A Song for the Stars, page 15
But I’m selfish. And I’m afraid of what her father would do to me after learning of my part in the battle. And I’m too greedy for Maile’s companionship. She knows me better than anyone on the island, possibly better than most of my men. I trust her completely. She’s had numerous opportunities to turn on me, to give me up. But she hasn’t, and I’m grateful for her mercy. I thrive on it.
Besides, no one can make me feel the way she makes me feel. In some ways, she is to me as the ocean is to her. Maile makes me feel different. She makes me feel more alive.
The next morning I call for John outside his hut, but he’s not there. I ask a few of my father’s men if they’ve seen the lieutenant, but they all lower their heads and say they haven’t. It isn’t until I walk past the canoe hut that I hear the contorted sounds of a nose flute played incorrectly followed by my sister’s familiar laugh.
I enter the triangle-framed hut, the smooth pebbles lining the ground are cool against my bare feet. The canoe currently under construction in the shelter is a medium-sized outrigger. It’s meant to be manned by six or seven adults for a short trip with paddles, no sails. The koa wood is still being shaped, the basic contour of the canoe in place with rough edges and corners.
I hear Haukea laugh again, and I make my way to the far side of the hut, where she and John sit on the ground just past the head of the vessel. I step back, not expecting to see him here. The faintest flutter of jealousy enters my middle at seeing the two of them together. Laughing. Smiling. But the feeling is gone as quickly as it came, and I’m left curious about what they’re doing.
John holds a bamboo flute in his hands. The node on one end has been removed, though the other side is intact. The instrument is about the length of his forearm. Both a breath hole and several finger holes have been burned through the top.
John places the breath hole beneath his mouth and blows a puff of air, creating a sound that resembles some kind of dying animal.
“You defile it,” Haukea says before another round of giggles comes out of her.
“I think he destroyed it,” I say.
They both turn to me in surprise.
“Maile!” Haukea stands and walks to me, a smile on her face. “I didn’t mean to keep him from his training. I just came to check on his wounds.” She motions to John on the ground. “He’s found himself a new toy.”
“I see that.”
John stands, brushing imaginary dust off the instrument. “One of the children gave it to me. I tried to find a private spot to practice playing, but I guess I didn’t try hard enough. You both found me.”
Haukea laughs. “I think the entire village could find you with that outrageous sound.”
John’s face reddens. “I suppose music isn’t my specialty.” He doesn’t seem upset, just a little embarrassed.
“We can’t all have Maile’s gift with song,” Haukea says. “Promise me you’ll stick with learning navigation from now on.”
John chuckles.
Haukea moves closer to me, pressing her nose against mine. We each take a breath, and then she leans toward my ear. “Be careful with this one,” she whispers. Then she exits the hut, leaving John and me alone. I don’t know what she means.
“I apologize,” John says, stepping closer. “I lost track of how long I’d been here. I know we were supposed to meet this morning at my hut.”
I shrug. “It’s fine.” After a moment of awkward silence, I reach out and take the flute from John’s hands. “This is meant to be a romantic instrument. Did you know that?”
He shakes his head.
“When a young man wants to woo a lover, he takes a length of bamboo and cuts it, sanding it like so.” I run my fingers along the smooth, even surface. “Each instrument is different, creating a sound unique to him. He plays it for the one he wants to attract. It’s not meant for a large gathering or celebration, but rather a more private audience.”
John glances to where Haukea just left, a nervous expression on his face. “I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t worry,” I assure him. “You aren’t attracting any potential lovers with the song you made.”
His face reddens again. “She said I defiled it.”
“You did,” I say. “But only because you were playing it wrong. It’s a nose flute.”
“Nose?”
I nod. “Our mouths are capable of saying beautiful things, but they also curse and speak evil too often. The air that comes out of them is not clean. But the breath from our nose is pure. Undefiled. That is the kind of air you want to use to impress someone.”
I hold the flute to my nose, press a finger against the side of one nostril to close it, and gently exhale so that air flows across the opening. A long, smooth sound emerges from the flute. There’s a clarity to it so distinct, though the sound might not be loud, you know it can be heard from far away.
I finish with my single note and hand the flute back to John. He mimics my actions, placing the flute under his nose and closing one nostril before exhaling. An unpleasant howl sounds.
I withhold a wince. “Not so hard,” I say, encouraging him to try again.
John does, and this time a beautiful note sounds and holds steady for as long as he has air to feed it. His eyes light up in victory, and he plays it again, this time the fingers of his other hand finding a place over the sound holes. He forms a simple melody with his notes, his fingers lifting up and down to alter the pitch.
“Very good,” I say. “The women are probably lining up to meet you at this moment,” I tease.
He lowers the flute, contemplating. “But you said he can play it for one in particular? The woman he desires?”
“Yes,” I say. “Then perhaps she will form her own flute and compose a response. You can recognize your lover this way. It is said a chief, in a time long past, played his flute from the top of the mountain, and his woman heard his call from the shore and played her response. Their songs created a harmony so beautiful, even the gods were envious of their love.”
