The Islands at the End of the World (23 page)

For the moment, home is growing nearer at a swift fifteen knots.

Our trip will end along the bay of a small town called Paia on the slopes of Maui’s grand mountain, the volcano of Haleakalā—“the house of the sun.” Dad and I will head east, toward Hana. Once we find our way around Haleakalā, the nearest tip of the Big Island is another thirty miles.

We’re opposite Kahului Bay now, the twin cities of Kahului and Wailuku sprawling along Maui’s valley floor to our right. I see several cars driving along. The sky’s sickly haze has been lifting bit by bit each day, but here there is a tall, hot fire spewing brown smoke and gray ash into the sky behind the airport.

“The Maui pyre,” one of the three crew members explains in a low voice. “It’s been burning all week.”

I study the pillar of smoke with morbid fascination. That’s
people
.

“Why?”

“Maui’s nothing but tourism and corporate farming. And just like O`ahu, the waterworks—the irrigation—it’s all belly-up,” our captain says as he adjusts the mainsheet. He’s the same one-legged man who helped rescue us on Wednesday. “Folks aren’t getting along so well. Keep to yourselves if you want to hang on to those bags.”

The column of ash is massive, and my understanding of the disaster that’s unfolding on these islands billows. In spite
of all our heartache these past weeks, we’ve been the lucky ones.

There are so many dead that the bodies are burned instead of buried.

I envision pillars of gray ash rising from the slopes of Hilo and bat the images back. I focus instead on the faces of Mom, Kai, and Grandpa. Tami. I’m sure things are better there and they’ve all been spared this nightmare. I have to believe that.

“It’s only a matter of time before they descend upon Hawai`i.…”

Like a recurring dream, it keeps coming back. I don’t believe Uncle Akoni’s theory for one second, but I can’t shake it.
He was such a nice guy. Why did he have to end up being nuts?
Harsh, but true.

Dad’s already put it behind him. Of course we talked about what Uncle Akoni said. To Dad, Uncle Akoni is just one more guy with one more guess. On the weirder end of the spectrum, but just a guess, all the same. Why can’t I let it go?

“… I’ve heard them. You will, too, Leilani, if you just listen.”

We near our target bay. Our crew scans the coast and the slopes for signs of danger, and then we dart in toward shore. The captain says, “I wish we could take you all the way, but this run is pushing it as it is.”

“You’ve been a great help to us,” says Dad. “Give Uncle Akoni our gratitude and our loving wishes in his efforts to unite the island.”

The captain gives Dad a stern look. “You need more
strength before you march for Hana. Get into the trees and rest up for a few days. Don’t trust anyone to help you.”

Trust—the “spirit of Aloha.” I used to think it was everywhere
but
the Big Island. But now I wonder,
Could it be the other way around?

We beach and quickly disembark. The crew helps Dad fit his backpack around his tender shoulder and wishes us well. We travel with only our food, our tent, the iodide, and minimal clothing.

As we turn a woman and a teenage boy scramble down the embankment. “Please, can you take us toward Kaua`i?” one asks the crew. “We need to get to Kaua`i.” She’s haole, in her late forties.

“I can take you as far as Moloka`i.”

The woman nods.

The boy and I share a glance. “Where are you coming from?” I ask him.

“Hana. Kona before that.”

Kona! That’s on the Big Island!
His white T-shirt is stained and shredded. He looks much the same as I feel—as if he’s been through hell and hasn’t yet seen the finish line.

“How’s the Big Island? Have you been to Hilo?”

“No. Just Kona. Things were a mess there, but nothing like here.”

“How crazy is it here? The military? What’s the best route?”

“No. Militant locals. We’ve been shot at twice. Stay off the roads. No cars. The checkpoints are airtight. Only older
cars work anymore anyway. And stay off the obvious trails. They’re using pig-hunting dogs. Make sure you have a gun, or at least a knife.”

My eyes widen.

“Some psycho sheriff, he’s gone all
Lord of the Flies
back there. He’s running the passage like a drug cartel. If you surrender your stuff, they might let you by. They’re taking everything, though. They’ll take the fancy hiking clothes right off your back.” The boy eyes my backpack. His eyes are sunken in and darkly rimmed. His face is pale. He’s probably starving.

I whip off my pack and hand him an entire stick of salami. He trembles as he takes it, eyes alight with disbelief.

“Here.” He hands me his machete. I take it from him gently, studying it as if I’m a cavewoman being handed an ereader.

“Let’s go, folks! All aboard!” the captain shouts.

