Austin Aslan - The Islands at the End of the World

“Dad, my phone’s fried.”

“Weird how things are zapping out so randomly,” he muses, sitting cross-legged on the flattened tent next to the cot. “The Orchid’s … aura … must have folds and knots that miss things as it churns around out there. Like pancake batter that still has balls of dry flour even after you whisk it. It may only be a matter of time before nothing works anymore.”

A chill runs up my back. “Well, when it goes away, though …”

Dad shakes his head. “When the Orchid goes away, everything will still be broken. It’ll take a long time for factories to get up and running. This thing goes away right now, we’ve still entered a new era, Lei. Nothing will ever be quite the same.”

The truth of his words lingers like cigarette smoke; it stinks, and I’m not ready to breathe it in.

Dad squeezes my shoulder. “Mine’s charged and still works.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have any music.”

“What was the last song you listened to?”

“I don’t remember. Why?”

Dad shrugs.

I force a smile, try to make light of it. “Oh, now I remember what it was.”

“What?”

“John Denver. ‘Leaving on a Jet Plane.’ ”

“That’s not funny.” Dad shakes his head.

“It is when you try to sing it.”

We both laugh.

It’s just dead weight, but I place the phone in my backpack.

Now and then it rains for several minutes at a time as dark purple clouds drift quickly by, but mostly it’s stayed sunny and humid in the strange light filtering down through the sky. Occasionally, a bus offers to take people—mostly families with young keikis —to the nearby beach. The kids and their parents love it. Dad and I never go. Even though it would be good to replace running laps and dribbling soccer balls with actual swimming practice, we don’t want to miss a flight while we’re away.

If they were taking folks to the Kailua beaches, maybe then I would go. A chance to surf.

When the “beach bus” returns on Saturday afternoon, the families file into the camp, looking fresh and rather cheerful compared with the rest of us. We should have gone this time , I think. Only one flight was called all day, not for the Big Island. A little dip in the bay, in spite of its floating trash heaps, would have done my spirit a lot of good.

Two keikis run by me—a small Hawaiian brother and sister—covered in mosquito-bite welts. Their mom chases after them. The mosquitoes have found her, too. They settle into their space a few yards away from us and the mom says, “I said stop scratching! They’re making you bleed. It’s gonna get infected!”

I watch the three of them for a moment, grimace at myself, and unzip my backpack. I pull out my smaller can of repellent. I hesitate, put it back, and take the larger one.

Before I can change my mind, I trot over to the mother and present her with the bug spray. “Here, take it.”

“Fo real?” She reaches for it.

“I’ve got … you know … I got plenny,” I whisper.

“Mahalo.”

The weeping at night has been replaced by coughing, and every day that we’ve been here, older people have been carried away on gurneys. One body is taken away beneath a sheet, the lumpy, shrouded gurney hauled through the gate over a muddy path and out of view.

We’ve been in camp for a full week. This morning the soldiers are wearing masks.

The masks are the soft, white kind—the type dentists wear. But where’s mine? I feel like the only passenger without a parachute on a plummeting plane.

I sit down on the cot, lean over, and draw a map in the dirt with my finger. Kaua`i, off to the left. O`ahu, bigger, right in front of me. About the size of those masks. Moloka`i, a long finger to O`ahu’s right. Then Maui, a figure-eight shape, slightly lower. Then the Big Island. Mom. Kai. Grandpa.

I study the distances between the islands. Can I do it? Can I swim that? No way. But could Dad and I row it?

The answer has to be yes.

I start my next set of push-ups, my eyes fixed on the gap between O`ahu and Moloka`i. One island at a time. If we have to, we’ll do it. We’ll make it work.

One. Two. Three.

I’ve seen Grandpa canoeing like a frigate bird over the water in Hilo Bay. He could do it. Then so can I .

Four. Five. Six.

Moloka`i—once famous for the old leper colonies. The government’s quarantine policy ended in the sixties, but before that, people were sent there to live out their lives. Never to return.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

Moloka`i doesn’t like outsiders. Surfing, for example—don’t even try it if you don’t live there.

But you have the right to belong. Fight for it, like Pele .

Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

We’ll make it work. We’ll get there even if we have to paddle on surfboards.

Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

And then we’ll keep going.

On Thursday I see Aukina patrolling the perimeter of the far side of the fence. He’s. So. Hot! It’s still obvious how young he is compared to most of the soldiers. In my mind’s eye I catch a glimpse of Grandpa—straight out of high school on a battleship. Looking like that. It makes me smile. I head toward the fence.

I attempt to brush my fingers through my tangled black hair, for all the good it will do, as I catch up to him. “Hi, Aukina.”

He turns. His mouth is covered with a mask, but the smile shows in his eyes. He waves. “Hey, Leilani. Howzit? Been watching you on the soccer field. One mean forward.”

“Really?” I float into the air, a flush rises into my neck. “Um, thanks. You should play!”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to tell you: I asked around about your meds.”

“Yeah?”

He shakes his head. “Sorry. Nothing like that on base. What’s it for?”

I shrug uncomfortably. “No worries, just …” Only forty left . “Sorry, didn’t mean to pry.”

I change the subject. “Hey, what’s up with the masks? Why do you get to wear them and we don’t? It’s creeping everybody out.”

Aukina looks down at his feet for a moment before a muffled answer comes. “There’s a nasty flu spreading at the other camp. I don’t like that we’re supposed to wear them in front of everyone.”

“It’s not more than that, is it? Like, radiation?”

“No. That would mean creepier masks. The day we march out here with those … it’s all over either way.”

I slouch forward against the fence. That’s encouraging . “Hey, trust me,” he offers. “Folks are monitoring radiation. This isn’t about that. People are getting sick in that camp. You can’t put thousands of people in one place in the tropics without issues, yeah?”

“Well, even so, didn’t your mother tell you not to bring out your toys if you weren’t willing to share?”

He studiously scrapes his muddy boot over a patch of grass. “I’ll mention it to the sergeant, Leilani.”

“Good.”

“Dang, are all girls from Hilo as tita as you?” he asks.

He just called me tita. Does that mean I finally belong? I laugh. “ ‘No. Just me, baby. Just me.’ ” That’s a line from the film Army of Darkness.

He doesn’t seem to pick up on the reference, and I’m mortified. Dad and his movies! An awkward silence falls. My cheeks grow warm. Of course he doesn’t know that movie, stupid . “I was joking,” I try. “I’m actually the nicest person from Hilo. In Hilo, I mean. I’m not from Hilo. Well, I am now, but …”

“Lei,” Aukina says. I fall silent. “It’s all good. I was just teasing you.”