Howard’s house was the same as all the houses in Niihau’s only village of Puuwai. It was perched on small stilts to encourage ventilation. There was a front porch and a door that led to a main room with a table and a few chairs. To the right was another room with two single beds; to the left a smaller room for his child. The roof was tin, which occasionally dented in a strong afternoon wind, sending a shudder through the house and a loud woomph. To one side was a small shed where animal feed and a few tools were kept. In the back was a thousand-gallon water tank used during the dry season.
The island was big and the population small, so houses on Puuwai were not too close, and were delineated by lava walls on which chickens and children often perched. Usually Howard could see his neighbors if they stood on their porch and waved, but he couldn’t tell the expressions they had on their faces when they did so. Now most of his neighbors were crowded into his house. Those who couldn’t fit inside milled on his porch and in the front yard, so that the horses that usually found shade there moved reluctantly to the back field. The villagers lucky enough to get a place in the kitchen pushed and squeezed to get a better look at their new guest, a brave few actually within a few feet of him, sometimes touching the chair he sat on, or fingering with tentative flicks the flight hat that lay limply on the table, discolored from blood. The pilot did not turn his head, and ate with the concentration that the islanders had seen in feral cats. His nose was as small as a petal, not broad and flat like the Niihauans’, and his skin was pale, not burnt and earthy. Someone said he was Japanese, though he did not look much like the three Japanese on the island: his face, despite the dust and blood, was unmistakably smooth, his hands as delicate as the muzzle of a young lamb. The Niihauans were intuitive people. They sniffed the wind for weather, they felt with their hands for an animal’s sickness, they prayed often. Though the pilot’s expression was stern and his eyes stayed mostly fixed on his plate, they knew, as surely as they smelled rain, that this man was afraid of them and of their home. They bustled around dropping food on his plate, their way of reassurance.
Howard had no idea why the pilot had landed on Niihau, but his neighbors turned to him for answers anyway. For the sixth time this morning, Howard leaned back in his chair, squinted at the ceiling, and, spreading his arms wide for quiet, began a version that was even wilder and more dramatic than the previous telling only ten minutes before.
-So when the plane hit, there was a ball of flame that almost burned my hair right off…
-I thought you said it landed like a bird?
-Like a crazy bird. The explosion was like thunder, and I said to myself, Howard, get that man out before he cooks like a pig. I ran to pull our malihini here from what looked like his burning grave. There were bullets flying from the guns on the plane—
-He tried to kill you?
-Well, no, no. The bullets must have shot out from impact. But I thought it would not be hospitable to have our strange friend die on this island, and I ran every which way to keep clear of the guns and get to him in time. He was very happy that he landed near me, and not near one of you, who would have stood staring like dumb cattle at his predicament. Without me that plane of his would have been his pahu for sure.
The villagers laughed, which startled the pilot momentarily. He stopped eating and the crowd quieted, sorry they had alarmed him. After a moment they spoke again, but this time in lower voices.
What will Ka Haku Makua say when he arrives? We must tell the visitor to leave now. What, ask him to swim? Mr. Robinson will be as mad as when the fever came from Malia’s nephew. It’s not our fault he fell here like a rock from the sky. He was madder when the church candles disappeared. Look, you all, there’s nothing we can do but close that cut on his head. Mr. Robinson comes tomorrow. Tomorrow. Ka Haku Makua arrives tomorrow.
Howard sat back and listened to his neighbors talk. He wanted to stay in the excitement of the moment, and not let his mind wander to more troublesome things, but he felt a small knot in his stomach. What was a soldier doing so close to Niihau? Why had he crashed? It was possible a boy so young had simply been completely overwhelmed by the powerful machine. Howard remembered that his own eight-year-old son had been thrown from a high-spirited horse just yesterday. Howard himself had once been bested by an especially small calf that he’d attempted to hog-tie, a fact that he shared with no one, not even his wife, Mabel. The strange boy had simply lost control of his plane. But even so, this pilot was a soldier. Though there were many soldiers on Kauai, this one had come from a faraway place, and soldiers, with their guns and papers, were never a good sign.
