The Islands at the End of the World (27 page)

“Okay, try releasing the clutch slowly while giving it gas. Just a little bit, though!” I do as I’m told, and the truck lurches to a halt, falls silent. The dogs are still with us, barking and growling. I turn to see our hunters appear over the hill, shouting. Gunfire. The man with the bow pulls back another arrow.

I’m shaking. “Dad.”

Dad drops below the level of the sides of the bed. “Hold the clutch down again. Keep it down this time,” he shouts. “We need some distance before we try again.”

I push the clutch all the way in and urge the truck forward with gentle rocking in my seat. We begin to coast downhill
and leave the dogs behind. I turn on the engine after we’re rolling. Another back window shatters. Something pokes into my back. I scream and twist around. An arrow point protrudes through the back of my seat.

“Leilani!”

“I’m okay.”

“Don’t stop!”

We’re going too fast, and I’m coming up on a sharp curve in the path that I can scarcely make out through the distorted windshield. In a panic I try the brake, and we jerk to a halt. Dad tumbles forward with a thud. “Dad, I can’t do this!”

“Doing great. Be gentle on the brake. Once you’re going again, let the clutch out halfway. The gears will slow you—but don’t slow down too much. We’re still in their line of sight.”

I get us moving again and then release some pressure on the clutch. We slow, and I push the clutch back in, pull hard on the wheel, and we take the turn. But the road becomes too bumpy at this speed. We’re bouncing and rocking as if we’re tumbling down a cliff. My left front tire slams into a hole. Dad’s gun fires. I regain control of the steering wheel and guide us down the road.

“Dad! You okay?”

“I’m fine. Good job.”

They’re going to kill us
.

“Is that man okay?”

“I don’t know. Go.”

The engine is revving like crazy.

“Shift, hon!”

“What?”

“Lei, hold the clutch in again, use the other foot to brake. I’ll trade you now. But don’t release the clutch!”

I drift to a halt, following his instructions. He leaps to the ground and opens the driver door. He places his own left foot on the clutch and scoots into the driver’s seat while I sidle over.

“Watch the tip of that arrow.”

Dad settles into position with his back arched.

I laugh, sick to my stomach. Dad effortlessly commands the truck into motion.

Gunfire cracks behind us. I turn.

Our enemy is following. One of their wheels is flat, but they barrel over the uneven terrain steadily. The dogs trot beside the truck in drunken ecstasy. A stout figure stands in the back of the truck, pistol raised high. He fires a shot.

We accelerate. I bounce so hard that my head hits the roof and I land on my side. I latch on to the handlebar above the passenger door. A house materializes to our left; we pass one on our right. I’m beginning to hope that we’ll drive straight into Hana when we slam into something and burst a tire.

Another bullet hits the truck. Both trucks are now crawling over the lava road. A ramshackle house drifts by.

“Is there ammo in the glove box?” Dad asks as we rattle slowly forward.

I pull out a heavy box. Two hundred rounds. “Hand it over,” Dad says.

I give him the ammo and he slams on the brakes. “Okay. Run.”

“What?”

“If the road improves, they’ll gain on us. We block their truck this way.”

I eject myself back into the pouring rain. Dad winces as he whips on the pack with all the iodide. We ditch the other pack and bolt down the path. After a minute of sheer sprinting, I stutter to a halt, coughing blood. Dad pauses and reloads his handgun, spilling rounds to the ground. He fires at the dogs chasing us, felling at least three.

We race forward, and the road improves around the next bend. Dad fires once more. A dog yelps. Return fire fills me with icy terror, and I don’t turn. Side roads branch off rows of houses in every direction. The hunters whistle, calling back their dogs. We’re in some run-down neighborhood overlooking a slope that spills to the sea. A town sprawls below us, pummeled by curtains of rain.
Hana
?

Window slats shut abruptly as we run by. We’ve wandered into a tropical Western shoot-out.