“I like that.” John runs his thumb over the breath hole of the flute. “Is the idea to mimic birds—like a mating call? Is that why the song is meant only for a romantic interest?”
“Not quite. When we kiss . . .” I pause, trying to think through an explanation.
“When we kiss?” John asks, his eyes wide.
“No, no.” I give a nervous laugh. “I meant when someone kisses another person, they press nose to nose, honi, exchanging their breath of life. The pure breath.” This is the type of honi my sister just gave me. “But when you kiss your ipo, your sweetheart, it’s more intimate. You move closer and touch noses side to side, then shift to do it again on the other side. You inhale each other’s aroma, their life force. In that closeness, your breathing becomes one.” I press my finger to the side of my nose. “It is this action that is mimicked when playing the flute. It’s a display of affection, alluding to the kiss you hope to share with your sweetheart.”
John lifts the flute to his nose again, playing a single note, long and clear. It’s as though he wants to be certain he remembers how.
“You should be cautious with that thing.” I turn toward the exit of the hut and motion for him to follow me. “You don’t want to cause a heart to break the day you finally leave this island.”
If he understands my joke, he doesn’t let on. He tucks the flute into a pocket in his breeches and quickens his pace until he’s beside me. We head toward the beach in silence, and a part of me wishes he would take out the flute and play as we walk. Thanks to my sister and me, though, I think he’s been teased enough about the instrument to prevent him from using it in front of others anytime soon.
When we reach the south end of the fishing ponds near the shore, an explosion sounds in the distance—from near the ships?
BOOM.
John and I both fall to the ground, an instinct to protect ourselves from whatever ignited the blast.
It’s not the sharp thunder sound of the sailors’ smoking weapons, not unless a thousand of them went off at once. But the noise is so penetrating, it’s like an invisible wave passing through the air, a rush of wind fleeing the site of danger, and it rattles every part of me.
“What was that?” I ask.
John rises carefully, shielding his eyes as he gazes to where the sound came from. There, just off the beach where the Resolution and Discovery are anchored, is a fire. It’s one of my people’s huts, one of our homes. Violent flames rise above the structure, releasing black smoke into the otherwise clear sky.
We break into a run, John falling in behind me as I lead him along the trail in the direction of the temple that was destroyed by his sailors. Has their thirst for destruction not been satiated? Have they decided to destroy more of our things, more of our property, even after the deal was made between John and my father?
An equal mix of anger and worry propels me to move faster. John can barely keep up, his fresh wounds layered over the old, causing him to run at a slower pace. When we finally reach the scene of the fire, the high temperature of the flames winds around me in a whirlpool of heat, making me flinch. It’s so hot. A small group of people, both John’s men and mine, are working to put out the fire, or at least keep it contained.
Not waiting to be told, I hurry to the nearest hut and grab a couple of gourds, then run to the beach to fill them with water. After getting as close to the flames as I dare, I pour the water on the fire. I repeat the action again and again. Others, like John, dump baskets of sand over the fire to smother it. We do whatever we can to suffocate the inferno, and it takes a good hour of exertion to finally put it out.
The fire hasn’t been extinguished for long before quarreling begins among my people and the foreigners. They yell hateful words toward each other, but neither group can understand what the other says. Not that they would listen. The arguments turn physical, and soon rocks and fists are exchanged as well as threats.
“Ho‘opau,” I yell, stepping into the middle of the fight. “Stop!”
John rushes to my side and spins in a circle, protecting me, as though gauging who might make me their next target. He yells something in the language of his England to the sailors then waits for me to continue.
“Why are you fighting?” I ask everyone.
John speaks to his men, and I realize he’s repeating what I say, translating for the foreigners.
“Haven’t we lost enough?” I wipe the sweat from my forehead, ash and salt staining the palm of my hand. “So many men have died—from both sides. When will it be enough?” I wait for John to finish translating then continue. “Have we become a blood-craving people, abandoning our laws to gratify an inhuman appetite?”
“They destroyed our home,” someone yells.
“It was a mistake,” says another. “Their weapon misfired.”
I wait for the sailors to finish explaining to John their interpretation of what happened.
“They’re right,” he finally tells me. “The gunpowder . . .” He pauses and tries to think of a way to explain it to me. “The substance that allows our weapons to create thunder and smoke was stored near the hut. We use this much”—he holds his thumb and forefinger close together—“to make our guns smoke. But there was this much”—he moves his hands far apart—“near the hut. When the weapon fired by mistake, it created that much more thunder. That much more smoke. It started the fire, but it was an accident.”
I had been right—it was like a thousand of their guns firing at the same time. But I can’t let on that I hate those weapons. Not when the chief has declared their use for our benefit. I have to find a way for everyone to get past this or they’ll never be able to work together.
