When the sun rose on Saturday, December 13, there was a haze in the air that could not be attributed to dust. The villagers wandered out of the caves morosely, exhausted by their own imaginations; they pictured all of Puuwai a pile of ashes, and the mai ka ‘aina ‘e shooting and killing the villagers who were not accounted for. One by one they waded into the sea to wash and wake up, the children all the way in, the men up to their belt loops to splash water under their arms and on their faces, the women only to their ankles because of their mu‘umu‘us. They moved slowly, speaking little. Their prayer session was quick and without feeling.
No one had eaten or drunk since the previous afternoon; the younger children cried first for food and water, the older children picked at their hands and looked at the ground. The women hushed the babies and brought them into the caves for shade. The men began to gather in a circle outside to discuss the whereabouts of the nearest spring and the few implements they had with which to collect water.
When it became clear to the older women that their men, who had begun to argue quietly, were no nearer a solution, Ella marched over, her hair bursting from her head, her dress dripping sparks of water from its hem.
-We just go into the village and get food and water. We can’t let the foreigners scare us like this. Come on, a few of you can come with me, we’ll split up and see what we can find.
-Hush, Mama, said Ben. That’s foolishness. Those men have gone crazy there. They’ve got guns and boiling tempers. We’re risking death to go back there.
-You went and stole the ammunition. Ella narrowed her eyes. Soon the children will be crying and screaming and they’ll find us here anyway. I’ve got a bucket full of cooked poi and a rack of salted fish at the house. Shame to let Mr. Harada and his friend eat it. Doesn’t seem right, even.
-Ella, that’s enough, said Ben. Let us figure this out.
Ella went on as if she hadn’t heard.
-We can’t go much longer without water. We either hike to a spring now or people won’t have the strength in the heat of the day. Or we go back to the village for supplies. The good Lord Jesus Christ will help us in our time of need. Some of you’ve gone back to the old ways, is what I’ve heard, relying on ancient stories and spirits to get you through this hard time. Well, that’s a mistake—it’s only God who can help us now. I say we go back to the village and see what the Lord provides. Take some of the wahines. Those men might have guns, but they won’t shoot a woman, I tell you.
Ella marched off. Hanaiki Niau shook his head.
-Brother Ben, your Ella is quite a handful. But she has a point. Let’s send a few people back to Puuwai. It can’t hurt.
-Hurt! We could get killed.
-No one’s had water, it’ll only get worse here.
Finally they agreed that three groups would be sent. One would consist of Kalima and his two sisters, another would be Ben and Ella, another still of the Keo twins. All were ordered to bring back whatever food and water they could carry.
Ben led, Ella followed; they walked in silence. Sometimes Ben took off his hat and swung it like a rope around his head, warding off flies. Or he held back a low-hanging branch so it wouldn’t ricochet into Ella after he had passed. They ignored the dust each kicked up. They kept alert for the sound of strange footsteps.
They smelled the charred remains of Howard’s house before they saw it. Ben motioned that he did not want to stop, but Ella ignored him. She walked to the edge of the clearing and crouched behind a kiawe tree.
Howard’s house looked like the skeletal remains of a steer, the ribs of the place still barely upright, the odd plank extended at an angle into the air, as if with rigor mortis. The lava wall was intact, and chickens walked its periphery in mournful confusion, having wandered back from where they’d fled only to find that their home had altered considerably.
-Jesus in heaven, Ella whispered.
-We must move on, hissed Ben.
-How dare they, she responded.
Ben pulled on her elbow, but she shook him off.
-It’s that plane, she hissed. It’s—
-Hush, you’re making too much noise. He grabbed her more firmly, aware that she never liked to be told what to do, that this would precipitate another argument like the one they’d had the other day, he was sure, but that they had to get out of here, and soon.
-Think of the others! Ben whispered. We need to get food and water—
-That plane—Ella would not be deterred.
-There’s nothing you can do about that plane. Come on.
There was a shout behind them. Ella and Ben instinctively put their hands on their heads, as if someone had warned them of a rock slide, but both of them recognized the voice immediately. The pilot pointed a pistol at them.
They stumbled into the clearing, the pilot roughly urging them toward the plane in a language they did not understand. Yoshio, who had been dozing in a seated position among the wreckage, scrambled to his feet.
-Mr. and Mrs. Kanehele! he cried. He began to push some debris aside. Watch your feet. There’s glass and sharp objects everywhere.
The pilot motioned for them to sit on the ground. Ben put out a hand to help Ella but she ignored it. She pulled her mu‘umu‘u up to her shins.
-How could you have done this? she said to Mr. Harada, and snorted her disdain for him, the pilot, the situation they were now in. Ben sat nearby, glancing between the pilot and Mr. Harada as if assessing which one was more dangerous. All around them the wreckage of the plane protruded from the dirt, as if bubbling from it. Sheared parts stained the red dirt black, now and then the rising sun caught one just right, so that it winked conspiratorially. Ella looked around for a clear place to sit, and noted that the pieces weren’t as shiny as the one that Mrs. Kaleohano had shown off at the Haradas’ store, nor did they hold the magic Ella had seen that day. They looked like what they were, scrap metal of no real use to anyone anymore.
-What does he want of us, Mr. Harada? Ella said indignantly, lowering herself cross-legged onto the ground. Not to mention the sad fact that you’ve helped him on his mission of destruction. How could you do this?