Dad turns down a side street, runs through a yard, and bolts up to the front door. He wipes his brow and raps on the door. “Help! Please help us!”

No response. He tries the knob, but it’s locked. A voice calls, “Go away.”

“We’re being chased. We—”

“You’re on your own. Get outta here. They’ll find you here. Go!”

Dad dashes off the porch. We race to the next house. This time a thirty-something Hawaiian woman props open her door. She ushers us inside.

“Thank you. Thank you so much—”

“Quiet, now.” We’re rushed downstairs into the kitchen. She points to a little door under the stairs, and we duck into a small storage area. Dad removes his pack and shoves it into the low space below the bottom steps. The woman holds the door open and studies us. “You better hope they don’t come to the house. If they come to the house—”

“Please,” I say, panting. “They’re trying to kill us. Thank you.”

Our protector smiles grimly. She leaves the door open and sits down at the kitchen table, watching us, uncertain. “We’ll do what we can. Quiet, now.”

Dad kisses the back of my head and hugs me from behind. “It’s going to be okay. Hang in there.”

I wipe rainwater and tears from my eyes as the woman and I stare at each other. The terrifying sound of dogs returns. They’re excited; they know we’re near. I close my eyes and hold my breath.

I hate dogs
.

A voice calls from the street in Hawaiian. I catch a few words—“enemy,” “duty”—as the woman’s eyes narrow in fear. A voice translates into English, competing with the rain on the aluminum roofing. “Don’t even
think
of harboring these murderers. Give them up now and no trouble comes to you.”

Murderers? Did Dad kill that man?

The woman and I lock eyes. Her expression is tortured, terrified. “Please,” I whisper.

She rises and paces between the counter and the table.
The dogs are nearer. One growls in the stairway above. Others yelp and bark. With a trembling touch, the woman turns on an old record player connected to a car battery. She carefully sets the needle down on a spinning record and raises both of her shaking hands to her temples to steady them.

The ukulele music haunts me with the promise of comfort.

Hawaiian words, then English, ring out from the street. “If we find him hiding in your house, Kana`ina will banish you. Do it right. Serve your Hawai`i!”

The woman looks at us. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

“No!” I whisper. “Please. You’re all we have.”

“Ma’am, please.” Dad’s voice is shaky.

The voices grow stronger. “He killed seven dogs! He shot a deputy in the face! Don’t you dare help him!”

I close my eyes as warm tears stream down my cheeks. I pray to God. I invoke the aid of my ancestors. I beg Pele, and all the gods of Hawai`i above her. I scream out with my mind to the Emerald Orchid to do something—anything.
Please. Let us get out of here
.

“There’s nothing I can do. The dogs know. There’s nothing.” The woman is still holding her fingers to her temples, slowly shaking her head.

Dad pleads. “We don’t want anything from you. Just a chance. Tell them we stopped here and then went up the road. We’ll run back to the forest. A chance.”

The woman listens. She’s considering it. I hold my breath.
Please
.

A dog appears at the sliding door to the back lanai and barks in triumph. The woman cries out in surprise, then: “They’re down here! They have a gun. Down here.”

Dad nudges me forward. “Run!”

As I spill out of the closet, a Hawaiian man appears in the doorway. We lock eyes, lethal victory in his cold gaze. I gasp and back up into the hole, pushing Dad in. I swing the door shut. We’re lost in darkness. “Dad, oh, God. I … wa …” I can’t breathe. He squeezes me tight.

“Cover your ears.” I hear the hammer of his pistol cock, and I shrink into a ball. We’re going to shoot our way out of here.
Okay. Okay. We have to
.

Then the deep voice speaks a foot away. “Push your gun out. I’m pointing one right at you. You fire, I fire. I kill you
and
your daughter.”

A groan escapes Dad. He pushes open the door and tosses his gun.

“No, Dad!”

The stout man strides over, tucking a pistol into his pants with a vicious grin. He snags Dad’s gun and reaches a hand into the closet, grabs me by my hair, and drags me into the kitchen. I scream and slap at his clenched fists.

