Kamaile by Joni Keamoai

Kana'i & Alohi

Napali

It was still dark when Naʻeole rose, already gathering firewood and preparing breakfast before the others stirred. Today would mark their departure from camp—and the day they would bid farewell to Alohi.

He moved quietly, his hands steady though his mind was not. Having the men here made her happy, yet he could feel the sadness beneath her smile. She missed her father terribly. Loneliness clung to her like the dawn mist. If only I could ease her pain, he thought. If only I could take her home with us. But there was always purpose behind Ho'omana's decisions. Kamaile was safe. And there was much he wanted Alohi to learn here.

A rustle pulled him from his thoughts.

Kanaʻi stirred, stretching before greeting his father with a soft "Good morning." He quickly set to work, slicing meat from the previous hunt, salting it, and grilling it above the flames. Beside it, they mashed kalo into poi and stirred fish into a steaming soup.

The smell of roasting meat and smoke soon drifted through camp, coaxing their guests awake. Under the hale that Kanaʻi had prepared for her, Alohi stretched and sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"There she is! The teeth-grinder and sleep-talker who kept me up all night!" Kanaʻi announced with a laugh.

"Excuse me?" Alohi shot back, standing with a yawn. "I do not grind my teeth or talk in my sleep, Mr. Volcano Snore."

In the distance, Manaleo laughed.

"Oh yeah? Volcano? Well, you couldn't stop talking about your boyfriend in your sleep!" Kanaʻi teased, grinning wide.

"What?!" Alohi's voice rang sharp, her cheeks burning. She lunged at him—nearly toppling the soup pot.

"Hey!" Naʻeole's voice cracked across camp like a whip, freezing them both.

Alohi shoved Kanaʻi aside, spun on her heel, and grabbed the pakini basin. Without a word, she stormed toward the stream, shoulders tight, her anger rising with every step. But beneath the fire in her eyes, tears were threatening to fall.

Naʻeole narrowed his gaze at his son. "Hele me iā. Apologize."

Reluctantly, Kanaʻi followed.

"Hele mā kie," Alohi snapped, telling him to leave her be. She marched faster, refusing to let him see her tears.

"Kalamai!" he called, his voice breaking through the hush of the morning. "I'm sorry!"

Still she kept walking, until her steps faltered by the stream. Water mirrored the moon's last glow, trembling as if it too could feel her heartache.

Truth was—she wasn't truly angry. Not at him. She missed this. Missed the way Kanaʻi teased her, the way he could be the most annoying older brother and yet the safest place she knew. Back in Nu'alolo, his words never hurt her—they had made her laugh, made her stronger.

But here? Alone in a place she didn't understand? They stung, because they reminded her of everything she had lost.

Her mother. Her father's absence. The emptiness left behind.

"Kanaʻi," she whispered, finally turning, her eyes wet but fierce. "Why am I here? What have you heard? Please—tell me."

He froze, seeing her pain. She looked small but unbreakable, fragile but furious, resilient to a fault, everything they had raised her to be. And yet, he wanted nothing more than to shield her.

"Look, Alohi," he sighed, "you know better than anyone—that's not how it works. Even if my father knows, it doesn't mean I do."

She glared, desperate. "But you do. I know you do. If my dad ordered it... then you must know something."