Austin Aslan - The Islands at the End of the World

The void. The Orchid wants to drift, too. It wants the void. It wants to leave. Its calving and its fight with our sun’s gravity have exhausted it. But it will return—it always does.

The Orchid’s thoughts—they’re not really thoughts, just … urges, instincts. I can grasp them now, even though I’m awake. The meaning danced on the tip of my tongue before.

The Orchid gives birth in the surf—our outer atmosphere. It grazes on radiation, like a sea turtle on algae. It feeds on the stars, but now finds our fallout to be sweet. The planets that ooze like this are a special treat. The planets that have toyed with atoms—rich in both atmosphere and radiation—are like bowls of milk to a cat. But it has had its fill. It is ready to leave these shores and return to the ocean of space.

It’s saving the milk for another visit. After all, the radiation will continue spilling around the globe for ages.

The sheriff brushes hair from my forehead. The touch is gentle. I gather the strength to spit on his face, but the bed quakes. I’m falling

Are you ready, little one? Shall we go? You see the smudge? That is where we go. Remember. You will come back when you are ready to give .

We will swim slowly until we are beyond this nearest tide, then go fast. Then we will be away from the pulling fires. We will do the long fastness to the other pool. We will be long in the ocean between the pools of fire .

But we like the depths. We are many, there .

Dad’s face. Brilliant white light floods outward from behind him. Clouds. My body rocks gently. I’m floating through the sky.

“Dad.” I swoon. To see his face …

“Hush, darling.”

“Am I …?”

“Go back to sleep. Everything is okay. I’m always watching over you.”

“No, Dad. I don’t want to leave you.”

“Hush. Rest.”

More clouds. The sky is still yellow, though. It’s hell. Dad is gone, and the Devil himself stands over me. I awaken to find the sheriff guarding me. Am I one of his belongings now? He’s looking away toward the horizon, unaware of my white-hot eyes.

We’re on a boat. A giant double canoe with two upside-down triangle sails. He glances down at me, looks away. “She woke up.”

I sit up with a grimace. So thirsty. Sore and stiff. But my thigh is bandaged and feels fine. My thousand mosquito bites have faded. A pit of nausea within me—anguish. I’m not ready. I will never be ready. Let oblivion wash over me so I can dream of Dad. I don’t want to grieve. I sense the pain emerging. The agony of true loss blooms.

There he is.

Dad.

Crossing the plank from the other hull. Rushing over to me. Alive ? I struggle to breathe, stare at him with wonder. Tears pour down my cheeks.

“Leilani!” He embraces me. “Just in time.” He points. “Look!”

Tall cliffs loom to our right. We are about half a mile from shore. An immense valley opens up before us, breathtaking. A black, sandy beach stretches across the gap. Far behind it, barely visible at this angle, a waterfall a thousand feet tall pours serenely and silently from its distant heights. I gasp. “Waipi`o?”

Dad offers a warm smile in confirmation.

My heart soars. The Big Island? This is the Big Island? We’re almost home. Hilo’s only forty miles down the coast. Maybe this isn’t real, after all. It’s a delusion. Shielding my tattered mind from true fate.

“Are we going home?” I whisper.

“Yes,” Dad says. “We’ll be home in a few hours.”

I sit up carefully and embrace my father.

The majestic waterfall of Waipi`o Valley, narrowly visible back in its canyon, drifts out of sight as we rush south over the waters. Finally, Dad and I unlock our arms.

“Oh, Dad.” I’m sobbing. “How? Why? How long have I been out?”

“Two days. On and off.”

“What happened? I thought … I thought …”

“No, no.” He embraces me.

“But … what happened?”

Dad squeezes my shoulder. “You had a bad grand mal,” he whispers. “One hell of a show.”

“I don’t get it.”

Dad shrugs. I don’t know what to tell you . “You took … all the air out of the room. They stopped.”

“I—I …”

“Quiet, hon,” he says in a low voice. “We’re not out of the woods yet. This guy’s reputation is very important to him.”

The sheriff watches us. I watch him back. His expression is guarded.

“Thank you,” I say.

He furrows his brow and looks toward the shore.

“What’s your name?” I ask him.

“Hon.” Dad’s eyes are sharp.

The sheriff glances at me again. “Kalaimanokaho`owaha. Call me Kana`ina.”

I stifle a dry laugh. He goes by the name of the chief who slew Captain Cook in 1779.

I look around the boat. The canoes are filled with provisions and artillery and ammo. Almost twenty faces are watching me, mostly men. I see the men who chased and shot at us. The stout one who pulled my hair and hurt Dad. Several are heavily armed. They return to their tasks as my eyes meet each of them.

“Dad,” I whisper. “I still …”

Dad shakes his head, looks up at the sails, and then meets my eyes. “Relax a bit. We’ll be home soon. Just focus on that.”

The quarter hours pass as one waterfall after another gushes from the cliff face of the Hamakua Coast between Waipi`o Valley and Hilo Bay. I occasionally see old vehicles driving the lonely highway. One world may have ended, but people will always come and go. I’ve traveled the coastal road often, zooming across the soaring bridges, never knowing the breadth of the beauty that hid over the edge of the road. I study each ravine and gorge from this new vantage point, remembering—not only with my mind, but with my aching body—the horrors of this same terrain on Maui.

From time to time the cliffs dip to the sea, and the naked peak of Mauna Kea can be seen touching the bluest part of the sky. The observatories crown the sacred summit. Such a joy to see this familiar sight. I really am home . We made it. In spite of everything.

The sheriff shouts orders to anchor in the bay up ahead.

And then I recognize where we are. I’ve never seen it from the water, but it’s Onomea Bay, the refuge of the Hawaiian Botanical Gardens. Our house is several miles up, directly above.

We’re going to walk home.

“Close enough,” the sheriff commands.

The mainsheet is released and several of the crew dip paddles into the water. We hover within several hundred yards of the wave-wracked inlet. An old dining-room hutch bobs in the surf to my right. Tsunami debris.

“Jump?” Dad asks.

The sheriff nods.

I look between them. I can’t help it. “Why … why are you doing this?”

Kana`ina stares at me. He doesn’t answer.

The hair-pulling thug sidles over and leans in close. I shrink back, try not to show my disgust. Just a few seconds more. Don’t make them change their minds .

He says, “He owed your Grandpa one big debt.”

The sheriff overhears. He glances down at his polished boot, silent.

“Oh,” I say.

The hair puller grabs my upper arm and pulls me to my feet. “Remember: we only do what it takes to rebuild Hawai`i.”

I stare at him. They think they’re, what, part of ancient Hawai`i’s noble warrior class? A shiver goes down my spine.

Kana`ina turns to Dad. “You tell Lani Hawika to stay out of this. My price. His debt. Don’t make me regret it, yeah?”

“I’ll tell him,” Dad agrees.

“You make him.”

“I know.”

“Go.”

“Dad,” I whisper. “Our stuff? The iodide?”

He shakes his head. “Get ready to jump.”

“Leilani,” the sheriff says. I turn.