The Islands at the End of the World (5 page)

“It’s fine.”

Mom smiles. “We really should be going. Kai’s—”

The television set flashes to a close-up of the president. Dad and I gasp. The president looks haggard and uneasy. Behind him is a plain blue drape. Not even an American flag. I’ve never seen him so … I don’t even know what the word is.

“Malia, honey, wait!” Dad shouts toward the laptop. “Stick around. He’s on. You should see this. Lei, turn the computer, would you?”

I do, making sure Mom has a good view of the television. The president’s voice is strong. “My fellow Americans, and my fellow citizens around the globe: I apologize for the deceptions of the past twenty-four hours. Well-intentioned advisors have counseled me to keep secret what we’ve recently learned. My conscience and my heart will no longer allow that. I have made the determination that you have a
right
to know about the extraordinary—”

The flatscreen turns blue. A small text box bounces about the monitor:

Weak or no signal.

“What!” Dad shouts, leaping to his feet.

I stare wide-eyed at the television.

“I can’t
believe
this!” Dad pounds the remote keys. Nothing. All blank.

I turn to the laptop and notice that Mom and Kai are frozen on the screen. I click the connect button. “Hello? Mom? You still there? Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

I can close the program, though, and open others. The computer’s fine. I try clicking on my browser’s home page and get the white error screen. “Internet’s down, too.”

The microwave dings. Dad and I stare at it. The bag inside is still flat. “Cable with no cable, and now a microwave with no microwaves. Just great,” Dad says.

The broadcast returns. I whip around to the television. The president is still talking in front of that blue curtain.

“—uncertain of the exact effects. But we do know there’s no reason to be alarmed. We all have a responsibility to each other to remain calm, and to continue to go about our lives in an orderly fashion. There is much we don’t yet know, but I am making a commitment to you, from this moment forward, to keep you informed of developments on an hourly basis. We …”

An unseen, muffled voice distracts the president. He turns for just a moment, nods, and returns to the camera. “I understand we’re already experiencing some glitches. Some satellites are cutting in and out. So, let me repeat, it’s important that you—”

The image goes blank again.

Dad and I wait, motionless. A minute or two crawl by like hours. The TV screen remains blue. Dad seizes the telephone. He dials zero and waits.

“Wow,” I say. “What’s going on?”

“It’s busy,” Dad says. He tries again. This time he gets through. “Hello?” he says. “Hey, our cable and Internet are
out. It just dropped right in the middle of the president’s … Well, okay, but … Fine.” He hangs up.

“They’re working on it,” he tells me. He fetches the remote and sits down, running through the channels. Still all blank.

“Hey, we can watch it online as soon as things are back up,” I suggest.

“Good idea. You should grab a shower. I’ll give Mom a call while you’re in there.”

“Yeah, sure.” I turn to close the computer. But it’s already off. And it won’t even turn on.
Battery
? I plug it in. “Night, Mom. Night, Kai,” I say.

I hope Mom’s not flipping out.

These islands and their sacred tides call me forth
.

The wave rises. I paddle, catch it. I spring up on my board, rush over the waters. Everyone on shore watches, agape.
I’ve done it! I’m riding the surf!
They all laughed, thought I was crazy, but here I am, the inventor of surfing, drifting on the sea, the gods whispering in my ears through the salty breeze. I’ll be lost to history, but for me, this moment will last forever.

Come, drift upon me, and spread. Bring me the means of life
.
“Honey? Come on back, sweetie. Wake up.” Dad’s voice cuts in and out, like a lighthouse beacon twirling through heavy fog. “Hey. There we are. You okay?”

“What? Yeah. I’m fine.”

“You just blanked, kiddo.”

“Huh?”

“Petit mal, maybe. Little too much excitement.”

My elbow hurts. Did I bang it on the nightstand? Did I fall? “Oh, no.”

“It’s okay, honey. We were expecting this, right? Why don’t you take a quick shower? Freshen up and get to bed.”

“Okay.” I feel like crying, but I gulp it down. I get ready for a shower in a sort of stupor. I can’t believe this is actually happening. I can mentally prepare for it all I want, but when it finally comes … I feel robbed of my hopes.

I don’t want to take a shower. I run a shallow bath instead. Before I get in, I poke my head out the door. “Dad?”

“Sweetheart? Need something?”

“Just … thank you.” I pause. “Hey, what do you think he was about to say?”

“Lei.” He takes a deep breath. When he answers, his voice is kind and patient. “There’s no point in speculating. There’s nothing to worry about; I know that much.”

I close the door. He looked as though he almost believed that. I text Tami:

Strange things are afoot at the Circle K

I smile, knowing that she’ll get my
Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure
reference. It’s one of Dad’s favorite old-timer
movies; he forced us to watch it during a sleepover. The text doesn’t go through. I stare at the error symbol on my phone and then plug it in to charge.

I try not to think about anything when I’m in the bath. I read from my Hawaiiana book. I’ve memorized lots of the
mo`olelo
. There are many versions of Hawaiian stories, because they’re based on oral histories told on isolated islands. I love them all. I run a warm washcloth over my skin and study the tan along my arms. I drain the bath, rinse off under the shower, run my long black hair through two treatments of conditioner. My room at the clinic the rest of the week won’t have such luxuries.

I paint my toenails with my favorite polish: spearmint pearl. But it takes me ages.
Why can’t I hold my hands steady
?

I get ready for bed, suddenly hearing the voice from my seizure dream:
Come, drift upon me.…
 Never heard that before. Seizures are just … blackouts. I never dream or hear things during them. Add it to the list of weirdness today. Also, while I’m at it: I scarfed half a Costco pizza tonight. How come my stomach feels empty?

When I come out, Dad’s on the lanai with the door wide open. He looks out on the bay, the blue screen still glowing across the room. I join him. The nightscape is as beautiful as ever. Waikīkī is ablaze with the checkered light from skyscraper hotels, tiki-torch-lit pathways, and busy streets. Another shooting star highlights the faintly jade horizon. The singing and drumming of a touristy luau party waft up from below. Everything looks normal.

“You ready to call it a night?” he asks me.

“Yeah. I wanted to call Tami back first.”

“Phones aren’t working.”

“Still?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“I’m only worried about Mom worrying about us.”

“She knows better than to do that, hon. Put it out of your mind.”

“Okay.”

“Do you feel all right?”

“Dad. Yes. I’m fine.”

We turn out the lights. I climb into bed. Dad says, “Love you, Lei. So proud. We’ll have it all behind us in no time.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

He goes out on the lanai. As I lie in the dark, I realize what’s been nagging at me.

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:

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