Kamaile by Joni Keamoai

Lilinoe & Pūnohu

Nualolo Kai

The sunset spilled across the horizon in hues of lavender, pink, yellow, and orange—cotton candy skies stretched above the kai. Pūnohu walked quietly along the shoreline until Lilinoe caught up to him. They strolled side by side, the silence between them comfortable, until a sudden wave crashed at their feet. Startled, Pūnohu scooped her up off the sand and carried her farther inland before the water could soak her.

"Put me down, you big lug!" Lilinoe laughed, slapping his shoulder.

He obeyed, chuckling at her familiar protest.

"I can handle a little water," she teased, tilting her head up toward his face.

"I know," Pūnohu said with a smile.

She studied him—his calm eyes, his quiet kindness. She knew his every expression, the steadiness of his spirit. Of all the men she had ever met, he was the only one she had let into her heart. And he knew her too—not like the girls in the village who lingered on his every word or giggled as he passed, but as she truly was: headstrong, independent, determined to forge her own way.

"When are you going to ask me?" Lilinoe sighed, her gaze searching his.

"Noi oe I ke aha?" Pūnohu asked softly.

"Ask me how I'm doing. Or if I'm happy. Or anything, really... you haven't said a word since I arrived here."

"A'ale maopo" Pūnohu replied, telling her he didn't know. "Ha'i oe ia'u, Hau'oli no oe e noho ma manā me kou mau makua, a hana oe me ka wahine hapai, a noho au ne'i me Ho'omana a kokua iāiā." He stated, saying they both agreed years ago—that Lilinoe was happy living in the village as a midwife with her parents, and that he would stay with Ho'omana to help him.

"That doesn't answer my question, Pū." Lilinoe's voice lowered. "Happiness isn't just about what we do—it's a state of being. You only described our duties. What about your feelings? Hau'oli oe?" She asked if he was happy.

He pulled her into his arms, holding her close as though his embrace alone was the answer.

"Hau'oli au i keiā manawa- me oe" Pūnohu breathed. " explaining that he was happy in this moment—with her, "Paha ho'opunipuni au a ha'i a'ale wau e ha'o nui iā 'oe i na lā apau." He smiled. Saying he'd be lying if he said he didn't miss her every day."

Lilinoe pushed back, looking up into his face. "Pono oe e ho'i me iā'u ma manā" she responded. Offering Pūnohu to return home to Manā with her. A smile tugging at her lips. Pū knew that an offer like that meant he'd live with her at their hale, as his family home had been abandoned after his uncle's passing. He could always find out if his uncle's home could be salvaged and renovated, but he didn't like to ask for favors, especially from the Chief. Lilinoe already knew what he was thinking and already a plan in mind.

⸻

"They've been gone a long time," Alohi said with a grin, tossing rocks into the water as her father and Makani dragged heavy fishnets from the sea.

"Stop minding your aunt's business!" Ho'omana scolded. "She's an adult."

"I know, Papa, but it's so adorable. So romantic," Alohi beamed.

"Oh boy, you're too young for this," Makani laughed, agreeing with her father.

"I am fifteen now. I'd like to think I'm a young lady."

"That you are, my sweet," Ho'omana said firmly, "but you are also my daughter, and I am not allowing you to date. Do you understand?"

Alohi stood quietly on the shore, her father's words echoing. Yet instead of pouting, her smile only widened, stretching from ear to ear. As she caught a glimpse of her aunt Lilinoe and Pūnohu down the shore, heading their way, holding hands.

⸻

By the weekend's end, families began packing for the return journey to Manā. But before they departed, Ho'omana prepared one last supper.

"Mahalo nui iā oukou no ka kipa ana mai me makou," Ho'omana announced, thanking his guests before saying a prayer.

The meal was lively, filled with laughter, stories, and songs. Two canoes would leave at daybreak, carrying most of the families, while one would remain behind for a few days with Ho'omana and his guards. Lilinoe chose to stay behind as well, eager to spend more time with her niece.

Watching Alohi filled her with both joy and ache. She looks so much like Lilina, she thought. Not being here all these years left a space in my heart. But now, I can make it right.

"Anakē!" Alohi cried, running toward her aunt as Lilinoe and Pūnohu approached along the shore. She nearly knocked her over with her embrace.

"Whoa there, Alohi!" Lilinoe laughed, steadying herself before hugging her tighter.

"Will you be staying?" Alohi asked eagerly.

"Ae, no ekolu lā wale no a ho'i ana wau," Lilinoe replied. She'd be staying for three more days before returning home.

Alohi's face lit up with joy as she slipped her hand into her aunt's, walking with her toward the others. Pūnohu followed silently behind, his thoughts heavy, his heart already being pulled between two worlds.

⸻

Kamaile

"Papa?" Kililau called, his voice echoing through a tangle of kiawe trees. He had lost the path and felt unease in this unfamiliar place.

"Kililau!" At last, his father's voice answered from below. He followed the sound until he saw Ha'ikū waiting.

"Mahea oe i hele kanei?" Ha'ikū asked sternly.

"E huli iā oe," Kililau replied, catching his breath.

"A'ole hiki iā mākou i hele luna ō...a'ole i keiā manawa," Ha'ikū explained. They were not permitted in that mountain range. Not yet.

"No ke aha?" Kililau pressed, curiosity sparking. After all, his father was a chief. What land could be forbidden to them?

As they walked home, Ha'ikū explained. Long ago, a chief from Manā inherited land from Ohana here in the north. Kela aina (that land)—Kamaile—had been passed down, its boundaries guarded by lineage and law. Though exceptions existed for ali'i families, the place held power, stories, and restrictions.

Kililau's intrigue only grew. He wanted to see Kamaile for himself. One day I'll go. No matter what the boundaries are.

⸻
Wainiha

"Pala!" a small voice called.

Kililau looked up to see his little sister Hilina'i waiting at the hale. She could not yet say palala for brother, so she called him pala instead. He scooped her up, spinning her in the air until her laughter filled the night.

"A'ole Kili nānā!" Malanai called from the porch, shaking her head with a smile.

The family gathered to eat beneath a blanket of stars, the firelight flickering against their faces. As they ate, Kililau asked again about Kamaile.

"Kili, mai hopohopo. Keia pilikia no ka ali'i nui a me ke konohiki mai kēlā aoao e ho'oponopono iā," Ha'ikū explained. It was a matter for the Chiefs to be concerned over, not him.

The words made Malanai pause. "Kamaile?" she repeated softly, chills running through her.

"Ae," Ha'ikū replied, glancing at her.

"I know that place," Malanai whispered. "Anakē Hali'i spoke of it. She said it was her home—land of her father, a chief of Manā."

Ha'ikū's eyes narrowed as recognition struck. He had heard tales of that chief—his strength, his brilliance, his unmatched power.

Kililau gasped at the revelation. That night, as he blew out his lamakū, he made a quiet vow. I will uncover the secrets of Kamaile. I will explore it, training or not, for one day I too will be a chief of this aina.

With a smile to himself, he drifted into dreams of mountains, destiny, and a future still unwritten.