Kamaile by Joni Keamoai

Ho'omana & Alohi

Nou'nou

As nightfall draped itself over the island, the shadows thickened, and the path grew harder to see. The carriage slowed, then came to a halt.

Alohi had drifted into sleep, her cheek pressed against her eke, using it as a pillow beside her father. She startled awake, eyes blinking in the dim light, just as the fisherman's cart creaked to a stop.

They had reached the entry to Nou'nou.

"Mahalo," Ho'omana said to the kind fisherman, handing him something from his pouch.

Alohi leaned forward, curious. She couldn't make out what it was, but the man's face lit with gratitude. The fisherman nodded, offered his goodbyes, and drove off toward his final destination, leaving the night air quiet again.

The climb into the mountain lay before them now—the hardest part of their journey already behind.

Alohi followed her father into the forest, her footsteps hesitant but trusting. A small part of her worried—how does he know where he's going?—for she had never set foot in this place, and she was certain he hadn't either.

"I have been here a time or two," Ho'omana announced without looking at her, as if he had plucked the thought from her mind.

Alohi's eyes widened. Of course. Just like Na'eole. He can hear my thoughts.

Her father's knowing smile in the dark confirmed it.

Meanwhile, high above, Tūtū Hali'i pressed her palms gently against Lokelia's belly, working tirelessly to turn the baby who had resisted every coaxing for hours. She paused, closing her eyes.

The room fell still.

It seemed as though she were listening—not to words, but to the rhythm of the earth itself. And then she knew. Her nephew was on his way, with Alohi. And more than that—he had carried her herbs with him.

Relief crossed her face. A calming elixir could be mixed from them, one that would soothe Lokelia's body and allow the baby a chance to turn.

Mahealani hushed the others as Hali'i inhaled deeply, the calm spreading through the room like ripples across still water. Lokelia's shoulders eased, her panic softening as she mirrored the slow rhythm of breath.

Back in the forest, Alohi broke the silence.

"Pa?"

"Ha," he answered with a breath.

"How do you know where we're going?" she asked.

"I just do," he said simply. "I can sense your tūtū's ano—her energy. It's leading me to her location."

Alohi froze mid-step, the truth dawning on her. This is why he sent me to live with her...

"Yes, Alohi," Ho'omana nodded. His voice was steady, but his eyes glistened in the moonlight. "I need you to know this, so when I'm gone—or when Tūtū is gone—you will be able to care for yourself."

Her throat tightened. "But Pa—"

"The day will come," Ho'omana said, his tone gentle but unyielding. "We won't live forever."

They walked the rest of the way in silence, Alohi fighting back tears, her chest aching with the weight of what he'd said.

⸻

Elsewhere on the mountain, a different fire burned.

Kililau and Manaleo knelt among a gathering of warriors, the solemn initiation ceremony of the hui unfolding before their eyes.

The Kahuna stood tall beside Chief Kahiau and Ha'ikū. His words carried over the stillness, spoken carefully in their native tongue, each syllable deliberate, like carving wisdom into stone.

He spoke of the uhi—the sacred marks etched into skin, binding a man to his 'ohana, his lāhui, his ancestors.

Kililau and Manaleo had seen their fathers' markings before—lines and patterns carved into their legs and chest, inked pathways that whispered of battles fought and victories won. But never had they witnessed the ceremony.

The pahu, the box delivered by Kililau and Kūpa'a, was placed before them. Slowly, Kahiau opened it, revealing the glinting tools within—shapes designed for the niho, the teeth, that would tap ink into living flesh.

The Kahuna explained: a man must be ready, of age, prepared to carry his kuleana. He must know his mo'okuauhau—his lineage—for that very history would be woven into the designs upon his skin.

One warrior stepped forward, laying himself on the woven mat. His kōkua surrounded him, hands steady, stretching skin taut as the Kahuna lifted the mallet.

Then came the sound—staccato beats echoing like the heartbeat of the earth itself.

Kililau and Manaleo held their breath, entranced. In that moment, they understood why the uhi was more than markings—it was memory, identity, a warrior's soul written in ink and blood.

One day, Kililau thought, I will be worthy of this too.

⸻
Mahealani's Hale

"Anakē!" Ho'omana's voice carried as he neared the hale.

Hali'i motioned for one of the women to lead him in.

He entered quickly, Alohi close behind, carrying the herbs she had sensed.

"Bring me a bowl of water and an empty basin," he ordered gently but firmly. He already knew what his aunt would need.

Herbs were mixed into hot water, steam curling in the air, fragrant and heady. Alohi inhaled the scent—it tugged at her memory, familiar yet elusive, almost magical in the way it filled her senses.

"Mahalo, Mana," Hali'i said softly, her voice weary but grateful. She dropped a final liquid into the bowl, the fragrance deepening, carrying with it something more than mere medicine—it was as if the ancestors themselves were present in that steam.

"Stir until it becomes one color," she instructed.

He obeyed, then lifted the bowl to Lokelia's lips.

Sip by sip, she drank, her trembling eased. The room grew quiet, save for the steady breaths of those who remained—Hali'i, Lokelia, and Mahealani.

Outside the door, Ho'omana and Alohi waited, hearts pounding in sync with the ancient work unfolding within.

⸻

Far across the valley, the mallet beat still echoed.

"Pu'uwai? O ia i luna o ka moena i kēia manawa," one of the guards informed a young boy, he was a messenger who had just arrived at the gate.

"Ua hānau o kona ipo, Lokelia i kekahi pēpē kāne," the boy announced breathlessly.

The message rippled through the hale instantly.

The Kahuna paused mid-tap, allowing the news to sink in.

Pu'uwai sat up, searching faces, his own breaking into a rare smile. "Pehea o ku'u ipo?" he asked, desperate.

"A'ole wau maopopo," the guard replied.

His heart lurched forward, yearning to run—to her, to his child—but respect held him rooted. This was ceremony. This was honor. He could not break it.

Only after the 'awa ceremony, once the final chants had been spoken, was he excused.

He rose, bowed in gratitude to the Kahuna and chiefs, and then—at last—he ran, faster than the beat of the mallet, toward his wife and newborn son.