Austin Aslan - The Islands at the End of the World

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 the 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.”

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.