“Jason—now!” his mother yells. The boy looks back at me twice as he climbs onto the
wa`akaulua
. I watch him until Dad and I turn onto the nearby beach road and march away.

“Dad.”

“Yeah, honey?”

“You don’t think Mom and Kai have left home, do you? To come find us?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Why not? What if …?”

“Mom knows that we’re on our way home. She’s not going to leave. Remember the rule she taught you?”

I remember well. We had been in a mall in San Francisco. I was eight, and I got separated from my parents. In a panic,
I ran off to find them. A helpful woman and a security guard reunited us. “We knew right where we lost you, honey,” Mom said. “Next time you get lost, stay right where you are. It’ll make it easier to track you down.”

But I’ll never forget that panic. When it takes hold, all bets are off. Mom’s had a month to constantly second-guess her resolutions.…

“Let’s not linger on the road,” Dad says. “If the stories about this sheriff are true …”

This area of Maui is largely farmland, and we stick to the rolling fields where the grasses are tallest, hiking steadily toward the tree line of the unbroken jungle, which will take us most of the day to reach.

We traverse the township of Haiku nervously, keeping to forested gullies where we can. We find ourselves cautiously climbing over fences and scurrying through a patchwork of fields, yards, and open streets. We see people, but not many. An old man sitting on his porch, who pretends not to notice us. Two kids running across a yard. An occasional old car driving up the hill from the valley. It’s like we’re actually
in
a haiku. But where has everyone else gone? There’s nowhere to go. I could imagine hordes of city dwellers on the mainland heading for the hills, or the wild lands beyond the highways. But here, we’re just rearranging deck chairs on the
Titanic
.

The echo of rapid gunfire comes from somewhere in the direction of Kahului. I look toward the sound and the plume of the pyre still burning hot and fierce near the airport.

“Come on,” Dad says, following my gaze. “Got to reach the jungle before nightfall.”

Just as dusk settles over Maui with a breathtaking, bloodred sunset behind us, we move beneath the canopy of full-blown jungle. Now I’m fighting with thorny brambles and giant, hairy ferns and great mops of tangled vine. I use my new machete for the first time, swinging it timidly at first, and then more confidently. “This is going to be miserable.”

“Let’s stop for the night. My shoulder is done.”

We pitch our small tent and hop inside, escaping a cloud of mosquitoes. I already have more itchy bites than I can keep track of. Dad’s in a fair amount of pain, but he’s trying to keep it to himself. He swallows down painkillers. We snack briefly on our stores of food, always the same: crushed and stale crackers, dried fruit, and processed meat by-product that’s been stuffed into tubes as rock hard as a billy club.

We lost our sleeping bags with the suitcases, so we pad the floor of the tent with clothing. I help Dad get his shirt off in our cramped quarters. “Dad, you’re bleeding!”

“I know. Is it bad?”

I study his wound. “The stitches look fine.” I re-dress the wound with the first-aid materials the clinic gave us.

“How’s your forehead?”

“Itchy,” I say. “No big deal.”

“Let’s do another mile in the morning. Then I want to lie down and do nothing for at least a couple of days.”

“Sounds good.”

* * *

I take my evening pill. Eighteen left. With luck, I could make it home before I run out.

* * *

“Lei. Are you taking the iodide?”

“But Uncle Akoni said—”

“I don’t care what he said. Nice man, but not all there. Besides, even if he’s right about the radiation—just because they can’t detect it yet, doesn’t mean it’s not coming. Meltdowns are happening. We’re lucky to be in Hawai`i. But it’s only a matter of time before it reaches us.”

I fish through my bag and open the canister of tablets Aukina gave me. I wonder where he is. Still taking orders on O`ahu? Helping other girls crawl beneath the fences?

I take a tablet and hand one to Dad. “Here.”

“No.”

“What, you’re going to make me take it, but—”

“There’s not enough, Lei.”

“You’re joking.”

“Those are for you and Kai. It’s nonnegotiable. Please don’t turn it into a fight.”

“Dad.”

He offers a sympathetic smile. He’s quiet for a long time, and then he says, “It’s going to be all right.”

I turn away and burrow into my bed of clothing.

I stare up at the Emerald Orchid through the screen mesh of our tent. It’s partially covered by jungle canopy, but it’s clear enough. Very bright tonight, but less crisp, as if a projectionist needs to give the focus knob a half turn out there somewhere. Is it a trick of the hazy atmosphere, the mesh tent fabric above me, or are my eyes crossed with exhaustion?

“Dad?” I say. “What if that
is
a spaceship?”

