Belonging to Heaven, page 2
The ali‘i couple moved into the compound where the many thatched houses stood in prescribed order: the halemua or the men’s house, the cooking house, the halekuku, and the halenoa where the family slept together. The thatch was clean, and newly woven pandanas mats covered the floor. Stacks of pandanas mats in the houses served as sitting areas and beds.
Since the abolishment of the kapu system, Hawaii Waaole and his wife lived together in one large hale. It not only had the practical mats of his people, but an ornately patterned rug from Asia, a writing table and chair from England, and a large seaman’s chest given to him by his son’s soon-to-be father-in-law. The Scotsman. Waaole liked John Richardson. He was an honest man, and he told good stories of his adventures at sea and of his rugged homeland. He could sometimes be stubborn and prideful, but Waaole figured it was part of the heritage passed down from his ancestors. He ali‘i no ka malu kukui. He chuckled. Indeed, everyone has something shady from his ancestors that he wants to keep hidden.
Chief Waaole went to the chest, opened the lid, and drew out cotton underclothes, a white high-collared shirt, black breeches, vest, and coat. He sighed, took off his malo, and began dressing.
Chiefess Wiwiokalani reclined on her pandanas mat bed watching her husband’s struggles with bemused interest. “Ke ‘ehu ‘ehu nein a ‘ale.” The billows show signs of a rough sea. She chuckled and fanned herself with a big woven fan.
“I am not getting angry. My fingers are too big to do the buttons.”
Wiwiokalani called out through the open doorway. “Is there a keiki in the yard who could help the mighty warrior chief with his English buttons?”
Suddenly two children appeared on the threshold—a boy and a girl each trying to push the other forward.
“You, Malama,” the chiefess ordered. “You have the small fingers. Go. Go help.”
The girl approached her chief with some trembling. Even though the kapu system was no longer in place, the mana of the ali‘i was still highly honored.
Wiwiokalani smiled at her. “Go on. Do not worry. He has hidden his power in his feather cape, so you cannot step on it.”
“These buttons,” Waaole grunted. “Do you know how to work them?”
“Of course, my chief,” Malama said brightly. “I have a blouse from the English.”
The chief looked at his wife. “Ah, she has a blouse from the English.”
With effort, the young girl controlled the shaking of her hands and buttoned the buttons on the chief’s shirt.
Waaole admired the job. “Well done. Well done. Mahalo.”
Malama stepped back and curtsied.
“Look at that. So very English.”
“I am learning my letters too,” she said.
“I am too,” the boy in the doorway added.
“So smart,” Chiefess Wiwiokalani said, her rich voice so full of admiration that the children blushed. “Now you two run to the main cooking house, and tell Ipukula what you have done. Tell her that she is to give you each a bowl of kulolo, sweet poi.”
The children’s eyes widened.
“But, I didn’t do anything,” the boy said.
“Did you not come running to help when called?” Wiwiokalani asked. The boy nodded. “Then you get poi for your offering. Now run! And tell Pukani on your way to come and open the windows. Now go! Go!”
The two squealed with delight and ran for the cooking house.
“Soon you and I, and the old kahuna, will be the only ones in the village not able to write the letters,” Waaole said, moving to the doorway to watch the children run, and to catch whatever slight breeze might be blowing.
Pukani answered the command quickly, and soon the panels of thatching all around the hale were lifted. The air began to move through, and Chief Hawaii Waaole took a deep breath.
“Do I smell the roasting pig?”
Wiwiokalani chuckled. “Not for hours yet.” She shifted her weight on the mats, and when she spoke, her tone was exaggerated and full of mock pity. “Poor Waaole. You must go all the way to Wailuku, you must go into the church and watch your son married, and then you must come all the way back before those stubborn pigs will be cooked.”
“It is not that far by carriage,” Waaole murmured, attempting to console himself.
Wiwiokalani laughed. “Yes, so be glad our son is coming to get you in a fine carriage with wheels that turn fast.”
