for the meal. It was hard to reach the pig through waves of children ruthlessly pushing to the front of the line. Where I grew up, this would’ve warranted beltings all around. When I got my helping scooped into the greasy banana leaf, the smell was like a benediction. The meat was perfectly greasy without lard or gristle, moist and sweet, coming apart in strands at my touch, sour at the end from the fragrant lau lau it had steamed in. I’ve had better, any veteran traveler is obliged say with an air of authority. But not much better, and after the pua’a in the jungle this meal carried a sweet note of revenge.

A touch came on my back as my stomach neared capacity and I reached the crispy smoky dregs. I turned and smiled, expecting Ienith but seeing an old white woman instead, her face darkened and lined by decades of Sun.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” she exclaimed. I must have jumped.

“’S fine,” I managed mid-swallow. She was matronly, grey and aged but hale, wearing a severe bun and heavy black cloth from collar to toe. The village’s Lutherite schoolmarm, I guessed.

“Deacon Laura Grace Hamlin.”

“Ashur,” I replied, nodding, too exhausted to stand and shake. “Royal Red Tigers.”

She cocked her head, raised an eyebrow the way Ienith liked to. “Some confusion, then. That’s not precisely what I’ve heard.”

“People love talking about haoles,” I observed.

The Deacon showed an even smile yellowed by age and squatted to come closer. “Well then, I’m sorry a second time for my misperception. I can’t even recall the last Easterner we had in town.”

“Where I came up we called ourselves Westerners.”

“East from here,” she shrugged. “But I’ve got you at a disadvantage. Ienith hadn’t told me your name, just called you ku’apu. I made an inference and perhaps I shouldn’t have.”

I felt uncomfortable despite her warm manner. “She likes that name. And you weren’t totally wrong. She seems to like me, though I’m not sure why.”

“Our daughter always knew what she wanted. She made sure we knew it too,” the Deacon chortled.

“Strong girl.”

“You’re both kids to me.” It was my turn to laugh.

“You’re in good humor for a man covered with blood.”

“It dries, you know?” I replied, picking at my crusty vest. “How long have you run the Lutherite school?”

“You know my order.”

“Only by reputation. You do good work, ma’am.”

“Thank you for saying so.”

As she said it, there was a kick of nausea. I doubled over and growled through gritted teeth, forcing sound out my throat so the vomit couldn’t rise. Deacon Hamlin patted my back until the feeling passed.

“It’s always that way when you start drinking lowland water,” she said with sympathy.

“Jesus Christ—I’m sorry, Deacon, it just hit hard.”

“Nausea fades; the stomach adapts to the toxins. Well, mostly. You get pangs still, and there are other problems. Lethargy sets in, skin goes ashy, bones get brittle.”

“These people enjoy themselves, but they definitely look sick.” I noticed for the first time the ashy pallor in her own face, with sunken eyes and receding gums. “What’s in the water?”

“Don’t really know. I’ve tested it with what I have, but there are no true chemists in the islands. For my part, I saw nothing to explain the symptoms, or why they skip over animals. An old industrial chemical, I’d guess, from the Calamity or sometime before. Or something to do with radiation. It’s just the groundwater effected, anything from streams or wells. Rainwater’s all right—we collect what we can—but it’s been a hot dry year.”

I was impressed at her knowledge but shouldn’t have been. A lifetime of reading, after all. “You’ve been without water delivery for…a week?” Too tired to remember how long I’d been on the island.

“Five days since the last truck. Men went into the hills two days ago with wagons and gourds, looking for clean drink. No word since.”

“Things look pretty bad for only five days in.”

“We look worse than we feel, at least for now. But I’ve no clue what’ll happen in a week and I don’t want to think about a month. I just keep praying for the war’s end. No matter how it ends, who wins and loses. Which I shouldn’t say, but there it is.” Deacon Hamlin stood from her crouch.

“Smart money’s on Keone. He’s using hai’oleo. But Ienith probably told you,” I said getting to my feet and joining her for a slow walk towards Ienith’s cluster of adulation.

“And even if the Speakers win, the hills will crawl with soldiers. Who knows when they’ll get the trucks going on a schedule? ”

Ienith smiled warmly at our approach. She sat on one of several logs around a small warming fire with Speaker Makapu, his attendants and the two tattooed young men I’d seen before. “You’ve met my Laura!” she beamed, the gesturing the others to make room. I waited for Deacon Hamlin to sit and fit myself in next to her. “Laura taught me to speak and write your haole tongue.”