“Lei, it’s not. Look at it. Looks nothing like—”

“Oh, I know. I’m just playing it out, you know? Wouldn’t that be nuts? If all the major cities were dealing with an alien invasion? And here we are, out in the ocean, lost in our own little problems, totally clueless.”

“
Little
problems?”

“You know what I mean.”

Dad sighs. “Yeah, that would be wild. But the reality of what’s going on is just as bad, Lei. We don’t need to chase some priest down any rabbit holes to appreciate the severity of our situation.”

“You don’t have to lecture me.”

Dad sits up with considerable effort. He looks at me closely. “I just meant … Akoni’s well-meaning, and I’m sure he—”

“I
have
been having dreams,” I interrupt him.
There, I said it
. It feels good to get that off my chest, but now I feel exposed, too. “Stronger than usual.” Dad’s listening. I continue, hesitantly. Maybe I shouldn’t have admitted this. It sounds so bizarre out loud. “I’ve been dreaming during my seizures. I don’t remember them well, but … 
something
. A voice.”

“Alien communiqués? In English?”

My eyes narrow. “No. Don’t get me wrong; I agree it’s nuts. But … remember how Grandma Lili`u would tell that story about hearing radio transmissions during the Pearl Harbor invasion? Through the filling in her tooth?”

Dad smiles. “Yeah.”

“Did you believe her?”

“I don’t know. I think so, yeah. There’s a scientific basis for that, though. That’s not an uncommon story.”

“Well, neither is Uncle Akoni’s.
I’ve
heard something. He mentioned another epileptic kid, too.”

“Three people? Come on, Lei. Anecdotal. No evidence there. Remember when I talked about confirmation bias? Sounds like you want to believe this is true.”

“Sounds like you want to believe it’s not.”

Dad lies down. “I believe that you’re hearing something. It’s probably a side effect of the drug trial.”

“Huh,” I say. “What if it’s God?” I ask. “Or akua? Or aumakua—a family guardian, like Grandma?”

Dad smiles. “There you go. See! Don’t you want to interpret these voices in a way that means something to you, and not in some paranoid way?”

We lie in silence, staring up at the Orchid. Just a haze. A fuzzy green cloud. No one would look up at that and think, “UFO.”

But …

Maybe Dad’s right: no aliens. Better to believe the gods are speaking to me in my seizures.

But what are they telling me?

I shrug and close my eyes. How is it that a
priest
confused me about this?

After we move camp another mile into the forest, Dad rests for three solid days and nights, scarcely moving except to eat. He stays quiet and still, disciplined. “The more I heal now, the faster we’ll go in the end,” he argues. I trust his instinct, but I’m dying to get going. I mostly stay in the tent, too, to avoid the mosquitoes and the occasional rain bursts. I pass the time rereading my water-damaged Hawaiiana book—I’ve kept it through everything—searching for clues about the gods. Nothing new has jumped out at me.

Each day Dad and I make and remake plans.

“I don’t know how we’re going to get through this jungle,” I say. “What if we went around the dry side?”

“Too exposed. That sheriff talk worries me. They could have all our stuff in an instant.”

“We should just give it to him. Get on with it. Make our way through.”

“There’s no way to smuggle that much iodide. And I won’t surrender it.”

“Well, how will we get away from Hana, Dad?”

“I don’t know.”

Just like O`ahu all over again: back to floundering, waiting for the right moment. We grow silent, listening to the distant squawks of more birds inexplicably flocking west in huge clouds across Hawai`i.

I never get more than three or four hours of sleep without waking up from a nightmare. Sometimes they involve reliving the worst of our experiences. Sometimes I awake from imagined gunfire or the smell of burning flesh. Sometimes it’s the white lights blinding me in a dark city. I don’t know what meltdowns actually look like, but in my dreams they’re always like nuclear bombs from the movies. Sometimes pale aliens with big balloon heads are banging at the door of the presidential bunker. I lie awake, trying to figure out what’s going on in the rest of the world. It’s easier than thinking about my family, but it’s still hard. I spend hours thinking about what it feels like. I don’t know how to say it. We’re so cut off from the globe. I’ve grown up at a time where news pours in constantly from every corner of the world. If my parents weren’t talking about it, it was on TV, it was on the radio, it was on my computer, it was on my phone, it was at the airport, it was in the waiting room, it was at school, at the restaurant, at the grocery-store checkout line, at the gas-station pump … News from everywhere, all at once, all the time. I never really noticed it. Maybe it would feel like this to suddenly go deaf in one ear. Like something
you always took for granted has left you crippled and spinning in its absence.