As if their words had summoned their son to them, they heard the clop of horse hooves on the wagon track and the shouts of greeting from the villagers. Beyond a stand of coconut palms, the horses and the handsome, six-person carriage could be seen in flashes. Black fringe on the canopy fluttered in the breeze, while the red spokes on the wheels blurred in the turning. The horses moved as one, and Waaole thrilled at their grace and sleekness. He loved horses—those wondrous creatures introduced to the islands from foreign lands during the time of Kamehameha I and II. Waaole remembered as a boy in Honakawai seeing a horse and rider for the first time. The chestnut stallion was the largest land creature he had ever seen, and it caused him to scream in terror. The horse reared, the rider fell, and he had run away in panic. Since that first encounter Waaole had learned that horses were mostly gentle and extremely useful in getting from place to place. And they were beautiful.
He moved quickly to the edge of the compound and secured several handfuls of long grass to offer the animals. When he returned, his son Jonathan was tying the lines around a branch of the ohi‘a tree and turning to help his soon-to-be wife from the carriage.
Chief Hawaii Waaole, warrior and son of a warrior, stood staring. His hands fell limp at his sides and words of greeting were trapped in his throat. Catherine Keliikuaaina Richardson walked beside his son in regal splendor. Her brown hair hung in waves down to her knees. She wore a white holoku in the style that was part missionary and part Hawaiian. Long sleeves covered her arms and a high collar came up to cover her neck. The soft fabric hung loosely from a square yoke that was edged with white ruffles. On her head she wore a wreath of bright yellow ‘ilima flowers woven with ferns and the golden tail feathers of the o-o bird. Her golden brown skin glowed in the morning light and the sight of her drove reason from Waaole’s head.
Slowly, sound penetrated his ear and he heard Wiwiokalani chanting words of welcome, and their son chanting for permission to enter the compound. He looked at his son, and his heart swelled with pride. Here was a good man—a man who accepted the new ways, but embraced and respected the old. He wore the suit of the English and the smile of his people. A sturdy man with brown curly hair and eyes of intelligence. Tears of joy and welcome ran down the chief’s face.
The gate opened, and Catherine came to him and laid her forehead on his. “Aloha, trusted father. Ua hilo ‘ai i kea ho a ke aloha.” We are braided with the cords of love.
Waaole nodded and wiped his tears on the cuff of his white shirt. “I . . . I have grass for the horses.”
“They will be most grateful.”
Jonathan came to his father, placing his hands on his shoulders and looking steadfastly into his still weeping eyes. “Aloha, my chief. Are you well?”
“I am well.”
“Is this not a good day?”
“It is a good day.”
“Is the food roasting in the imu?”
Chief Waaole’s stomach rumbled, and the threesome laughed.
“I wish that the food was inside my imu!” he said gleefully.
Chiefess Wiwiokalani joined them. Jonathan and Catherine hugged her as Waaole’s stomach growled again. They all laughed.
“Ah, your stomach has much to say today,” Wiwiokalani scolded. “Go to the cooking house for sweet poi. It will not do for it to speak such words at church.”
Waaole smiled broadly. “What wise counsel. I will go this moment, and I will feed the horses on my way.” He headed off eagerly toward the beasts and then stopped. “Do not leave without me.”
Wiwiokalani turned back to the house, motioning to the couple. “Come, there are words I wish to share with you.”
The two walked on either side of her. As they helped her the few steps up into the hale, Pukani came with sweet water for them to drink.
Jonathan loved the wrinkled face of the old man. “Thank you, old father.”
The man’s head bobbed. “I would give you more on your wedding day, but water is all I have.”
“Water is life.”
The man bowed his head and left.
They moved inside the hale, and when his mother was comfortably settled on her mats, Jonathan brought the chair for his bride and then sat cross-legged on the floor.
