Austin Aslan - The Islands at the End of the World

He tosses something at me. I catch it, barely. My Hawaiiana book. In a ziplock freezer bag. I look up at the sheriff. He turns away.

I leap into the water, half expecting to be shot in the back. Dad is right behind me.

THURSDAY, JUNE 4

We scramble up the boulder-covered shore and race into the trees, come upon a narrow path with a bench, and sit down. We’re in the botanical gardens, surrounded by overgrown tropical plants. A bright red sign stands erect next to the bench, broadcasting one of the great dangers of an ancient past:

WARNING

DO NOT STAND HERE

FALLING MANGOES

I point the sign out to Dad; we burst into laughter. Then we’re crying, holding each other, exhausted. “We’re on the Big Island,” I say. “We’re home.”

“I never allowed myself to believe that he would make good on that,” Dad says.

I inspect the freezer bag with my book. Looks dry. I won’t open it until we get home. I’m grateful, but the sheriff’s gift doesn’t fool me. “That is a bad, bad man. A moke’s moke . I hope I never see him again.”

“There’s going to be more where he came from. A lot more.”

“I know,” I sigh. “What was he doing? What are they going to do with all those guns? Arrows?”

“He wants to rule the islands.”

“He said that?”

“Not in so many words. But yeah. He already controls the channel between Maui and the Big Island, most of east Maui, some of the Big Island’s Kohala region. With the military gone, he’s thinking big. Off to pick a fight with several families in Puna right now.”

“He’s gonna ambush Puna ?” That’s the large area on the Big Island south of Hilo. Hawai`i’s Wild West. Some antigovernment types, people who live off the grid and like to be left alone. “That’ll be epic.”

“Strike hard. Put his own man in place there, control the orchards, run all the firepower that’s piled up there.”

“Wow. Every man, woman, and child in Puna probably owns a gun or two.”

“I know. They don’t call them Punatics for nothing.”

“What was all that about Grandpa?”

“He and your grandpa were once partners on the police force.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Back on Maui. In Kahului. That sheriff is why Grandpa retired.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m just connecting the dots the best I can.”

That’s crazy . But I see the truth in it. Grandpa has complained to me about his time on Maui more than once; too many hotheads on the force, corruption. Racism in all directions. I never thought to ask him all about it. Now I can feel his guiding spirit, protecting us even from the past. Something he did decades ago saved our lives this week. More evidence that he’s a time traveler. I smile. “Small world,” I say ironically; it’s something people say all the time on these islands.

“And getting smaller every day.”

“What about the man you shot?”

“He’s alive. Grazed. The sheriff seems more interested in settling an old debt with Grandpa than in taking vengeance for a bumbling soldier.

“Let’s move. I can’t shake the thought that he’ll decide to come back.”

We march up a steep garden trail, hiking side by side from the shore to the road. We’re high up on the bluff now, with a breathtaking view of Onomea Bay. The sheriff and his posse are nowhere to be seen. They’ve probably reached Hilo Bay by now.

I can think about only one thing.

Home.

I’ve waited so long for this moment. Letting go of the anticipation and bracing for the reality of what’s to come is almost painful. I reach for a naupaka plant, rip off a branch covered in white half-flowers. I whisper, “I want to see them so badly.”

“They’ll be there.” He squeezes my shoulder with a shaky hand. “We’re almost home.”

We continue to march mauka, straight uphill, my naupaka branch clutched in my hand. I’m surprised at how steep and long this road is. It takes us a good hour just to cross the highway that goes into Hilo.

As we cross I recognize a girl from school walking toward us from town. One of the local titas that was giving me the stink-eye at Honoli`i Beach. I tug on Dad’s shirt and pick up my pace.

“Leilani!” she calls. I stop. I had no idea she even knew my name. She trots up to us, a bright smile on her face.

I look down. No. Look up . I meet her eyes. “Hey, Aleka, howzit?”

“Haven’t seen you around. All good with you? You …” She glances at Dad. “You look … all banged up.”

“Uh, long story,” I say. “But, yeah, doin’ good, I guess. You?”

“Surf’s been touch and go. Only been out twice since … you know.”

“Oh, yeah? How’s the water? Lotta rubbish?”

“It’s getting better. See you out there soon, yeah?”

“Yeah, I hope so. Where you headed?”

“Waiting for a ride out to Laupahoehoe. My cuz is due any minute. You?”

“I’m walking home.”

“K’den.” She gives me a hug. At first I’m stiff, but then I return it. “So many people are missing,” she says, her voice cracking. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

“Me too. I’m glad you’re safe, too, I mean.”

She finally lets go, clears her throat, and continues on her way.

Dad and I resume our hike. “We’ve been here, what? An hour?” he says. “And you’ve already got friends bugging you to surf?”

I thought she hated my guts . But I smile.

When we step into our long driveway, my heart pounds like a drum. My legs grow weak. I’m squeezing the naupaka branch in my fist so tight that the stem has grown mushy. I can’t wait for Mom to know that we’re safe, to see her relief. I can’t wait to tell her what we’ve been through, and to see her eyes widen. I can’t wait for her to embrace Dad and never let him go. I can’t wait to have Kai run up and jump into my arms.

I can’t wait to tell Grandpa about the Orchid and my weird connection to it.

We reach the upper driveway. Why am I so nervous? Our old, beat-up Civic and the hybrid and Grandpa’s Tempo are parked in their spots. My legs grow weaker.

They must be here. I can scarcely believe that this moment is finally here.

“Dad, they’re really …?”

He nods, but his eyes are filled with hesitation.

We go up the lanai steps. My palms are clammy. Dad tries the doorknob. It turns. We step inside.

No one in the living room. Without a word, Dad goes upstairs; I drop my Hawaiiana book and the naupaka on the coffee table and head for the dining room. No one. The garden? I’ll approach softly. They’ll turn, and we’ll rush each other .

I enter the kitchen, and a strange man peeking into a cupboard barks in surprise. I bark back. He draws a handgun and fires a shot above my head. I scream and dive under the table.

“Get out!” the man shouts. “I was here first!”

Dad bolts down the stairs and into the kitchen and recoils as another shot goes wild. Dad bounds across the kitchen, tackles the trespasser, and pins him to the ground. The gun spins over to the dishwasher. “Where are they?” Dad spits.

“ What ? Who? I don’t know! Please!”

Dad shakes his captive. “Where are my wife and son?”