Austin Aslan - The Islands at the End of the World

I watch a truck filled with luggage pull up to a warehouse across the street, our duffels visible in the pile. Soldiers haul the luggage into the warehouse through a side door.

As I walk the perimeter, I pass beneath a plumeria tree overhanging the fence. I freeze. I raise my hands to my temples and squeeze my eyes shut. After a moment I open them. I reach up, pluck a yellow-white plumeria blossom off the nearest branch, and tuck its stem behind my ear. I hold the flower in place for a second and drop my gaze down to the damp dirt sprinkled with countless petals, holding back tears.

The next group is called up. Maui, again. Dad and I have been sitting cross-legged at the edge of a tarp’s shade. He rises and jogs over to the announcer, the barbed wire doing its endless loop-de-loops between their faces.

“Hey, when do you guys do runs to the Big Island?”

“Whenever we need to. Please, sir, don’t hover.”

“But we can go to Maui, too. Can we specify that we want to go to Maui?”

The soldier shakes his head. “You have a blue tag. Big Island. You don’t want to be sitting around in Maui any more than here.”

The sun drops toward the jagged, razor-edged slopes of the green Koolau Range, and I have never seen such a beautiful sunset. Above, thin scallops of raked clouds hover bloodred, like a ceiling consumed in flame.

The gorgeous colors .

I look across the fields and beyond two parking lots at another, larger makeshift camp. No wonder the trade winds smell like body odor and human waste. They must be the out-of-staters, separated from the rest of us like the lepers who used to be sent to Moloka`i.

We’re issued two cots to set up under the open sky. Good thing there hasn’t been rain today. Someone nearby sneaks some mosquito repellant, quickly stuffing it back into their suitcase. Good idea . I share my own canister with Dad.

Dinner is served from giant stew pots along a row of tables. People spring to the front of a mad dash that takes us by surprise. Dad and I wait half an hour for the crowd to thin. We ask about aspartame in the food, and the server rolls his eyes. An unsavory stew is poured into our Dixie cups, and we go back to our cots to eat.

Later we lie on our cots, clothing piled beneath our heads, and watch the stars twinkle dimly behind the Emerald Orchid. Someone nearby weeps as meteors drizzle down faintly, like tear streaks, fading to spent dust far above the mountains.

The next several days, we wait.

We exercise to pass the time. I’d rather avoid the dirt and sweat from doing sit-ups and push-ups three times a day, but I play along. I think I know what Dad’s doing: training for that big canoeing adventure. Just in case it comes to that.

The portable toilets overfill by the end of each day. We’re given a couple of squares of toilet paper every time we want to go. The food is getting worse, and water is available for shorter stretches. I’ve only taken one shower in the swimming pool’s shower rooms. The pool is useless—the tsunami filled it with sand and mud and junk.

We write Mom a letter, and I give it to a soldier at our camp. He pulls the rolled-up letter through the chain links and assures me, “It’ll make it to Hilo eventually, but you know they can’t play post office.” He’s young, Hawaiian, and very handsome. Maybe I didn’t pick him out randomly.

“Thanks.” I can only hope that Mom will think to visit the airport and ask if she has any letters waiting for her; she must know by now that civilians are arriving from O`ahu each day. Perhaps she goes there to look for us.

“It’s all good,” I continue. “I understand. Gotta try, though, yeah? ` Ohana .”

Family.

“` Ohana ,” he agrees. “Where you from?”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “My mom’s native Big Islander. Dad’s from New Mexico.”

The soldier offers me a shy smile. “Gotta name?”

“Leilani. And you?”

“That’s one of my favorites. I’m Aukina.”

“What, you straight outta cadet training or something?”

“Ho!” He laughs and shifts the letter in his hands. “Way to see the world, ah?”

I laugh. “Hey, you know what’s going on out there? The mainland?”

“No. Wish I did. Communications are completely out. But talk is the whole world’s without power. Plenny problems everywhere.”

I frown. This doesn’t come as a surprise. But hearing it out loud—it sounds really serious—really bad . Who could possibly have time to spare a thought for Hawai`i?

“Hey,” I say. “You guys have extra medicine? I’m running low and can’t run out.”

“What do you need?”

I tell him my brand and the generic name.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, good luck with this, ah?” He waves my letter to Mom. “I’ll keep an eye out for a reply.”

“Thanks.” I blush again and turn around. I return to Dad, and for a moment I wish he were Tami. We’d already be talking up that cham —our secret word for a good-looking guy. I suddenly miss her with a sharp pang of … loss.

But it’s not forever , I tell myself.

I kill some time by removing and reapplying my spearmint-pearl polish. I usually don’t do my fingernails, but I add them in to the mix tonight. If I can’t get rid of the dirt, at least I can hide it.

I wonder if Private Cham over there would like spearmint pearl. I shrug. Can’t be worse than my current cellblock brown.

We often hear gunfire across the bay. Single shots or short bursts. I think of that man’s head bursting open against the white sail. As miserable as we are in camp, the fence that surrounds us keeps the madness at bay.

Sunday and Monday come and go. Two weeks since we last talked to Mom and Kai. It feels surreal—and painful. I’m angry all the time. Or sad. Or numb. I never just feel normal anymore.

Tuesday. I’ve counted about fifty lucky people with blue name tags called to board a plane bound for the Big Island. Meanwhile, four new tarps have been hoisted up inside our pen, and hundreds of additional interisland travelers have arrived.

Would we already be home if we’d come here right away?

I have a cot, but now Dad sleeps on the muddy ground next to me, using the canvas of our tent as a ground cloth. There were no more cots to go around, but the people in the camp redistributed the ones we do have among the women and children. It was a good moment. Started with one guy insisting that a new lady take his. She tried to refuse, but he won. Then a few more got up and did the same thing. And suddenly everyone was passing cots around, like some weird square dance without music. People were laughing, chatting with each other. It took a while for the excitement to die down. Thinking of it now, I’m reminded of Saturday-morning soccer games.

I turn to Dad sitting beside me on the cot. “Anyone around here have a soccer ball?”

Dad’s eyebrows go up. “Let’s find out.”

We ask around. Finally, a soldier passes a ball over the fence. It doesn’t take long before we have a game going. Coed. All ages. People move camp and squeeze together to give us room to play. We’re on a soccer field, after all. The game gets crowded, so someone suggests teams and rotating matches. Everyone who’s not playing watches. Even the guards spectate during their patrols. Every time there’s a goal, cheers ripple through camp, inside and outside the fence.

We play until just after dark, and we agree to do it again every evening.

I’ve been leaving my phone off. I turn it on now and switch off airplane mode. It finds a network and shows full bars. I dial Mom, but the call fails. Before I can shut it off, it dies. I’m certain it still had power. I sit and stare at the blank screen.