Howard had not understood much of what the pilot tried to tell him or these questions would have been answered by now. After the crash Howard had led the pilot by the elbow to his house to feed him, and when he had seated him, the pilot had become agitated and had begun to speak quickly. Howard thought he heard some English words, but he could not be sure. Slow, he’d answered back in English, elongating the word, keeping his lips rounded for seconds after the sound ended. But the pilot only spoke louder, as if Howard was deaf, leaning forward with an expression of great concern. Finally the pilot pulled a pencil from his flight-suit pocket and Howard peeled the label off a condensed-milk can.
To Give Me, the pilot wrote in blocky letters of English on the back side of the label.
Howard was one of the few Niihauans who spoke English, and one of the even fewer who could read the white man’s language—he’d gone through sixth grade at the Kauai missionary school—but he did not understand this. The pilot then mimed searching in his flight-jacket pocket, looking for something. He pointed at his holster and back at the paper. Howard, understanding now, shook his head amiably and offered the pilot more food. He had the gun under the bed in the next room, the papers in his pocket. The pilot would not understand that guns weren’t allowed on the island, and that Howard was simply saving him from Robinson’s disapproval. And by the excited way the man was acting about it, he clearly wasn’t in his right mind. That was a nasty enough cut, and surely the crash had rattled his brain. Howard was going to feed and care for his new guest; the particulars would be taken care of by Mr. Robinson, when he arrived on Niihau tomorrow.
The torn-off label on the table was now picked up and passed back and forth. Each person squinted from a wary distance, holding the paper at its edges as if it held some kind of disease; those few whose courage surged stroked the penciled letters carefully with one finger. It was hard not to be swept away in the excitement; after all, little changed on Niihau that was not molded by the wind or the water; when it did the Niihauans preferred to let their boss handle it. The result was a wide-eyed excitement only heightened by their concentrated effort to remain uninvolved, at least until Mr. Robinson arrived.
By now Howard’s house was quite full—surely the whole village was here—and Howard considered telling his story yet again. But there was that twist in his stomach and the realization of one more thing that bothered him. A small, nagging memory of an event he had repeatedly read about, but had been unable to put in any meaningful perspective.
Perhaps it was nothing.
In fact, it probably was nothing.
Howard did not know exactly where this event was taking place, except that it was far away. Still, he thought he should mention it, even if it would worry his neighbors. It was, after all, a war. Howard pursed his lips and frowned. A war. A soldier. There might be a connection. He leaned back in his chair and harrumphed in his throat to speak, then stopped. There was, of course, another thing to consider. It might get back to Robinson that he had told people about this war, and that would lead to uncomfortable questions. Sticky questions, about how Howard had come by this knowledge. As it was, Howard often arranged for the Kauaian boatman who ferried Robinson to and from Niihau to buy tobacco, which was forbidden. The boatman stuffed Bull Durham into an old sock and Howard would find it later that afternoon in his fishing gear, limp from the seawater on bad-weather days, stiff from the heat on others. But sometimes the tobacco would come wrapped in an old Kauai newspaper, and Howard would sit down and read. His large, rough fingers slid under each word, his lips moved as if in prayer. If he got the front page, he read sporadically about a faraway war, with its strange-sounding cities and battles. But mostly he got the pages that dealt with fish prices and sugar yields. Even these did not seem relevant to his life on Niihau. A war in a distant country was positively remote. No, thought Howard, it would be more trouble than it was worth to mention this to his neighbors. There was a good reason that Mr. Robinson had never talked about it, and that was that it had no bearing at all on their lives here on Niihau. Besides, Howard could not risk Robinson finding out that he smoked.
-The boy needs a poultice, said a gravelly voice, and Howard looked over at Ella Kanahele. She was shorter than the other Niihauan women, but she was wide and sturdy. She pushed forward, her dark hair falling loose from her bun so that it sprayed around her face like a waterfall. Her eyebrows were in a characteristic frown. Once at Howard’s shoulder, she thrust out one hand.
-He’s got a good knock on the head, she said, and nodded at her fist, where a paste oozed out, smelling faintly of fish and perhaps pineapple.
-Here, she said, some laau.