Laughter all around, particularly from the be-dragoned men. “Is it Laura?” I asked, and the Deacon shrugged. “Laura it is. Who are these fine men?”

Amplifying her voice for all seated, Ienith gave my name without title or description. “This is Ashur. Speaker Makapu, you have seen,” she said with a dip of her head. And then, pointing to the men I took for her brothers, “These water rats are my kaikua’ana. Akela, the elder. Ke’iwa, the younger. Ienith, the greater.” She thumped her chest with a fist and stuck out her tongue between grinning teeth. Trapped between sibling rivalry and decorum, the brothers laughed quickly and sunk their faces into mounds of sweet pork.

“That’s another problem,” Laura whispered in my ear. “Your stomach settles but it never gets to like the toxin. It can’t absorb food right, so you get full but never really fed. These children, though,” growing louder and gesturing to those seated, “they’ll have distended bellies before too long. They’re suffering the most already. I’ve cancelled lessons; they’re tired, sick, they can’t focus.”

Ienith shut her eyes in sympathy and shook off the horror. “I’m so sorry, Laura. I had a chance to fortify the hills and I did not. There might have been water. I rushed towards Hoku’e, instead and my kaua died for it.”

“Sweet thing, this isn’t your doing.”

“Nobody else could have fixed it.”

Laura sighed. “Even during war, large things are made from small.” Ienith joined her for the last four words. “Just so. But your talents are so exceptional, Ienith. That’s always been your problem. When only grains of sand need shifting, you move mountains.”

“Mountains will need moving, Laura, before the end.”

“I heard you ruined Mahoe Kahu,” chirped one of the High Speaker’s brothers in his native language. Akela, I thought. Their matching tattoos made it harder.

Ienith scowled and swiped at the air to dismiss him. “I could have done it. I could have, but held my own power back to preserve it. It was Keone who brought down the mountain.”

Speaker Makapu had been silent through all this but now his blind eyes widened. He raised his hands to the night sky, crying out “Ku punishes the family!” in creaking Kane. An attendant clapped a moist cloth to his head. The old man slumped his shoulders and fell quiet again. There was a long silence in the circle.

“Dementia,” Laura said sadly. “He’s far gone. There are moments when he’s himself. He read the clouds earlier, but I think he’s confused at night.”

“He’s blind. How can he read the clouds?” They looked at me like I’d asked a stupid question, so I let it slide. Magic is magic, after all. A whistle pierced our conversation and the drums stopped. Silence fell abruptly over Waimanalo. Someone called in Kane to clear some space and the villagers complied as a procession of girls approached the buff.

Dressed identically in blue-green dresses that flowed to their ankles, they walked barefoot into the open circle. Clusters of pink crown flowers and yellow plumeria were gorgeous plumage in their long black hair. Tiny white seashells hung by the hundreds in thick braids about their necks. The girls stood still in a tight bunch while the big drum, the pahu, was brought up from below and set down behind them. The rest of the band was there as a slow beat started, accompanied by two bamboo flutes while three men stood to sing.

The girls started in two ranks, the front kneeling and the back standing. Suddenly they raised their hands, stood and began to dance as the singers opened up. It was a slow dance, deliberate movements of the arms and feet and hips made in perfect unison—each step so simple I could’ve mimed it, but while many were similar never did they repeat. A magnificent sequence unfolded before my eyes, dozens of steps made with such fluidity and grace a single dancer would have awed. Instead a score of young ladies performed with the song, telling with their hands and noiseless skirts a story of the coast, of memory and of home. Up and down they bobbed: a lagoon of blue and green skirts beneath foamy white crests, a single pool of human loveliness.

Pa hanu mai ka pua ehu o ke kai        /           The spray of the sea comes as a breath
           E holy nape ana I ka lau ki                 /           Rustling the leaves of the Ti plants
           Me he leo ‘a’ala I mapu mai               /           Like a perfumed whisper scenting the air
           E heahea mau nei                               /           Ever calling to me

Lauele ka mana’o I ke aumoe             /           The mind wanders freely in the night’s dark
Hia’a I ka u’alaleo o ke kai                 /           Wakeful from the ghostly voice of the sea
Ka’iawe ka ha’upu aloha                    /           Precious images drift through my thoughts
E ho’omalie mau nei                           /           Always bringing a sense of peace