The respected chiefess studied their faces for a long while. He at thirty and she at twenty-three were in the strongest flowering of their lives. “You are beautiful people. Children of Wakea and Papa. Children of the ancient voyagers,” she smiled at Catherine, “and recent voyagers. You have found each other in a time of great change. We are now in the time of the Christians, and we can walk that way, but do not look back on the past with scorn and criticism—look back with understanding and gratitude.” She shifted her weight on the mats. “Though my body cannot make the trip to the stone church in Wailuku, my spirit will ride with you over the gorge at Kamanawai, past the bay at Maalaea, and across the broad plain to Wailuku.”
Jonathan looked at his bride and saw tears.
Chiefess Wiwiokalani smiled tenderly at her and then looked to her son. “I will sit in the lovely Christian church with you. I will see you in your feathered cloak. I will sit beside Hawaii Waaole on the hard wooden bench and listen carefully to the words of Reverend Richards. I will listen to your words of love as you promise to care for each other.” She turned her gaze to her daughter-in-law. “Catherine, I will see your father, John Richardson, and your mother, Keliikuaaina. I will see the pride in their eyes, and the smiles on the faces of your brothers and sisters. Then, as everyone rides back for the feast and celebration, I will make sure all is prepared. The kahuna will chant the names of the ancestors, and my legs will dance for you, and my voice will sing. E lei kau, e lei ho‘oilo i ke aloha.” Love is worn like a wreath through the summers and the winters. Love is everlasting.
Catherine ran weeping into Wiwiokalani’s arms as Jonathan stood.
“Mahalo, dear mother. Our hearts will be tied to you.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and dried his bride’s tears. “And now we will go and join our families.” He knelt by his mother and she put her forehead on his.
“Today there is a clear sky. It is a good sign for your marriage.” She hesitated, and her gaze became more intent. “I see important things for you to accomplish, my son. You will have a good life . . . a good life, but there will be . . .”
“What?” he questioned when she hesitated.
“There will be much work for you to do.”
“I have never minded work.” He smiled at her and she did not say more, although there were other words to say.
Two young men came to the doorway. They bowed low, and one stepped forward. “We are here to gather the ahu for their journey to Wailuku.”
Wiwiokalani pointed to a rectangular wooden box sitting next to the weathered sea chest. The men carefully lifted the box containing the exquisite feather capes, and took it to the waiting carriage.
Jonathan and Catherine said their good-byes and reluctantly left the house. When they exited, they found a crowd of villagers gathered near the carriage. The couple moved out into the embraces and well-wishes. Jonathan looked over and saw that his father had returned from the cooking house. He stood stroking one of the horse’s necks and smiling.
“We have both eaten something, so now we are ready for the long, hot trek to Wailuku,” Waaole said.
Jonathan chuckled as he helped Catherine and then his father into the carriage. He leaned over and whispered to him. “When we are out of sight of the village we will take off our suit coats.” He climbed up, took the lines in his hands, and commanded the horses to walk on. As he waved to the villagers, Jonathan smiled. It was a smile that felt its way through his entire body. Today was a good day.
Inside the hale, Chiefess Wiwiokalani heard the creaking of the wood and leather of the carriage, heard the murmur of her people’s voices retreating, heard the voices of her ancestors scolding her. There were words to be said, words that she’d kept locked behind her teeth. Words of warning. But, this was not the day for such things to be spoken. She wanted only to say the words of happiness. Her son would have a good life and would accomplish much. People of new ideas would come to him for help. The chiefess frowned and fanned herself. Her son would have a good life, but not a calm life. Na ‘ale api ‘ipi ‘i o na kai ‘ewalu. The rough seas of the channels would find him.
The scratching voices of the ancestors blew through the hale on a wind, and Wiwiokalani smiled. “Ah, do you think to torment? You come whispering to me from the wao, the spirit wilderness, but I am the one with the voice to speak, and today I will speak nothing but joy and celebration.” She lay back against the small soft pillows that had been a gift from the missionary wives the day of her baptism. The cushions were embroidered with verses from the Bible, and Wiwiokalani liked their softness and their sentiment. She closed her eyes and flicked her hand in a dismissive manner. “Go away now, old ancestors. I will rest a little before the feast. During the celebration you may come back to see me dance and chant, and that will make you quiet for a long time.”