She swung her arm toward the pilot, who flinched at the sudden movement and then put up his hands to deflect her wrist. She frowned and shushed him.
-Trying to fight an old woman! Put your head over here, young man. I’ve been known to get grumpy. Just ask my husband.
The villagers laughed again, and some of the tension in the room was broken as men slapped Ben Kanahele’s shoulder kiddingly and the women guffawed. Ben was not much taller than his wife, and as wide as a honey crate, a lumbering, quiet man known for the fact that even at fifty-one years of age, he could throw two ewes over his shoulder with little effort. That hearty strength, however, evaporated in front of a wife like Ella, who could get as bad tempered as a boar. But her touch was gentle as she spread the paste on the pilot’s forehead and then patted his shoulder with one small hand.
-You may have that fancy uniform on, but you’re just a boy. You need taking care of. Now I’m going to say a prayer, because ultimately it’s not us that does the healing, but the good Lord himself.
And with this she dropped her head and began to murmur, eyes closed. There was a respectful silence until she was done.
-Amen, Howard said. And too bad he doesn’t understand what we say. I’d like to know why he’s here, on Niihau of all places.
-Well, said Ella, squinting at the boy. You think he’s Japanese. Bring the Japanese to talk to him.
-The Japanese, Howard agreed, and someone ran for the head beekeeper, Ishimatsu Shintani. Shintani had been born in Japan, though he had been on Niihau for as long as anyone could remember.
Old Shintani was pushed to the front of the room by excited hands. Always wizened and a little sour looking, today Shintani looked as if he badly wanted to be somewhere else. His deeply browned skin paled at the sight of the military pilot. His eyes widened. He began to shake his head. The pilot spoke quickly and with enthusiasm as he got close. Shintani, pushed right into the table by his smiling neighbors, stood rigid, with his eyes averted. The pilot continued to talk, leaning forward intently.
-What’s he saying? Howard asked, looking from the animated pilot to stiff, unmoving Shintani and back again.
Shintani gripped the table edge and kept his eyes fixed on a spot somewhere to the left of the tabletop as the pilot continued to speak. Once, the pilot reached across the table, as if to take hold of Shintani’s wrist, and Shintani suddenly unfroze and stepped back as if he had been stung.
-I don’t understand this dialect, Shintani finally stammered in his fluent but oddly accented Hawaiian. Howard nodded and shrugged. The Niihauans passed around the news: Shintani the beekeeper could not tell them why the pilot was here. There were disappointed murmurs. Shintani continued to look as if he wanted to run or collapse.
Shaking his head, Shintani finally backed out of the room.
-Fetch Mr. Harada! said Howard.
Yoshio had just finished cleaning a saddle, which he’d hoisted onto a rack and then leaned against before going on to the bridle, when he heard the horse canter up the driveway. The rider called his name and then came to a halt in front of his house, so Yoshio stepped out of the shed and squinted up the hill to the commotion. Mr. Robinson is back early, he thought first, because the master’s arrival always brought a kind of hysteria to the island, the suppressed excitement of a king’s visit. Some villagers traveled the fifteen miles to meet him at the boat dock. Others came to the door when he rode through town. But he could not remember a time when someone had actually heralded his arrival with such a ruckus.
“Mr. Harada! Wikiwiki, hurry, hurry,” the boy yelled. Yoshio saw Irene open the door and frown at the skittish horse and its braying rider, the unnecessary dust they kicked up. Yoshio began to walk toward them. The yelling stopped as the boy seemed to speak to Irene, though from where he was it was impossible to know what was said. He saw Irene step back, and then the flash of her mu‘umu‘u in the sun as she raised her arms like wings. The dust shimmered and cut into his eyes, the sun heated up his neck. Irene’s voice, high-pitched and urgent, called his name. Yoshio began to run.
