Kamaile by Joni Keamoai

Na'eole, Ha'ikū & Kahiau

Napali

After some meaʻai and bowls of ʻawa, the men seemed far more relaxed. Naʻeole led the conversation, questioning his son about the hunt, while Haʻikū and Kahiau listened intently. They were amused by Kanaʻi's explanation of the kill, nodding and laughing at his words, agreeing with him about the thrill of it all. Every so often, the two chiefs glanced at their own sons, making sure the boys were paying attention.

Both chiefs could relate; once, long ago, they had trained in the very same style as Kanaʻi and Pūnohu, taught by skilled warriors who lived and breathed combat. Naʻeole had been one of those men—before serving as Ho'omana's right hand, he had trained under Ho'omana's father, Hanaʻike.

Alohi smiled as she watched the men laughing together. It's crazy I'm even here, she thought, sitting in this moment without my father. Every hunt, he had been there—leaning close, whispering in her ear, "ua luhi ʻoe?" He would ask if she was tired after seeing her yawn a few times. And every time, she had fought her sleep and answered, "ʻAʻole pā."

She wouldn't want to miss it—the boys' hana ʻino, their mischievous tricks, sometimes dragging her into the ruse. Even though she had always been the only girl, the boys never made her feel like an outsider. Just like now.

"Hey, you ok?" a voice pulled her from her thoughts.

"Yeah." She smiled quickly, though her heart skipped. The way things had been left between her and Kililau felt... awkward. At least to her. He didn't seem bothered at all. Such a guy thing, she laughed inwardly.

"You're so lucky," Kililau said suddenly, his voice low, almost reverent.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because you were raised by warriors."

"So were you," she countered with a small smile.

When they both turned back toward the fire, every pair of eyes was locked on them—men watching as if they were the main characters in a play no one wanted to interrupt.

"Ummm..." Alohi mumbled, cheeks burning as the silence stretched. She wished she could vanish into the mist itself. "E hele ana wau i holoi ka pā," she announced quickly, standing to gather the dishes.

But Kililau rose too. "E hele ana wau me ʻoe," he said, helping her gather the plates.

Too late, she cringed inwardly, practically running from the circle of stares. Behind her, Manaleo smothered his laughter, nearly bursting.

Mana knew well of his cousin's affection for her, but he wondered—did anyone else? One thing was certain: everyone noticed the awkward energy between them as they left to wash the dishes.

Naʻeole had picked up on it the moment he met Kililau—the way the boy's gaze lingered on Alohi, and the way Alohi's shyness betrayed her. Curious, but uncertain of her own feelings. His concern now was leaving Alohi in this ahupuaʻa unsupervised. Yet if Ho'omana himself had met the boy and still left her here, there must be a reason. Na'eole concluded.

Haʻikū wasn't blind either. When Kililau had first brought Alohi to their hale, he knew immediately his son was interested. What puzzled him was the awkwardness of their interactions. It reminded him too much of his own youth—the first time he had met Malanai. He had been a bumbling fool then, and the memory brought both humor and unease.

When Alohi and Kililau disappeared into the night, the men returned to their talk and laughter—all except Naʻeole. He still felt Alohi's nervousness, and the sadness coiled deep within her about her father's absence. His empath's heart carried it for her, quietly.

Just then, Haʻikū cleared his throat, shifting the talk toward Manā and the ahupuaʻa's ever-growing resources. These yearly retreats were rare moments for chiefs to walk the lands opposite their own. Both men agreed that Waipā and Manā were unmatched in their kalo, rich in soil and water.

Meanwhile, down at the stream, Alohi tried to keep her voice steady.

"You don't have to help me, I'm fine," she assured Kililau.

"I want to help," He said simply, kneeling beside her at the water's edge. The moon shone bright overhead, silvering the ripples as they worked.

They both laughed when they realized the truth: no matter where they went, there were always chores, and somehow it always fell to them.

"So... that's your uncle, huh?" Alohi sighed, rinsing a calabash.

"Yep," Kili replied.

"He and your dad really look alike," she observed.

"Do they?" Kili frowned slightly. He didn't see the resemblance. To him, his father, as the eldest, had always carried that larger presence—the undeniable mark of the firstborn son. His uncle, though impressive in his own right, had never filled the same space.

"Well, my dad looks nothing like my uncles—and there are nine of them," Alohi said with a grin.

They both laughed, a shared rhythm settling between them. It wasn't surprising how much they had in common, but it was fascinating just how relatable their lives were. Born and raised by chiefs—"chief's kids" as others called them. It wasn't all privilege. Often it was harder. Rules to follow, reputations to uphold, and always eyes watching, ready to run word back to their parents.

Yes. Very relatable.

By the time they returned to camp, Haʻikū was already standing.

"E hoʻi ana mākou," he announced, telling the group they would begin their journey home. "Mahalo no kēia hui ʻana, a me ka meaʻai."

Naʻeole rose to bid them farewell, but Kililau spoke first. "Could we stay?" he asked his father. "It's already nightfall. The journey will be long."

Naʻeole considered, then nodded. "Stay. There is space under the hale enough for the four of you."

Haʻikū might have pressed, but the weight of ʻawa and the pull of night convinced him otherwise. Kahiau  agreed as well, after a few too many bowls of awa,  admitted it was wiser to rest.

So the chiefs gave in. They would remain until dawn.

Kanaʻi busied himself preparing an extra space for Alohi, separate from the men, but she shook her head, insisting on sleeping close by. She was used to it—their thunderous snores, their teeth grinding. It reminded her of her father.

Kanaʻi wasn't convinced. He knew between himself and Naʻeole, Alohi wouldn't be sneaking off anywhere. They were light sleepers, both of them. Pūnohu was the opposite, but if there were a sneak attack, he'd be the first to rise—spear in hand, precise as lightning.

Alohi knew all of this too. She rolled her eyes at Kanaʻi's so-called "secret plan," which wasn't a secret at all.

And as the fire burned low and the mist curled close around their camp, it felt—for just a moment—that something unseen was circling them. Watching. Waiting.