Kamaile by Joni Keamoai

Manu & Mauna 🦅 ⛰️

Kamaile

It had been three days.
Three long days since, everything changed.

Alohi counted the days by the rising of the sun and the darkness that ensued.

Her mind always went back to one moment.
The moment it happened.

The mountain veil shimmered like glass spun from rain. One minute, Alohi had been reaching for Kililau. The next, her fingers pressed against nothingness—thin, invisible, and unbreakable.

"No... no, no, no." Her voice cracked as she pressed her palms against the barrier, tears already sliding hot and fast down her cheeks.

Above her, a shadow circled. Broad wings caught the light in glints of emerald and gold.

"Kililau!" she cried.

His cry answered—piercing, powerful, yet undeniably his. She heard him, not just with her ears but inside her chest, in that space where his words used to land when he teased her, comforted her, challenged her.

"Alohi—I'm here. I'm still me. Don't be afraid."

Her sob turned into a shaky laugh. "How can I not be afraid? You're a bird! And I'm—" She looked around wildly. The veil glowed faintly like a spider's web catching morning dew, wrapping the mountain like a cage. "—trapped in this... this place. I don't even know what it is."

Her thoughts spiraled, tangled. Her father's words, lessons, lectures—all the times he'd pushed her to learn the chants, the plants, the prayers. "Is this why?" she whispered, voice raw. "Is this why you left me here, Papa? Did you know this would happen? Did you plan it?"

The more she asked, the more her chest ached.

She remembered Tutu Hali'i's warning, her stern eyes, her riddles that never made sense. Why would she do this to us?

Her hands balled into fists. She wanted to scream at the sky, at the veil, at her father for abandoning her, at Tūtū Hali'i for twisting everything.

Instead, tears poured.
Flowing out of her.

Above, Kililau swooped lower, talons brushing the edge of the veil. He couldn't pass through. She could see the strain in the beat of his wings, the desperation in the way he tilted his head, searching for an opening.

"Don't cry, Alohi," his voice echoed in her, softer now, like the wind through the lo'i. "I don't care about me. I just need to know you're okay."

She laughed bitterly, wiping at her cheeks though the tears wouldn't stop. "I'm not okay, Kililau. None of this is okay." Her voice rose, trembling with anger. "You're stuck like this. I'm stuck in here. And no one even knows. No one cares!"

The words broke into sobs.

And still, his voice was steady. "I care. I'll always care. That's enough to keep me fighting."

Her breath hitched. Even as a bird, he's braver than me.

She pressed her forehead against the glowing wall, trying to steady herself. Think, Alohi. Remember everything Papa taught you.

Medicinal plants. The healing chants. The stories about the mauna being alive, breathing, watching.

And deeper than all of that—my kuleana. The responsibility i always tried to avoid, pretend i didn't have.

"What if this is my test?" she whispered, half to herself, half to him. "What if this is why Papa sent me here—to see if I could actually rise to it? What if Tutu Hali'i... what if she's not trying to trap us, but to force me to remember who I'm supposed to be?"

The thought chilled her.

Kililau's wings sliced the air, circling her prison. "Then you'll pass. You can do it." He encouraged her.

She almost smiled. "You have too much faith in me."

"No. I have the right amount." He replied. His wings slowed as he found a branch to rest on, the veil just to the left of him.

Her heart twisted. She closed her eyes, letting the tears fall freely, and whispered his name like a prayer.

"Kililau."

The veil shivered.

Not enough to free her. But enough to remind her: words mattered. Names mattered. Love mattered.

⸻

Far away, Tutu Hali'i pressed her palms into the damp earth of Kamaile. She breathed, listening—not with her ears, but with her spirit. She stretched her senses into the valleys of Wainiha, across the streams of Ha'ena, into the whispers carried by the wind.

She heard gossip of Kaumuali'i's visit. She heard mention of Chief Ha'ikū standing proud by his brother's side. She heard everything—except the one thing she longed for.

No one spoke of a missing boy.

And yet, in her bones, something was wrong.

She felt it in the heaviness of her chest, the ache in her joints, the strange melancholy that lingered like fog she could not shake.

Wainiha

When she returned to Chiefess Malanai, on her weekly pō'akolu visit to her hale, she found her daughter, Hilina'i sitting silently, hands folded, staring into nothing.

"Drink this, my child," Hali'i urged, offering her a warm cup of calming tea.

Hilina'i took it but barely sipped. "Auwe...Pehea oe?," Tutu murmured, asking the child how she was doing. But, Hilina'i didn't speak, she just continued staring into nothingness.

And Malanai, her laughter dim, confessed softly, "There is an ache in my heart I cannot explain. Like I'm missing a piece of myself. Like something—someone—has been taken."

Hali'i's fingers tightened around her cup. She masked her own fear with a smile, but her spirit shivered.

For in the far-off mountains, a girl wept inside a veil, and a boy with wings cried out against the wind.

And the ʻāina listened.