Chiefess Wiwiokalani chuckled and went to sleep.
Notes
In modern times the spelling of the village of Oloalu is Olowalu. Over decades and centuries the spellings of many of the ancient Hawaiian place names have been changed.
The Western world became aware of the Hawaiian Islands with their discovery in 1778 by Captain James Cook, an English sea captain, who named them after the Earl of Sandwich, first lord of the Admiralty.
The native population of Hawaii was organized into a tribal system ruled by ali‘i (chiefs and kings) and kahunas (priests).
The kapu (tabu) system entailed the strict laws ruling almost every aspect of a villager’s life, especially in regard to the ali‘i.
When Captain Cook first arrived on the islands, it is estimated that there were 300,000 indigenous people. Because of diseases introduced to the islands, the native population had dwindled to approximately 50,000 by 1850 when LDS missionaries arrived.
The Hawaiian alphabet is comprised of twelve letters, the vowels a, e, i, o, u, and the consonants h, k, l, m, n, p, w. Prior to 1820 when the Protestant missionaries established the alphabet, the Hawaiian people had only a spoken language—their stories, traditions, and genealogy being passed down from one generation to the next in chant and song.
The four major Hawaiian gods are: Kane—the great maker of all things; Ku—the god of war; Lono—the god of peace, agriculture, weather, and fertility; and Kanaloa—lord of the ocean. The number of minor gods and goddesses were said to be “countless.”
In ancient Hawaiian lore, Wakea and his wife, Haumea or Papa, are said to be the progenitors of the Hawaiian race.
Feathered cloaks and capes were worn by the ali‘i as symbols of their high status. Thousands of small feathers of gold, red, or black were fashioned into the capes.
The Hawaiians had a firm belief in a hereafter, a place where the spirits of their ancestors went after death.
Chapter 1
Slap Jack Bar, California
September 1850
The fever for gold that infected the schoolteacher from Virginia and the farmer from Ohio did not beguile the young George Q. Cannon. He had longed to be called on a mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, imagining that he might be sent to his home country of England, or the Eastern States, or even to the cold climes of Scandinavia. Indeed, the twenty-three-year-old Cannon had vowed to serve the Lord and build the kingdom of God wherever he was called. He had made that commitment six years earlier as he’d stood with a thousand other Saints of the Church, watching the wagons as they brought the bodies of the Prophet Joseph Smith and his faithful brother Hyrum from Carthage. The two were murdered in cold blood by a mob. His uncle, John Taylor, was severely wounded in the same atrocious act of butchery.
For a time it felt as though the fledgling church would not survive such a severe blow, but the twelve Apostles, holding priesthood power, restored order and declared that the Church would roll forth in mighty assurance.
George had vowed to be part of that great work, but he was not sure that this was the right place. Here on the muddy banks of California’s American River, he neither felt the joy of service nor commitment to the work. After nearly a year of working the gold claim, he could not figure if he and the other twenty brothers called to this land of lawlessness and avarice had actually accomplished any of what the prophet Brigham had planned.
“Brother Cannon, I wish to call you on a mission to the goldfields of California.”
“To where, President Young?”
“California. I am calling a contingent of able and clear-minded men to dig gold for the support of the Church.”
“But, haven’t you spoken against the Saints rushing off from the Salt Lake Valley to join the gold seekers?”
“Indeed! I do not want the feeble of faith to scatter like chaff to the wind of greed, but you are not of that character, are you, Brother Cannon?”
“No, President, but I thought . . .”
“Yes, son?”
“I thought my mission would be—elsewhere.”
“Well, just like the calling of the Mormon Battalion, we often do not know what greater plans the Lord has in mind. So, what say you, Brother Cannon?”
“I made a promise during the hard times in Nauvoo, President, that I would go wherever the Lord called me.”
“Well said, Brother Cannon! Well said!”
“Cannon! Mind your footing!”
