Before dawn on Thursday, December 11, Ella rose from her bed and lit a lantern. She pushed her graying hair back and made a small fire. This morning she and Ben did not talk much; they prayed together and she made sure that food was on the table for him to eat. Then she left for the beach.
Niihau had once been famous for its makaloa mats, woven from a unique sedge grass that was soft and colorful. But the sedge could not survive the grazing sheep that Robinson’s family brought in, and by the end of the 1800s, it was gone. Now Niihau was known for its beautiful shells, which winter surf scooped up in large amounts and threw unbroken and still brilliant with color on the Niihau shores. Some mornings the sand was brittle with its new gifts, other mornings there were fewer to choose from. Still, Niihau was blessed with a certain current and a particular seafloor, so that no other island in Hawaii experienced such a surfeit of intact and glowing pupus. They were collected before dawn by the women and children, who raced by lantern light to beat the rising sun. They scuttled like crabs along the sand, and when the bleaching rays finally reached over the horizon, wrapped their cache up and started for home. A few villagers stayed longer, greedy for as many shells as possible, knowing that when it came time to string them, more than half would not survive the process. But Ella never stayed. She only wanted to string those with the brightest of God’s colors.
Ella ran into Irene just as the path met the beach. There was an awkward silence. The small storekeeper shifted the child on her back and looked down.
-I don’t usually see you here, Mrs. Harada, Ella said. She was glad for a chance to prove that she didn’t really believe in spirits, as she’d said at the store. Plus, she liked Irene. Though she wasn’t a friendly woman, Ella sensed that she was good, like a piece of wood was good. Hard, practical, adaptable within reason.
-I couldn’t really sleep. The heat, you know. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it.
-Yes, well, said Ella. You’ve come at the right time anyway; I ran into Mrs. Niau and she says there’s a new crop of shells on the beach. Uliuli and kahakaha, lots of them.
Irene nodded and smiled politely, but clearly she did not understand the significance. These were rare shells that never came in the winter months. Ella was excited, and wanted to say so, though she didn’t know whether this mysterious event was a good or a bad sign. Instead she put out her hand and touched Irene’s wrist.
-Would you like to accompany me, Mrs. Harada?
Irene nodded, and for a moment Ella thought her eyes widened with some sudden emotion and then blinked. But it was too dark to tell for sure, and the lantern tended to distort things. Ella stepped carefully down the path, with Irene behind her.
Many women were already there and it was true, the beach was coated with a thick layer of brilliant new shells. Ella put her lantern close to the ground and leaned over and even she could not suppress a small cry. The sand was a kaleidoscope beneath them—full of momiokai and laiki, but also the blue and gold winking of the uliuli and kahakaha, usually found only in the beginning of the summer, and then even rarely, and now miraculously here, in the early winter months. Ella stooped and put a hand on the sand. She held a shell to the watery kerosene light and stared. Its blue was so bright that she was sure it lit her face the color of the sky. It would wake Irene’s child with its glare. After a moment more, she dropped the shell into her basket. She suddenly felt scared. This abundance under her feet felt as magical and impossible as the plane that had fallen from the sky. What else would arrive on this tiny island?
Ella looked up to find Irene staring at her.
-Very beautiful, she said gruffly. God’s with us these days, child.
Then Ella lowered herself slowly to her stomach and began to sweep her hands across the nap of colors. Niihauan shell picking was done best like this, flat on the belly, chin to the sand, so nothing was missed and little was damaged. But next to her Irene tucked her knees under her, Japanese style, and darted at the ground with her fingers like a beak. Ella wanted to tell her how much easier it was the Niihauan way, but knew that Irene might take offense. Ella suspected the shopkeeper often went home with the tips of her fingers scratched and a cramp in her back.
-You must come and string all these beauties with us, Mrs. Harada. Ella did not stop picking shells, but from her prone position glanced over at Irene, who seemed to have frozen.
-When the time comes, I mean. There’s nothing that gets me in a worse mood than hours of all this necklace nonsense and no one but Mabel Kaleohano to talk with. You didn’t come at all last year. We thought maybe you’d forgotten how to drive the cart.
-Oh, well, Irene said, and shifted on her haunches. With the store, it’s—there’s just so little time.
