Kamaile by Joni Keamoai

Na'eole, Kana'i & Pūnohu

Kamaile

The forest at the edge of Kamaile seemed to breathe on its own, mist curling from the uplands like whispers of ancestors.

Kililau noticed it first—the tracks. Fresh prints pressed into the dirt, distinct and leading up the mountain. He dropped low, studying the earth.

"Stay still," he whispered, pressing a finger to his lips. He glanced at Alohi, motioning for silence.

She rolled her eyes but obeyed, her curiosity already stirring.

After a moment, Kililau straightened, his expression serious.
"There are three of them. All men. On foot. Probably hunters taking the scenic route."

Alohi chuckled at his certainty, though her sharp gaze caught more. Loose feathers littered the ground, and one set of tracks carried the impression of a spear-tip pressing into the dirt.

She gasped. A sudden recognition. A surge of memory.

Before Kililau could stop her, Alohi darted up the mountain path, her hair streaming behind her.

"What are you doing?" he called, breathless as he chased her.

"I know who they are," she beamed, her voice bubbling like a girl unwrapping birthday gifts.

Kililau's heart pounded—not from the climb, but from unease. If she was wrong, if they weren't who she thought...

When they reached the grove, the entrance stood wide open. Kililau froze, his chest tightening.

What if Tūtū Haliʻi had returned home early? What if she had discovered Alohi missing all night?

He held his breath as Alohi burst through.

Inside, Kililau stopped dead. Alohi was already in the arms of a towering, broad-shouldered man, his skin painted with the strength of a warrior. Two others stood guard nearby, their presence commanding. All three smiled at Alohi, though none as brightly as she smiled at them. Her grin was so wide it trembled into tears.

"Kili, come—I'd like to introduce you!" Alohi called between sniffles and laughter.

Kililau walked cautiously forward, measuring each step. They mean her no harm, he told himself, though his shoulders tensed.

"These are my father's guards. His most trusted friends. They are ʻohana to me." Alohi gestured to the warrior who had embraced her. "This is Pūnohu."

She pointed to the shorter man, older than Kililau, with sharp eyes. "This is Kanaʻi."

"And this," her voice softened, "is my father's right hand, his oldest friend—Naʻeole. My godfather."

Kililau bowed his head respectfully and stepped forward to exchange hā with each man, the mingling of breath sealing trust between them.

Naʻeole's voice broke the silence. "Owai kēia?"

The question struck sharp. Alohi's cheeks flushed—she knew exactly what her godfather meant.

"This is my friend," she said quickly.

But Naʻeole's gaze shifted to Kililau, his eyes ancient with custom. Asking lineage was not idle curiosity—it was law.

"My ʻohana is from—" Kililau began, offering his family ties and residence.

Naʻeole's face softened into recognition. A month ago, Chief Hoʻomana had spoken of a boy named Kililau, son of Chief Haʻikū. So this is him, Naʻeole thought, and he smiled.

Kanaʻi, however, had his own questions. "Where were you both coming from just now?" His tone was sharp, protective.

"Kuʻu hale," Kililau admitted before realizing his mistake. "Ua hiamoe ʻo ia me mākou—" He caught himself too late. The men's brows rose, shock and silence hanging heavy.

"Umm... we'll explain later," Alohi cut in with a smirk, desperate to dissolve the awkwardness.

She slipped into the hale, returning with steaming tea and a plate of fruit. "Here," she said softly, though her mind swirled. Why were they here, deep in Kamaile, when everyone had moved back to Manā?

Naʻeole answered her thought as if he'd plucked it from her head. "We came to hunt. I promised your father we'd check on you."

Of course. He always reads me. Just like when I was small, Alohi thought, her lips curving into a smile.

The conversation shifted, but Naʻeole had another purpose. He needed Tūtū Haliʻi's permission to camp in the uplands. Confident she would grant it, they stayed and turned their attention toward Kililau.

"What better way to know him than by sport?" Kanaʻi grinned.

Uh oh, Alohi thought, her stomach tightening. Kili doesn't know what he's in for.

They began with ʻulu maika. Kanaʻi rolled first—perfect. No surprise; he was champion back in Nualolo four years in a row. Kililau's stone followed with equal precision, slipping between the sticks.

Alohi cheered louder than she meant to, drawing smirks from the guards.

Kanaʻi pressed on, challenging Kililau in oʻo ihe and haka moa. One by one, Kililau held his own, his movements trained and sure.

Kanaʻi's voice turned sharp. "Have you ever competed in Makahiki?"

Kililau's reply was a whisper. "ʻAe."

"What?" Kanaʻi snapped.

"ʻAe," Kililau repeated, louder.

"ʻOia? I hea?"

The tension thickened until Naʻeole intervened. "Kana'i, ʻaʻole hana me kēlā. We are guests here."

Kanaʻi's face dropped. "ʻAe, pā." He turned to Kililau, extending his hand. "E kala mai."

"No problem," Kililau replied, returning the handshake.

Alohi's heart swelled as she watched. I hadn't known the depth of his training. He's like them. Like my father's men.

The day faded into twilight. Naʻeole prepared to leave but wished aloud that Alohi could join them. She hung her head, the same way she always had when her father forbade her from hunts. Naʻeole chuckled, remembering her as a stubborn little girl on the shore.

But footsteps approached. The air shifted.

"Anakē," Naʻeole greeted as Tūtū Haliʻi stepped into the grove.

Her sharp eyes darted toward the men. "It's the feather tip—and the scent," she muttered. Then she turned to Alohi. "ʻAe, hiki ʻoe hele me lākou. Paha e hoʻi hou mai i ka lā pōpō."

Alohi's gasp turned to joy. She was allowed to go.

Kililau swallowed hard. "Well, I'll be heading home."

Only then did Tūtū Haliʻi notice him. Her gaze sharpened. "He aha kāu hana i ʻaneʻi?"

"E kipa wale nō au me Alohi," Kililau stammered, his body shaking under her scrutiny.

Her voice dropped. "Pehea kou mama?"

"Maikaʻi nō, mahalo," he replied quickly before gathering his things. He nearly bolted for the entrance.

The guards chuckled, catching him before he disappeared. They clapped his shoulder. "Care for her whenever she is in your presence," they warned him. Even as a chief's kid, who grew up around warriors, he felt intimidated in their presence.

They also extended an invitation—to join them at camp in the uplands, if he was up for it, to test himself again in games. Kililau nodded. He could not refuse. To represent his ʻohana, his wahi, his kūpuna—this was his Kuleana.

But the mountains of Kamaile were forbidden.

Still... now he had a plan. He just needed to execute it.