Kamaile by Joni Keamoai

Kililau & Kealohi

Wainiha

Kililau

I made it home in record time, my feet barely touching the earth as though the ʻāina itself had carried me.

The moment I reached the hale, I could hear Hilinaʻi's light footsteps pattering against the wooden floor. She burst through the doorway, curls flying, her eyes glowing like the river at sunrise.

"Pala!" she cried, her little arms stretched out, demanding a carry.

I lifted her without hesitation, though I could almost hear my mother's gentle scold in the back of my mind: Don't always carry her, son. Let her learn to stand on her own.

"Ma?" I called out.

"In here," her voice floated from the kitchen, warm but tired.

When I entered, she smiled, though the pale tint to her skin betrayed her exhaustion.

"Pa told me you decided not to travel, and allowed me to return home," I informed her.

"Ae," she nodded. But her sigh caught me—soft, weary, heavy.

Her condition lingered in my thoughts like a shadow. I knew of her low blood count. Pa had warned me what to do if I ever found her faint. The thought chilled me.

"Ma, I'll make dinner."

"I can do it, son," she insisted.

"No, ma. You rest. Hili and I will do it."

Hilinaʻi's ears perked up at the sound of her name, her small hands already twitching with excitement. I guided Ma to a chair, then placed Hilinaʻi beside me to help with preparation of the bowls and fruits.

Together, we fried fresh iʻa, mixed poi smooth as moonlight, cut ulu and mai'a into golden chunks, and seasoned the fish with Hawaiian salt. The meal was humble, but ono. Ma's gratitude shone in her eyes more than words ever could.

Later, after Hilinaʻi's bath and bed, we sat on the back porch sipping mamaki tea. The night air cooled our faces.

"Mahalo iā ʻoe," Ma sighed, handing me my cup. "You had quite a busy couple of days."

"Ae," I nodded. Busy, yes—but home was the only place I could breathe.

She asked about Pa, and I chuckled knowingly. "Oh, you know Pa. Working himself to the bone."

We spoke of many things, but when she asked about Alohi, my voice caught.

"I'm not sure. I haven't seen her in a few days."

"Will you?" she pressed gently.

"Can I?" I asked, a smile tugging at my lips like a boy again.

Her own smile softened. "Why not? Didn't she travel to Nounou with Anakē Haliʻi?"

"Yes," I admitted. "But also with her dad. She isn't allowed to leave her home otherwise." I explained. Sharing what Alohi had told me.

Realizing it was the first time. I had spoken to my mother about Her.

"Hmmm... I understand now." She paused, then suggested, "What if we invite them over for dinner?"

My eyes lit up.

I didn't know what her plan was, but I trusted her. And my heart soared.

By the next afternoon, word reached Anakē Haliʻi. She, Alohi, and Chief Hoʻomana accepted. Pa would remain in Nounou, preparing for King Kaumualiʻi's arrival.

⸻

Kamaile

Anakē Haliʻi returned home after visiting her patients, to find Ho'omana, weaving his fishing net in the mālā. The old rhythm of his fingers at work stirred memories of Nualolo, when this was an everyday sight.