Austin Aslan - The Islands at the End of the World

It was fear I saw in the president’s eyes.

Muffled sounds from the luau invade my restless sleep. Drumming, the whipping sound of fire flung through the air. Performers grunt the Kumulipo , the epic chant of Hawaiian beginnings, and call out to their Hawaiian gods. The tales celebrate the link between all living things. Earth, sea, sky. Flora, fauna. Man, woman, gods. All is connected. All is sacred.

O ke au i kahuli wela ka honua

O ke au i kahuli lole ka lani

O ke au i kuka`iaka ka la

E ho`omalamalama i ka malama

In the beginning there is only Po , disorder, churning throughout the deep.

Out of the universe come the gods. Kāne, the creator god, appears in the darkness, holding aloft a great calabash. He tosses the gourd high into the vast emptiness. It breaks in two, its curved shell becoming the dome of the sky and its scattered seeds the stars, and the remnants drifting downward to form the Earth.

Out of the oceans rise the shores, liquid fire roiling in the void. Ai, Ai, Ai. Rise up .

Kāne fills the land and the sea and the air with creatures of every kind. He crafts the honu , the great turtles, to pass between earth and sea.

There is new heat within my belly, and I yearn to spill the urge. Precious and majestic, the sea foam rocks me awake, and I stir with life .

Kāne crafts the first human, Wākea, with a mound of red clay scooped from the sea cliffs. Wākea is made son of Papa and Rangi, Earth and Sky. He is joined with his wife Lihau`ula, and from them all the ali`i , the chiefs, and the kahunas, the priests, of Hawai`i shall descend.

The hum of the air conditioner reminds me where I am. A resort hotel on the shores of a sacred land. Dad hangs up the hotel phone.

“Learn anything?” I ask.

“Go back to sleep, hon. Everyone’s as clueless as we are.”

The night is silent. I drift back to sleep. I dream of shores beyond contact with modern man. I see the sacred honu , the sea turtle, heaved ashore, bridging sea and surf, pushing back the sand to lay its eggs. I see the face of a mother and father, betrayed. My mother and father, Papa and Rangi. Earth and Sky. They suffer an unthinkable disorder. They weep, white with death.

Kāne has fled, and in his absence billows Po .

Chaos.

In the morning there is no alarm. I rise out of sleep slowly, to a distant chirping of car horns. I glance at the alarm clock. It’s blinking twelve o’clock. I push the covers back from my clammy skin and begin to drift back to sleep.

Then I spring awake. No alarm? I look around. Dad is asleep. The lanai doors are closed and the room is stifling.

I wipe sweat off my forehead. The curtains are open, and the bay is bright with pastel sunlight. Honking. Honolulu is supposed to have horrible traffic—there aren’t enough highways, no rail system—but this is ridiculous.

“Dad. Dad, what time is it?”

We’re due at the clinic at eight.

“Dad!”

Dad shoots up in bed. He glances at the alarm clock and frowns. He checks his watch. “We’re fine. Almost seven. You’re not supposed to eat breakfast anyway.”

He’s still gathering his bearings, scanning the room and rubbing at his eyes. “Why’s it so humid ?” He reaches above his headboard and tinkers with the air-conditioning. It blasts to life, and I immediately feel its cool relief.

Dad tries the remote. The flatscreen turns on but remains blue. He slips into a pair of shorts and steps out onto the lanai. When the door opens, car horns assault my ears, and I recognize the grumble of generators.

“Power’s actually out,” he says. “This is crazy.” He turns the air conditioner and television back off, habit guiding him to save energy.

I join him on the balcony. Nothing looks particularly out of the ordinary, but we’re facing gardens and pools and beaches. There are a couple of surfers on the waves, and paddleboards, kayaks, canoes, and sailboats farther out. A helicopter hovers to the north. To the left, gridlocked traffic along the roads leading toward Diamond Head.

“Jeez,” I say. “We may want to head out soon if that doesn’t let up.”

Dad wears a look of deep concentration. Finally, he says, “Honey, I’m beginning to wonder if they’ll be able to do any tests today.”

“But I already missed my meds last night!” My voice rises.

A flash of worry in his eyes. “Right.”

“We have to go, Dad. I don’t want to have a fit sitting here in the hotel.”

“Sure. I’ll see if I can call the clinic. Grab me a glass of water, would you?”

He shuffles over to the nightstand for his cell phone. When I emerge from the bathroom, he has the hotel phone to his ear instead. I place a glass of water down next to him, and he shows me his cell. “Thanks. Look: zero bars. The network’s not even activated.”

I take the cell phone and study it like it’s a piece of art.

“Yeah, good morning,” Dad says into the phone. “Hey, do you know what’s going on? Have you guys heard anything?… Everywhere?… I was wondering if I could place a call.… Allen Medical Group.… Well, why is this working?”

Dad hangs up and shakes his head. “Net’s down. No phone books. Landlines aren’t working anyway. The hotel’s old switchboard works, but that’s it.”

“Did they say what’s going on?”

Dad shrugs. “No. Power is off and on. Satellite signals, too.”

“Should we just get to the clinic?” I ask.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

“Why does all this have to be happening now ?” I say.

“It’s okay, hon. It’ll all work out. Go ahead and get ready.”

“Are you going to have breakfast first?”

“I’ll grab something I can bring.”

Dad snatches up a Honolulu Star-Advertiser lying at our door. “Finally.” There’s a close-up screen-capture of a grave-looking president with the headline:

DISCONNECTED!

Satellite Networks and Electronics Down;

Commercial Flights Grounded

I’m able to read the front page over Dad’s shoulder during our trip down in the elevator:

HONOLULU—Satellite signal losses and electronic failures were reported throughout O`ahu last night during a 10 p.m.-local-time address by the president.

The failures started during the president’s remarks and continued overnight. The cause was unknown.

The article details the president’s speech—just as we heard it. I skip ahead:

No advance copy of the speech was issued to the media, so the rest of his statement remains unknown.

Without GPS signals, all flights out of O`ahu’s airports were canceled. Widespread electronic malfunctions were also reported on aircraft, cruise ships, and some motor vehicles.

Officials have not been able to make contact with the mainland. “Obviously, we’re concerned about the loss of communications,” Governor Leonard Mills said. “We’re doing everything we can to reestablish contact. We’re working with the military and engineers in every field.”

He urged everyone to remain calm.

“Dad, I’m worried,” I say as we walk through the lobby toward the parking garage.

“Yeah,” Dad says. “The best way to create panic is to tell people not to panic. Don’t worry about it, though, Lei. We’ll just play it by ear, okay?”

“Sure,” I say, anything but sure.

Dad eyes the crowded restaurant across the atrium. “I’ll meet you at the car,” he says.

When he reaches the garage, he’s carrying two small bags filled with apples, bananas, bagels, bottled water, granola bars, and yogurts from the breakfast buffet.