-There’s always time for enjoying life. Our Creator wants us to. You’ll begin to understand, the longer you’re here.
-Well, thank you. I’ll, yes, I’ll try to come.
As both women knew, this morning’s shell picking was only the beginning of the lei process. The pupus had to be sorted into used bean cans and old honey jars by type, color, and size. When the time came to string them—usually in midsummer, when fewer and fewer shells were found on the beaches—each shell was held up for inspection. They were tiny, no more than two rice grains across, and Ella’s fingers always hurt with the effort of pinching them just right as she scanned for imperfections. Sand was then carefully removed with a needle and short, sharp exhalations of her own hot breath. Any irregular tips were shaved smooth. Finally, a stringing hole was made by poking the pupu just right with a sharp-pointed iron cowl—this was when the shell most often broke. It would disintegrate against the whorls of her fingers with a tiny clap of calciferous thunder. Her heart would jump with disappointment. But then she would flick the shards to one side and start again with another shell, her eyes folded into a squint, mouth sighing. After hundreds of shells had been peered at and poked, it was time to prepare for their stringing. She would put a tiny dab of beeswax on the tip of green fishing-net string and roll it under her fingers until it came to a fine, hard point. The readied shells were threaded—more squinting, more finger aches—so that they fell against each other in a particular pattern, depending on the necklace. Finally the lei was finished with a beetle-sized cowry shell at one end. Into this the other end of the green thread was pushed. It held because a warm, pliable wad of beeswax was remolded onto the tip and, once pushed into the cowry shell, it hardened into a permanent fastener. It was important not to disturb the lei as the beeswax dried, but sometimes Ella picked up one end, just to feel the silky swoop of all those small shells, and hear their distant companionable chatter.
Now, pink tendrils floated across the sky. Hurry, hurry, before the sun comes up. The beach crackled under swift, probing hands. Ella heard Mabel Kaleohano chide her son. A few yards away, seagulls fought over a fish.
-Do you feel something? In the air, I mean. Something…cold, Irene suddenly said. Ella could see her halved by the lantern, her features sharpened into shadows. Something like your spirits, she said. She stared intently at Ella.
-There are no spirits here, dear. Ella lowered her voice conspiratorially. It’s just God.
Irene nodded and sat back on her heels, staring at the ocean. Ella looked to see if something had risen from the waves, but there was nothing.
-Mr. Robinson would insist that Mr. Jesus Christ himself get permission before coming here, Irene said slowly. We’re so shut off from the world, it’s like we’re floating up in the sky, like the moon. The end of the world would happen and we’d never know it.
-Mr. Robinson would tell us, Ella said.
Irene looked at her.
-Where is he now, then?
Ella hesitated. Where was he? People were getting worried. The weather was fine, yet even the boatman did not appear with news.
-Mrs. Harada, she said, shaking off her own unease. It’s a beautiful morning for shells and Mr. Robinson will come when he can. God watches over us here on Niihau, there’s nothing to worry about.
They were quiet for a while. Taeko snuffled now and then, and to keep her sleeping Ella began to sing “Onward Christian Soldiers.” When the song was over, she stopped picking up shells and turned her head to Irene.
-Queen Liliuokalani came here once, she said. She came to this beach, to see the shells. I was young, only ten years old, but I remember that she found the most beautiful onikiniki. She wouldn’t keep it, though, saying that it belonged to Niihau. Only a few years later, the haole deposed her. I don’t know much about what goes on outside, but that’s something I’ll never forget. My father cried the day we heard. Even old Mr. Robinson was sad, though he never spoke much about it. And she was our last queen, Mrs. Harada. I don’t even know who rules the islands now.
-It’s President Roosevelt, said Irene.
-What?
-I said it’s—Irene hesitated. Never mind. There’s no need to know. Everything we need is here, on Niihau.
-I feel that way too, Ella said. Now hurry, the sun is almost up. Pack the shells you have, we’ll walk home.
-Thank you, but I think I’ll stay and walk the beach. But thank you, thank you. You’ve been—kind.
-Protect the shells, then, Ella said, waving her hand at her. Remember to come when it’s time to start stringing. Make a lei with us old girls.
Irene turned away without saying anything, and Ella thought she saw her shoulders roll forward while her head dropped. She’s a funny woman, she thought, and then picked up her basket and headed for the path.