Austin Aslan - The Islands at the End of the World

Kai has fallen asleep with his arms wrapped tightly around me. I’m half sitting, half lying on the couch, my brother draped like a warm blanket over my tucked legs. I run my fingers through his dark hair. My hands tremble. I can’t help it.

We just had a luau’s worth of food. Stuffed ourselves like … it was the end of the world. I’m savoring every silky stroke of his hair, but still I’m nervous that this isn’t real, that I’ll awaken from a dream at any second and all this will be gone.

A row of ten kukui nuts is aligned on the coffee table. Grandpa places a lighter above each one until they’re all consumed in flame. The ancient Hawaiians used these oily nuts as candles. I feel our family entering the past as the darkness softly lifts. For once, we’re going backward in a good way.

Grandpa knows the path between the past and the present better than anyone.

Beyond the kukui light, on the opposite couch, my parents hold each other.

Grandpa breaks off a stem of the naupaka branch I brought home and chews on it. He was delighted that I had it, because it helps to heal cuts and scrapes and rashes. Grandpa transfers the mashed-up stem into a koa-wood bowl and begins to sing the prayer of enlightenment and healing he once taught me:

Ai, Ai, Ai

.

Ho`opuka e-ka-la ma ka hikina e

Kahua ka`i hele no tumutahi

Ha`a mai na`i wa me Hi`iaka

Tapo Laka ika ulu wehiwehi

Nee mai na`i wa ma ku`u alo

Ho`i no`o e te tapu me na`ali`i e

His voice is so beautiful. Tears sting my eyes.

He nears me as he sings, motions for me to sit up. I rest Kai’s head on my lap. Grandpa rubs the naupaka into the scar on my forehead with his thumb. He applies it to the bite marks on my leg, and to the mosquito bites and scrapes along my arms, legs, and neck.

In the flickering orange kukui light, he starts a new chant to treat Dad.

E ola mau ka honua

,

E ola nau ke ao lewa

,

Ho`ola hou ke kanaka

Long life to the earth

Long life to the heavens

Restore life to the person

After a moment of silence following Grandpa’s chant, Mom explains, “We prayed for your safety every morning and every evening. The three of us never missed a prayer. Your brother has developed a beautiful voice over the past month.”

I smile, look down at him. My hands still tremble as I absently stroke his hair.

“I had … moments of doubt,” Mom says. “But I found hope. Always. It was a battle of patience; I knew you’d get here as soon as you could.”

“Did you get any of my letters?”

“Just one. Right before the military left. It did more to upset me than calm me down, to be honest. To know that you were still on O`ahu nearly two weeks after the blackout …”

“I’m sorry for that.” I think of Aukina, who promised the letters would get to Hilo. I wonder how long he’ll linger in my dreams.

“Oh, Lei, you were right to try.”

“Your mother was very strong,” Grandpa says. “One of us went into town at least every other day. We developed a checklist of places to search, where others had been arriving. We also heard plenny horror stories. But we tuned them out.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Mom says. I can see the toll those trips into town took on her. “We’re all here now. We’re all safe.”

“Hilo doesn’t look very good,” Dad says. “I wouldn’t exactly say we’re ‘safe.’ ”

We all stare at him. “Sorry, but we have to be realistic. Someone was in our house when we got here. He had a gun. He was nothing, but … We need a plan for when that happens again.”

“I’ve been talking story with Hank,” Grandpa says. Mr. Miller from up the road. He and his wife used to keep to themselves. “He’s been saying the same thing. We’ll go see him tomorrow, eh? He’ll be thrilled.”

“Good,” Dad says. “Hank Miller—I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a basement full of heavy artillery.”

We all laugh, but it dies off in a somber note.

“And what about this sheriff, Lani?” Dad asks Grandpa. “He nearly executed me. He knows who we are. He’ll come calling for favors at some point down the road—”

“Mike.” Mom cuts him off.

Grandpa’s features are stern. “You don’t owe him anything. We’re even now.”

“Why?” Dad asks. “What’d you …?”

“We’ll deal with that moke ,” Grandpa answers. His eyes broadcast: Not tonight .

We’re silent, waiting on Dad.

“Fine,” he answers. “Meanwhile …” He hesitates and glances at me. “There’s more to our story.”

I look down at Kai, make sure he’s sleeping. I bite my lip, studying Mom and Grandpa closely. Then I dive in. I tell them about the Orchids—the Star Flowers. I tell them everything. Explain why we disappeared up Mauna Kea, why it couldn’t wait. What we did when we got there.

They listen patiently. Mom looks worried—like she’s trying to decide whether or not I’m crazy. She keeps looking at Dad, but he nods reassurances every time; he’s got my back.

Grandpa, on the other hand—Grandpa has a twinkle in his eye.

“You’ve always had a special door open in your mind, Lei,” he says when I’m finished. “A puka in your head. I’m not surprised by a single word.”

Mom smiles at me kindly.

“Malia,” Dad says, “I struggled with it, too. I followed her lead on faith. But the scientist in me now has proof. Those Star Flowers were leaving. They came rushing back. They’re here because of Lei.”

Mom maintains her smile, thinking hard. She’ll come around. I don’t blame her for her reaction. It still sounds completely lōlō to me.

We are Leilani .

“So, what are we going to do with this?” Grandpa asks. He’s almost giddy. I can tell he won’t sleep a wink tonight.

“It’s late,” Mom says. “We’re not going to do anything about it now. Bedtime. Lei’s out of meds. That’s my biggest concern. She … needs her rest. Come on.” She rises, stern and motherly. But I can tell she’s overwhelmed and trying to hide it. “Upstairs. Everyone.”

I lower my gaze to Kai. Sound asleep in my lap. A little angel. “I’m just going to crash here with Kai, okay, Mom?”

She hesitates, smiles. “Fine with me. Dad, lock the doors before you go up.”

Grandpa sets to his task. Mom and Dad give us gentle kisses. Mom whispers into my ear, “My beautiful angel. My powerful woman. I’m so thankful to have you back.” Her tears drop onto my cheek.

She and Dad disappear into the upstairs darkness hand in hand.

Grandpa squeezes my shoulder and turns toward the stairs.

“Tūtū,” I say.

“Yes, Mo`opuna?”

“Hand me that naupaka branch, would you?”

Grandpa lifts the remains of the plant from the coffee table and gives them to me. He squeezes my shoulder again and disappears, the creaking of the stairs quickly replaced by the chorus of coqui frogs.

I’m left alone with Kai in the soft light of the four kukui nuts that still burn. I pluck two half-flowers off the branch.

I place them together, complete at last, into Kai’s palm. I press his hand into a fist, never letting go, and drift off to sleep.

This novel, and my long years of development as a writer, would never have been possible without the wisdom and patience of my amazing wife. Thank you, Clare, for making my life a dream, and for helping me to make the dream of publishing this book come true.

I owe a debt of gratitude to my top-shelf team of no-holds-barred test readers (oh, what a long road it’s been!): Liz Chamberlin and Sam Veloz, Jennifer and Jeremy Ridgeway, and Alex Bennett (who also took the photo of me that appears on the back flap). I give thanks also to journalist Lauren King, whose editorial ear helped me make my newspaper clippings sound authentic.