Kamaile by Joni Keamoai

Ho'omana & Ha'ikū

Nou'nou

The healthy cries of a newborn carried through the valley like a blessing from the heavens. Word spread quickly, and soon neighbors, cousins, and friends gathered to offer their aloha. Inside, Lokelia lay tired but glowing, her son wrapped against her chest.

Pu'uwai stood tall, pride radiating from him as only a first-time father could. His smile never faltered as he welcomed each well-wisher, receiving their chants of joy and gifts with gratitude.

In another corner of the hale, Hali'i, Ho'omana, and Alohi quietly began preparations for their journey back to Kamaile. But Mahealani shook her head firmly.

"Noho 'oukou a hiki ka lā pōpō," she insisted, her voice leaving no room for argument. They must remain until tomorrow to rest properly before the long journey home.

"Ae Anakē, noho me mākou," Lokelia added weakly from her bed. "Mahalo iā 'oe a me kou 'ohana no ke kōkua 'ana." Her gratitude was deep, and everyone knew without Hali'i's skill, this night might have ended in sorrow instead of celebration.

Mahealani bustled about, preparing a guest room without hesitation. And so, it was settled.

⸻

That night, the household hummed softly with visitors slipping in and out, each one blessing the new child. Finally, when the lamps burned low, quiet descended and the three travelers found rest on woven moena mats.

But Alohi dreamed.

A vivid dream.

Her eyes flew open in the darkness, her skin damp with sweat. Breathless, she rose, padding softly to search for wai.

"Pehea 'oe?" a voice asked gently.

She turned. "Oh Tūtū, kala mai, loa'a au i ka moe 'uhane," she admitted, pressing a hand to her chest. The dream clung to her, its details foggy, yet sharpening with each heartbeat.

"Maka'ala 'oe," Hali'i warned, her eyes glimmering with something Alohi couldn't place.

Confusion fluttered through her.

"Your dream, Kealohi... it's warning you. Be alert." Tutu explained.

A shiver ran down Alohi's spine. In that moment, she realized Tūtū knew exactly what she had dreamed. She had seen it too...

Chilled, Alohi returned to her mat. Her father snored thunderously beside her, making Hali'i mutter, "Auwe," before slipping back to her own rest.

But Alohi lay awake. Can I truly sense others the way Pa does? The way Tūtū does? Or is my mind too restless? Too distracted? She had always spoken to animals, felt their heartbeats as if they were her own, but people... people were harder. Still, if I don't learn, how can I carry their gifts forward?

Eventually, sleep claimed her again.

⸻

This time, she was not in the hale.

She stood at the mountain's summit, wind whipping through her hair.

"Alohi, wait up!" Kililau's voice called breathlessly. He joined her, laughing, and for a moment she felt radiant—powerful—as if she belonged to the mountain itself.

"U'i loa," she whispered, eyes wide at the valley unfolding below. Soaring cliffs tumbled into twin waterfalls, white ribbons spilling into the gorge.

Overhead, a mōlī—an albatross—glided on wide wings, its presence otherworldly, as though it carried a message from the gods.