It was a two-mile ride from the Robinson ranch house property that the Haradas took care of to the village of Puuwai, but they covered the ground quickly in their cart. Irene, who usually complained about the dust, said nothing, only held three-year-old Taeko close. When they pulled up to Howard Kaleohano’s house, the villagers overflowed from the inside of the house, to the porch, and down into the dry yard, but parted when Yoshio and his family mounted the steps. The women hissed at the small children to stand aside, the men touched the brims of their hats with their thumbs and nodded. Yoshio felt Irene clutch at his sweaty shirt and for a moment he was glad. But then the kitchen table came into view. He stopped and opened his mouth, but he was suddenly unable to remember the language he had grown up with.
-I am Naval Airman First Class Shigenori Nishikaichi, the stranger at the table greeted him in clear, precise Japanese. Then he said gravely, Your Pearl Harbor has been attacked. We have invaded the United States.
Yoshio heard the words in slow motion, a dust of sound caught momentarily in a breeze that fell through the inner workings of his mind. A. Tak. Pe. Erl. HA. Boor. In. VA. Aded. Then the words went from dust to scree, rumbling and screeching on the incline of his brain, gaining sound and momentum. He felt Irene’s own suppressed cry, even as she stood completely still, as if the words were instead a solid rock that had fallen in her path and she was frozen first in horror and then with the suddenness of a multitude of choices: turn back, go left, go right. He wanted to step back himself, stumble, more likely, to put immediate distance between him and this murderous pilot, but another part of him knew instinctively that it was not the time to alert his neighbors to anything wrong.
-What do you mean? he stammered in Japanese, trying to keep his face impassive even as it drained of blood.
-Everything’s gone, destroyed. The Imperial Navy did its job well. You should be proud of your native country.
Yoshio only blinked at him. The pilot’s face, which had been taut with sudden pride, slackened. The Japanese couple was not as pleased as he would’ve liked.
-Why are you here? hissed Yoshio. Already he could feel Howard’s eager impatience, wanting to know what was being said. Taeko had begun to whimper. The room was as quiet as a room full of people could be. There were no loud noises, but it rustled with the sway and murmur of bodies packed tightly together.
-Bullets hit my gas tank. An emergency landing—
But Howard now jumped up with his wide, foolish smile.
-What’s he saying, Mr. Harada? Does he know the Old Lord?
The villagers crowded closer to hear Yoshio answer.
-I mean, why’d he land here, of all places? Howard waved his arms around the room. We’re not used to guests, and the Old Lord will be angry when he comes tomorrow. You know the rules.
Yoshio nodded and felt Irene’s heavy silence behind him.
-Yes, the rules, he said slowly. He frowned and looked down.
He wanted to shout, Destruction! Death! Mayhem! Stand back, all of you. It’s evil, right here, in our kitchen. Truss this boy like a chicken, put a knife to his throat and make him beg. Strip him of his flight suit and that stern expression, throw him into the sea. All of you, listen, listen. America and now Niihau have been attacked by the Japanese.
But he said nothing. His hands had begun kneading together, and a far-off memory roused itself. Japanese, the memory said, its voice slick with disdain.
-Mr. Harada? said Howard.
-It’s—he won’t say much. Yoshio coughed, dropping his hands at his sides. He—what does it matter anyway? Mr. Robinson will be here tomorrow, he’ll take care of all this. I’m sure the boy will speak more when he’s less tired and his wound has healed a little.
There was a ripple of agreement in the room, and even Yoshio felt the palpable relief as the villagers willingly abdicated any real responsibility for the stranger. Howard sat back and nodded fiercely.
-Right you are, Mr. Harada. We’ll let the Old Lord handle the mea mai ka ‘aina ‘e in the morning. Later, we’ll put him in the shed, keep him isolated, like he’d want us to. For now let’s eat more and treat our guest as Christians should.
Someone plucked a ukulele and began to sing. Yoshio talked to the pilot for a little while longer, setting a few things straight, gathering a little bit more information, telling the pilot that tomorrow they would go to see the boss of the island when he arrived. Yoshio kept his tone neutral and his eyes away from the strange boy with the ramrod-straight posture; despite this his nausea and panic grew. Finally, he felt his horror about to burst. He excused himself quickly. He and Irene said nothing to each other as they pushed their way out the door. They nodded at their neighbors, smiled tightly. Errands, they murmured as convincingly as they could. They fled down the porch stairs, without looking back.