I look around the crowd of weary people. “No one has died,” I say. “No one was harmed. The only damage done was to a hut that can be rebuilt.” I point to the ashes. “And look—we banded together to fix what was broken. We mended something that could have easily spiraled out of control.”
John translates my words then looks at me. He nods, encouraging me to finish.
“Yes, we lost something,” I say, my voice shaking, thinking of more than just the hut. “But we also saved so much more. Together. And we can do it again.”
I exhale, trying to convince myself that my words are true. If they aren’t, then at least I hope it’s enough to motivate our people to work together.
Similar to other Pacific Islanders, the natives here kiss by pressing nose to nose, sometimes forehead to forehead. This honi is accompanied by the exchanging of breath, or hā. I find it curious the word for that breath is included in the name of their home: Hawai‘i.
The honi is used in greeting, similar to a formal handshake. The obvious difference is it’s a much more intimate gesture, and as a result, is regarded with more reverence.
I witnessed the captain receive this greeting no fewer than twenty times a day during our first stay here, the people not wanting to pass up a chance to access his mana, his power, by the brief interaction. Familiar with the custom from the other places we’d visited, he didn’t seem to mind it.
But today I learned there are nuances when it comes to honi, especially as it applies to romantic encounters. I’ve yet to take part in the traditional greeting, sans romance, even with all the islands I’ve visited that were filled with people who participate in the practice. I don’t seek female companionship like many of the other sailors, and I’ve never had the confidence to initiate the innocent greeting with any of the natives. I’m not even sure I would like it.
From what I can tell, the western practice of pressing lips together as a show of affection, both for casual friends and family or familiar lovers, has yet to be introduced.
Postscript:
Maile can speak words with so much blaze behind them, I think she could be the fire goddess Pele herself.
Over the next several days, I take John out to the reef, then to the water that surrounds the small atoll off the coast, and then to even deeper water in the bay, though all still within swimming distance of the shore. His skin has darkened and his hair has lightened, both having been touched by the sun for hours on end. There’s a new resilience to him as well. I never would have described John as delicate—he’s a sailor, after all—but he’s more patient now. With me, with the ocean. It’s as though he’s no longer eager to leave as soon as possible, but is willing to learn and grow during his time here.
A week after we begin our training, I wake a couple hours before dawn and get dressed before heading to John’s hut. It’s not far from mine, as he’s staying in one of my father’s huts, but I haven’t been inside before. I wait outside the doorway, a part of me wishing he’d sense my presence and wake on his own, but all I hear is the sound of deep, even breathing.
I walk inside, and the moonlight that trickles in is enough for me to see well enough. When I reach his bed, I extend my arm to shake his shoulder but hesitate. I don’t know why—it’s not like I’m pushing any boundaries by being here alone. We’ve even spent the night in the same hut before, sleeping on opposite sides of the room the day of the battle.
But somehow this is different. He’s not sick or injured. He doesn’t need my help to get around or heal. Is there a reason why I am sneaking into his hut in the middle of the night that doesn’t seem scandalous? Yes. I’m doing this to teach him how to find his way home. This is part of his navigation training. I also don’t have a choice. My father, the chief, commanded it. I let my hand fall to John’s shoulder, and he blinks his eyes open.
Turning onto his back and seeing me next to him, he says, “Am I dreaming?”
I’m not sure if he’s trying to be funny, but I laugh anyway. “Please don’t tell me your dreams involve being woken up in the middle of the night by random women.” I widen my eyes as though the idea is shocking.
John rubs his eyes, a new awareness settling on him, as though he’s now fully awake and aware of his surroundings. “Shipwrecked on an island paradise. Held prisoner by a native woman. I’ve dreamed it before, remember?”
“Held prisoner by a beautiful native woman,” I amend, remembering our long-ago conversation. “But a dream is not the same as a hallucination, and you’re not hallucinating anymore.”
“I never was.” He holds my gaze a moment before changing the subject. “What can possibly be so important that you had to wake me this early?” He scrunches his eyes and looks outside through a window flap that had been propped open, trying to determine what time it is.
“Get dressed and follow me. Your lesson for the day starts now.”
He groans but rises to his feet. He’s already wearing his breeches, but he pulls on a loose shirt before following me outside.
When we reach a small outrigger canoe, I toss in two paddles and get John to help me push it into the water. With him in front, we paddle past the break and keep going. The canoe is small but swift, and soon we’re so far from shore I can no longer see our island by the faint light of the moon. Once the sun rises, we’ll see it easily, but for a moment I feel as though I’m floating in a black abyss, not knowing where I am or where I came from. And definitely not knowing where I’m going. I lift my oar from the water and rest it beside me, then instruct John to do the same.
He looks back toward me. “What are we doing out here?”
“Just watch,” I say, smiling at the small sliver of purple that appears on the horizon—the sun blinking open his eyes. I think of John and his grogginess this morning, wondering if the sun resists waking up as well, longing to stay in the safety of his dreams. I also think of what John said about the sun kissing the ocean as he rises, then feel grateful for the darkness that hides my blush.
