Kamaile by Joni Keamoai

Manaleo & Kililau

Kamaile

The early morning light spilled across the river's edge, where Ho'omana crouched with his hand-held net. His movements were calm and deliberate, though his thoughts churned like the waters beneath him. Birds trilled from the banyan tree overhead, weaving their songs into the hush of dawn.

It feels the same as when I was a boy, he thought, a brief smile tugging at his lips. He remembered climbing that very banyan tree, playing his nose flute while the birds joined him in chorus. He remembered his tutu's hand guiding him along the stream, naming each plant, each leaf, each root with reverence. Those days still live here, in every branch, in every note of the forest's song.

Now, decades later, he waited for his daughter to awaken. He cast his net again, hoping for fish to fry for their breakfast, as he wrestled with the words he needed to speak.

He wanted Alohi to know peace. He wanted her to experience what Kamaile had given him—quiet strength, a slower rhythm. But Manā called too. Home called. Duty pressed upon him like the weight of the net in his hand.

"Papa?"

Her voice drifted from the lanai above, sweet and eager.

"I ne'i," he answered, eyes softening as she bounded down the wooden stairs. She embraced him, warm and bright as sunlight breaking through mist.

"Aloha kakahiaka," she greeted, eyes glimmering.

"Aloha kakahiaka," he returned, heart tugged by her growing grace.

Together, they checked the bird feeders, picked fruit from the trees, and laid their simple meal beneath the banyan. The air smelled of damp earth and ripe mai'a. It was the perfect moment, and so Ho'omana finally spoke.

"Alohi, I wanted to talk to you."

"I know, Papa. I'm ready." She bit into a banana, pretending to be steady, though her hands trembled.

His decision was clear now. "We will go home to Manā. But not yet. In one month's time. I will go ahead first, prepare the hale, the help. And I will find you a kumu to continue your learning. Kana'i and Pūnohu will return for you when all is ready."

Alohi exhaled, shoulders loosening. Relief flooded her like the river at spring tide. She had time—time to breathe, time to prepare, and time to say goodbye to Kililau.

⸻

Nounou

The announcement of King Kaumuali'i's visit rippled through the valley like a storm wind. Everyone felt its weight. Trails needed clearing, protocols rehearsed, fields swept clean for the eyes of a king.

"Man, we got so much chores to do," Manaleo groaned, dragging his feet. Sweat gleamed on his brow.

"I'm here with you helping—and I don't even live here," Kililau snapped, his patience thinning. But still, he couldn't deny his cousin always showed up when it mattered.

"Okay, let's just finish this patch and take a break," Kililau offered. He knew where the guards stored extra food, a secret worth keeping.

But Manaleo was restless, the kind of restless that couldn't be reasoned with. "I'm gonna run home."

"No! You can't—we'll get in trouble!" Kililau hissed.

"I don't care. I'm hungry. My mom can cook us food food, not just a mango from the tree!" He bolted down the trail before Kililau could stop him.

"Damnit," Kililau muttered, chasing after him. Their fathers would rage, but that was who they were—always testing, always pushing.

At the hale, Chiefess Leimomi scolded but softened. "Manaleo! Your father will be upset. I'm sure the men had mea'ai for all of you."

"But Ma, all they had were fruits!"

With a sigh, she packed i'a, kalo, and 'ulu into a sack, slipping in sweet mango as well. Before sending them off, her voice carried firm: "Mana, do not return until all chores are done. Kililau, please keep an eye out for him."

As they hurried back, Leimomi lingered in thought. Her husband's warning returned to her—Mana is becoming too much of a mama's boy. She had laughed then, but now? Now she wondered if Kahiau had been right.

⸻

Kililau

"Yo, my mom hooked it up," Mana grinned, tearing into his sack by the river. Watching him eat was like watching a boar feast—messy, unstoppable.

"Yo, come up for air," I told him, but he just shrugged.

That's when it hit me—
I missed Alohi.

I didn't expect the thought. It just came, sharp and undeniable. Three days without her, and it felt longer. I could feel her absence, the way I could feel the shift of the tide or the call of the wind.

After the retreat, we should've returned to Wainiha with her and her father, but Kaumuali'i's visit kept us here. My father sent for my mother and baby sister - they'd be arriving tonight. Still, all I wanted was to see her again. She feels it too. I know she does.

I pushed to finish the chores fast, heart already racing ahead of me toward Kamaile.

That evening, by the riverbank, the guards gathered. The chiefs joined too, fires lit, food passed around. This was my moment.

"Pa," I said, sitting close to my father, pulse pounding. "Can I ask you something?"

He didn't look at me, just grunted.

"Can I go home?"

Silence. Then, "Ok."

I blinked. Shocked. "Ok?"

"Your mother is not well enough to travel. She stayed with your sister. You can go home, be with them until I return."

Too easy, I thought, suspicion prickling. But relief washed over me anyway. I'd take it. I said my goodbyes and set my heart racing back toward Wainiha.

And toward Alohi.

⸻

Kamaile

By the time Anakē Hali'i returned, dusk had woven shadows across the valley. Ho'omana had caught more fish, their skins crackling over the fire. They ate beneath the lanai, poi and fruit spread before them, the banyan whispering overhead.

Afterward, Alohi brewed mamaki tea, steam curling like spirits in the night air.

It was then that Ho'omana spoke of his plans, his decision to send her to Manā in a month. Anakē Hali'i's eyes softened, approving. Alohi's sixteenth birthday was days away. The memory of last year's party in Nu'alolo still felt fresh, yet here she was, older, wiser—and about to be tested once more.

As Alohi washed the dishes in the basin, Hali'i leaned close to Ho'omana. Her voice lowered. "She has grown, yes. But one last test remains."

Ho'omana's face tightened. He knew. Alohi's gift had blossomed—her healing touch, her communion with creatures, her ability to feel what others tried to hide. But the final test would demand more of her than anything yet.

It would demand the truth of who she was.

And the truth always came with a price.