“No! Stop!” Dad rushes my captor, eyes afire, but the man whips him in the face with the side of the gun. Dad spills over a chair. The woman whimpers, eyes shut tight.

“Dad!” I cry. “Dad!”

He stirs, dazed. Two more men push into the kitchen. One in a police uniform. A gold star over his heart. Pure muscle.

“Stop this!” I shout. “What’re you DOING?”

The sheriff looks me over.

The stout man laughs. “Shut up,
hapa
.”

“Please!” Dad says. “Her mother is the first daughter of a kahuna. Lani Hawika. Spare her.”

The sheriff stiffens. “
Lani Hawika?
Was a cop over here?” Dad nods.

“Kahuna? Kahuna my ass.”

My captor spits on Dad and yanks on my hair. I scream. The sheriff looks at me. “Lani Hawika’s granddaughter?”

“Yes,” Dad says.

“Malia’s kid?”

“Yes!”

The sheriff looks at the ground. “Goddammit. Put her over there.”

I’m dragged to the far side of the dining table.

The sheriff eyes Dad, pulling his gun from his holster. Realization dawns.

He’s only going to spare
me.

Dad’s eyes are closed; he knows that this is the end.

“Stop!” I say to the sheriff. “Please. Your men tried to kill us. The dogs attacked. We hadn’t done anything. We didn’t mean to hurt
anyone
.”

The sheriff points at me. “You should’ve surrendered. We only wanted your stuff. No one comes through here without payment. No one sneaks
iodide. I
decide who gets medicine. Sure as hell no one shoots my men in the face.”

The Hawaiian grabs Dad by the shirt, drags him into the middle of the kitchen, and tosses him down.

“What are you doing?” I scream, jump up to go to Dad. Someone grabs my arm.

The sheriff points his gun at Dad’s head.

“Stop! STOP!” I scream. “NO NO NO!”

“I love you, Lei.” Dad looks at me with eyes that are calm and fearful. “I’m so proud of you.”

The woman crouches in a corner, hands over her face. “No! NO!” I shriek, struggling to free myself. “This is your new Hawai`i? This is your gods and your people?”

My vision flickers. The sheriff lowers the gun. My head begins to buzz. Knocks echo in distant parts.
Not now, goddammit! Go away!
I stare at the sheriff.

He studies me. Raises the pistol to Dad’s head. Cocks the hammer. Dad looks at me with eyes that have already moved on.

“NO! STOP!”

A thunderous crack. Darkness. Lightning flashes across the void, and I fall backward. Magma boils my skin and melts it away. I’m engulfed, swallowed by
Po
. The shaking stops. The lightning dies. There is only darkness and a gentle breeze. In the silence, I listen.

I am Leilani. You are Leilani.

The pulling tide. The yellow fire. I am worn
.

Can you hear me? Do you know I’m here?

The giving has purpose, but I am weary. I crave the depths, the comfort of no tides. I will show the peace of the depths to the new one that I gave
.

Please. Hear me.

The islands that ooze the heat are good. But I have had my fill. This island hotness will linger—it will ooze for a while now
.

The giving was good but very hard. I have had my fill. I will leave the rest for my return
.

No. Stay. You cannot go.

Oh, God, Daddy’s gone. He’s gone.

The sheriff of Hana sits over me. He’s looking out a window. I’m on a bed in a small room, dimly lit by the evening light (or is it morning?) passing between the gently rustling curtains. I study his profile. He is weary and preoccupied.

He executed my father on the floor of a kitchen. I heard the thunder. And for what?

“Where’s my dad? Let me see him. What have you done with him?” But I’m not sure it came out that way. The sheriff looks down, realizing that I’m awake. He watches me. He must see my eyes filling with hatred, but his only narrow.

I can feel it coming again, like the blade of a fan slowly getting faster. An angry mob stampeding down the next street, torches raised. They’re coming for my body and my mind.

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
.