Kamaile by Joni Keamoai

Ka Ua me ka Makani 🌧️ 🌬️

The wind changed.

At first, it was a whisper—a shift in the air that stirred the ferns and lifted the edges of Alohi's damp hair. Then it became a roar.
The sky darkened, and the glow of the veil flickered like a heartbeat struggling to stay alive.

Alohi pressed a trembling hand against it. "No... not now," she whispered. "Please, not now."

Lightning cracked across the mountainside, lighting the world in violent silver. The ground beneath her pulsed. The ʻāina wasn't calm anymore—it was trembling.

"Tūtū Haliʻi," Alohi breathed, realization hitting like thunder. "You're doing this."

The storm's voice rose in answer—furious, commanding. The veil around her shimmered brighter, its edges warping, expanding, then collapsing again like waves in a tidepool.
Rain lashed the air, piercing through even the faint barrier protecting her. Every drop felt colder than the last.

"Why are you doing this?" she cried into the wind. "Haven't I proven myself already?"

Somewhere far above, a hawk-shaped shadow wheeled through the storm.

Kililau.

He screeched—a desperate, aching cry that tore through the clouds.
A bolt of lightning missed him by inches, throwing him off balance. The gust that followed slammed him sideways into the cliffs, feathers scattering like gold and emerald leaves.

"Kililau!" Alohi screamed, her voice cracking as she reached toward him through the veil. "No!"

But the sound didn't carry. The mountain swallowed it whole.

She fell to her knees, clutching her chest, her pulse racing so fast she could barely breathe. Her hands were numb, her lips tinged blue.
Her adrenaline pushed her to keep moving, but her body began to betray her—each breath came in shallow gasps.

"Papa... ʻAnakala... please..."

The veil shimmered, but the connection that once felt alive now felt distant.
Naʻeole's voice echoed faintly in her mind—like a conch shell call underwater.

" Alohi... hold on... can you hear me?...a'ale  hiamoe..."

"Anakala?" she whispered. "I can't—"
The words caught in her throat. His voice broke into fragments, static in her skull.
And when she tried to send her thoughts—Kililau's a bird. He's hurt. He's here!—no one answered.

The wind roared louder.

⸻

Ridge Above Nualolo

Naʻeole and Pūnohu stumbled beneath the weight of rain that fell sideways, sharp as stones. The trees bent with the wind, their branches wailing. Lightning struck far out over the ocean, lighting the sky above them—thunder following close behind, shaking the ground beneath their feet.

"We need shelter!" Pūnohu shouted over the storm.

Naʻeole scanned the slope. His eyes caught the faint outline of a cave just beyond a cluster of koa trees.
"There!" he called. "Let's go!"

They half-ran, half-fell into the narrow opening. The cave's walls hummed with mana—old and patient. It wasn't much, but it would shield them for now.

Then—a sound.

A soft thump, followed by a whimper.
Naʻeole turned sharply. Just outside the cave entrance lay a bird—its massive wings tangled in a tree branch, above them. Feathers glistened white, tipped in gray. A mōlī.

He frowned. "A Laysan albatross? Here?"

Pūnohu blinked. "They don't come this far west. Not inland."