Aloha e, aloha no                                /           Beloved, beloved indeed!
Aloha ka hali’ali’a mau                      /           Beloved is the sweet remembrance
He nani e, he nani no                          /           Beautiful, beautiful indeed!
He nani ka nohona pili kai                  /           Beauty embodies that seaside home

Puana ‘ia no ke ehu o ke kai               /           The spray of the sea recounts the tale
Ia hanu ‘a’ala a ke aumoe                  /           That perfumed murmur in the night’s dark
Moe a’e ke ala e’alo ai                        /           The path we tread lies before us
E ho’olale mau nei                              /           Beckoning us ever forward

The men sang powerfully but never loud. The girls’ dance was spellbinding, their hands guiding with the most subtle motions making clear words I’d never heard. One may hear and even comprehend the Kane language a great deal without ever knowing it. As a visitor I felt overwhelmed but even the natives were entranced by the performance. Nobody looked at Ienith but me—her eyes gleaming wet, teeth clenched, shoulders heaving. As the last chorus played, she couldn’t bear it and dropped her head. Drops ran down her nose to hiss in the fire.

Aloha e, aloha no
Aloha ka hali’ali’a mau
He nani e, he nani no
He nani ka nohona pili kai!

When at last silence fell, Ienith rose from her seat. I thought her simply overcome with emotion but the whole town rose as well, humming a low tone that each matched until all were united in bassy harmony. The High Speaker stepped between villagers to the cleared stage.

“The invader is on our shores!” the High Speaker shouted in Kane. The people of Waimanalo barked once, a “hoi!” of agreement.

“The invader stalks through our forests!” she bellowed to the same response. It dawned on me: this was not a speech but a ritual.

“The invader comes to our homes!” she screamed to the loudest “HOI!” yet.

“And we say to him, ‘Ku cares nothing for you. His foes he will purge!’” The last word was ho’oma’ema’e. Now I understood the ritual, by recent events given special meaning for all assembled. With a deep breath Ienith turned away from the leaping fires and the marine blue dancers beside them. She opened her mouth, inclined her chin and growled through a god’s throat. In that building vibration, whispers curled like smoky fingers about our hearts and jabbed at them with dark inquisitions before unclutching and departing, leaving all unharmed but always aware that something, somewhere, watched. With an exertion Ienith concentrated all of it into a bolus and then released it out into the world. A mighty pulse of hai’oleo sprung through the village: a great sonic force roaring between the huts and down the worn footpaths and into the forest beyond with such force it rustled the trees in waves. The village was clean again, if ever it hadn’t been. The people were safe, if still slowly poisoned.

Waimanalo erupted with cheers, lobbing loose flowers at the High Speaker and the dancers, who smiled and giggled and suddenly transformed from poised artists back to young girls. Ienith bowed stiffly, forced a smile and hurried back to her seat with us. The pahu drum kicked up again as old men stepped out from the crowd to perform a kind of chest-slapping dance. Most folks returned to their meals and conversations; the night’s big entertainment was over. Deacon Hamlin brought us back to business.

“Where will you go next?” she asked tenderly.

The High Speaker sniffed and swallowed before answering. “To raise an army. If Keone pushes for Hoku’e ignoring the coast, then we draw strength from the coast.”

I shook my head. “But there’s nothing to draw from. Looking around this village, there’s barely any man in fighting shape. There’s these two and nobody else,” I gestured to her brothers.

“We work the loko’ia,” said the bearded Akela defensively.

“Who’s this guy, anyway?” asked Ke’iwa, baby-faced with a mop of tight dark curls.

“That’s fine. But you could walk for a week and find maybe a hundred others. Or,” I suggested, “we could head north. The only real To’mean army is north, and you said it yourself: they can’t win this war without you.” It was self-serving, bringing me closer to the black cliffs and crashing waves of the Pali’makeloa. But it made sense.

“Where’s Staves?” Ienith inquired, looking around. “I want to hear his thoughts.”

“Haven’t seen him since dinner started.”

“Will you find him, Ashur? I’ve made too many mistakes already. This is too important for my…” she paused and curled her lip into a scowl, “feelingsto decide. “

“It’s judgment, not feelings.” I felt dismissed and slightly hurt.

“Please, ipo,” she said with urgency. “Bring me the Colonel.” Her brothers swiveled their heads at the intimacy. Suddenly eager to run an errand, I hurried off into the night without another word.