Austin Aslan - The Islands at the End of the World

I cup one of the small half-flowers in my hand. I will make you whole .

“I’m coming,” I whisper.

I wipe tears from my eyes with the back of my wrist as I straighten. Akoni casts me a silent smile, and we turn back toward the clinic.

We pass a church on our way, and I’m surprised to see a young man with a pair of binoculars leaning out of the bell tower above us.

“Ahoy!” Akoni shouts up to him.

“Ahoy, Uncle!” the man calls, lowering his lenses.

“Any giant salamis today?” Akoni’s belly laughs tumble out of him.

“No tsunamis,” the lookout reports.

We continue on our way. Akoni says, “We have a constant eye on the sea. No satellite warnings anymore. And who’s to say that we’re not in for more Orchid debris strikes?”

“Great.”

Outside the clinic we see a giant flock of large birds pass overhead, darkening the orange sky. The flock is very high up, thousands of birds stretched out over miles.

“What is that?” I wonder aloud.

“Not the first flock I’ve seen. I think those are mainland birds. Geese. Storks. Cranes, maybe.”

“But migratory birds go north to south. That flock’s aimed for China, yeah?”

Akoni shrugs. “The Orchid’s scrambling more than just circuit boards.”

“The birds are on the fritz,” I test the notion. “Weird.”

“Not just the birds.”

I sigh. “Can’t wait for Dad to see that.”

Akoni takes me back to the clinic counter. “Now, about payment …”

I feel hot. I’d been wondering when the other shoe would drop. I’ve just been had by a slick salesman. Not that I’m disappointed in Uncle Akoni; I’m ashamed of myself, for starting to believe in a world that could run on kindness.

“We don’t have any money. But maybe we can pay for all this in iodide tablets?”

Uncle Akoni frowns. “No one’s going to ask you for money. What good is it? This place doesn’t operate on a capitalist system. We’re a commune. Trying to be, anyway.”

“Oh. Really? Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”

“What’s this about iodide?”

Have I said too much? This old man has lowered my guard. I need to be more careful. “I … I don’t know. I have some … tablets. Just in case. That’s all.”

“Where’d you get iodide tablets?”

I shake my head nervously. “The military on O`ahu were all taking them.”

“Really? This is the first confirmation I’ve heard of this.”

“I’m not trying to confirm anything—they could be doing it just to be safe, yeah?”

He leans close. “Oh, no. It’s real. The hotness . I’ve been putting it together, Lei. They know about it, yeah? They like it. It’s good for their ship.”

I stare at him blankly. He smiles awkwardly. “You really not with me on this?”

I shake my head.

“Well, later, then. You have more pressing issues. Meanwhile, stay quiet about those tablets. This ‘commune’ has shallow roots. If people think you have something they’ll need, you’ll be a target.”

“Okay. Thanks. I really appreciate your help. I can tell you’re busy. It means … a lot.” I blink back tears.

“I’m going up the cliff to Kualapu`u for a few days, but I’ll be back Sunday. Have you guys been to church lately?”

Are you kidding? “I’m kinda mad at God these days.”

“Aren’t we all?” More of a statement than a question. “Even so, back to the matter of payment: If your father’s up to it, will you come? As a favor to me, if nothing else?”

“I guess. I hope so. You’ve restored my faith in people, anyway.”

“Good. That’s where it always starts. What we say and do to each other is the clearest sign of God’s presence in our hearts. But there’s more , Lei. We just have to learn how to listen for it. You a good listener, Leilani?”

At some point his tone changed. His question is dead serious, and I don’t get it. “Sure.”

“You have a gift, you know,” he says, tapping me on the head. “You’re not using it, though. You’re not seeing it for what it is. We’ll get there, though, okay?”

“Okay.”

“ A hui hou , Leilani. Flower of Heaven.”

“K’den,” I say, more confused than ever. “ Mahalo , Uncle.”

On Sunday morning Dad and I stand together on the beach amid a group of thirty or so newcomers, facing the high cliffs of Moloka`i, me with my train-track stitches and Dad with his arm in a ragged sling. We are participating in a traditional oli kāhea , a sacred Hawaiian chant of request to enter. This password ceremony doesn’t feel like “tradition”; it feels real. Dad and I don’t belong here. We are guests in need, in search of mercy, in a new world where you can’t count on any help. It is fitting to ask permission to enter this modern isle of refuge. We read our tattered pages and chant:

Komo, e komo aku hoi au maloko

.

Mai ho`ohewahewa mai oe ia`u;

oau no ia, Ke ka-nae-nae a ka mea hele

,

He leo, e-e

,

A he leo wale no, e-e

.

Eia ka pu`u nui owaho nei la

,

He ua, he ino, he anu, he ko`e-ko`e

.

Maloko aku au

.

To enter, permit me to enter, I pray.

Refuse me not recognition; I am

A traveler offering praise,

Just a voice,

Only a human voice.

Oh, what I suffer out here,

Rain, storm, cold, and wet.

Let me come in to you.

Dad’s breathing is a little shallow as he tries not to let his expanding lungs pull at his torn shoulder muscles. He should be resting, but he insists that he’s well enough to attend this ceremony and the Mass. His surgery went really well. The wound was shallow; the bullet had lodged against his shoulder blade, not in it. He’s doing so good. My relief is indescribable.

A dozen Hawaiians stand before us in a line. They chant the answer to our request:

Aloha na hale o makou i maka-maka ole

,

Ke alanui hele mauka o Pu`u-kahea la, e-e!

Ka-he-a!

E Kahea aku ka pono e komo mai oe iloko nei

.

Eia ka pu`u nui o waho nei, he anu

.

What love to our homes, now empty,

As one ascends the mountain of Supplication!

We call!

You are welcome; we invite you to enter.

The cold outside is the hill of Affliction.

We step forward, officially welcomed. Those who have gathered to witness the ceremony clap their approval. Moloka`i, of all places. It’s funny: there have been many times in the past few days here that I’ve felt more accepted than I ever have before. I could stay here. I could be Hawaiian here. My misfit self could belong.

But it’s still not home.

“Do you see him yet?” Dad asks.

I shake my head, trying to hide my disappointment. “I thought for sure he’d be here. He’d better be at the church.” I haven’t seen Uncle Akoni since we arrived, but I told Dad all about him as soon as he awoke.

He would like to thank Uncle Akoni, for protecting me and getting me stitched up, and for being part of a community that saved his life.

I’ve wandered these streets for the past four days, scratched beneath the surface of their Brady Bunch veneer. I keep waiting to discover something awful. It’s like I want to be comforted by familiar misery.

I’ve seen couples arguing; a fistfight; people doubled over in the agony of loss. A woman said her suitcase had been stolen. I overheard two men argue about how many people this shelf could support in the long term.

This experiment may not last. I don’t know. But people are trying, and they’re not fooling themselves. They’re protected in a new world by a new set of rules. They’re safe, and they’re comforted.