-It’s for the best, Yoshio stammered. He began to pace in front of her. Listen, if we help him, he’ll make sure we’re all okay when his commanders arrive. I did this for all of you—
But even as he said this, he knew this was no longer true. He had done it for Irene, and for his own sense of self. But for the Niihauans? Maybe there was something to salvage, so that it would work out for them. When the Japanese arrived, he would do something then. And as he thought this, he saw himself raising a hand and staring defiantly into the barrel of an Imperial Navy gun. He could feel his chest filling with determination, his shoulders squaring. Spare the villagers, he would say, and his voice would shake the ground. But then he was back in the red dirt, by the plane, facing Ella. His shoulders were slumped, his breathing short in his chest. No, he had not helped the pilot for the Niihauans. If he had done it for them, he would have told them from the beginning, brought them the truth about Pearl Harbor.
-Trust me, he finally said, lamely.
Ella snorted, and then squinted up at him.
-Howard’s house is gone, she said.
-Yes, Yoshio answered. He’s been foolish, refusing to hand over the papers, now he’s disappeared.
-He taught you to ride, Mr. Harada, Ella said, shaking her head. Isn’t that right? He put you on the big white Arabian and showed you how to be a Niihauan. And this is how you repay him?
Yoshio’s hands flew together and clasped tightly.
-You can’t understand what’s going on out there, he cried. Out there in the world. There’s more to life than just Niihau, Mrs. Kanahele. Things bigger than Mr. Robinson’s paradise are happening.
-Bigger than loyalty? Kinship? Neighborly goodwill? I think not, Mr. Harada.
-Hush, Ella, Ben broke in. No use talking sense to them, they won’t hear. Mr. Harada, I don’t understand what you’re up to but that man’s got a gun and he seems intent on using it soon enough. Help us now, before it’s too late.
The pilot must have begun to understand that the Kanaheles were trying to persuade Yoshio of something treacherous because he began to bark out commands.
-He wants to know where Howard is, Yoshio said quietly. He wants you, Ben, to go find him.
Ben knew Howard was gone, but he said,
-Fine, we’ll go.
-No, not Mrs. Kanahele. Just you. He wants to keep your wife here to make sure you come back.
Ben shook his head vehemently. I’m not leaving her here, he said. No.
-The pilot’s angrier than I’ve seen him. You’d better go.
-Go, silly, Ella interrupted grouchily. No need to be the gallant husband. God will look after His own. You’re glad to be rid of me anyway. Go, and find Howard.
She kept her eyes fixed on Yoshio as she spoke, as if to strike him down with her gaze. She knew as Ben did that Howard was long gone, perhaps dead himself.
The pilot waved his gun and shouted again. Yoshio looked at him nervously and then back at the old couple on the ground in front of him.
-You must go now, Mr. Kanahele. Please. I’ll make sure your wife is all right.
Ben got to his feet slowly. Ella knew that his hips hurt, that he was thirsty and hungry and very tired. Her heart ballooned a little then, and when he was out of sight, she felt unexpectedly forlorn.
Yoshio stared at the place in the thicket where Ben had disappeared. He felt nauseated and it wasn’t just that he had not slept all night, or that he had barely eaten since yesterday. He had reached the point that children do after they spread their arms and twirl themselves around, the sudden unmistakable transition from giddy but balanced orientation to a sudden vertiginous confusion, a momentary regret at the silly, nausea-inducing game, and a collapse onto the grass. He did not collapse, but instead let himself fill with the realization that things were now decidedly out of his hands. He was spinning, spinning, spinning, and everything was a frightening blur around him.
He taught you how to ride. Ella’s words echoed in Yoshio’s mind. The horse’s name was High-Stepping Son, but the islanders and even Robinson himself called him Haole for his bright white coat. He was a seven-year-old Arabian and stood eighteen hands high, as nimble as a pony and as bad tempered as a sick old man—sometimes it took three ranch hands to saddle him. Though there were six Arabians corralled next to the ranch house, the Old Lord only ever mounted Haole.
Men were picked to ride him if Robinson was away too long, because after a few weeks without a saddle, it was claimed, Haole reverted to his wilder self, suddenly remembering that he was strong enough to endure blinding Sahara sandstorms and deep, shifting dunes, command a herd of willing mares, and kill any stallion who came near. He would not be coaxed by water or food, and when he was finally caught, it was as if he had never been tamed. These men would keep a close eye on the white horse before they saddled him up. If he drew his lips back and flattened his ears and nipped at the air, they would draw straws to see who the unlucky loser would be who’d have to ride him first. Yoshio had watched this process often enough, on his way to the honey shed, or back from the apiary. But he’d never thought that one day it would be him in there, wheedling with a shaky voice for the big stallion to calm down.
Howard had put Yoshio on smaller, gentler horses first, and it was not long before Yoshio could easily stay in the saddle. But the day Howard told him it was time to ride Haole, he had protested. Howard had just laid a hand on his shoulder and pronounced solemnly that he had faith in him. You’re good with horses, he’d said. You can do this.
Howard had helped steady the animal, and when Yoshio had finally pulled himself onto the saddle, his mixture of terror and elation had made him feel punishingly alive. Afterward Howard told him that haole meant white person, yes, but it really meant “without breath,” because whites seemed so disconnected from some essential spirit. So don’t be scared of a horse without breath, my friend, he’d said sagely.
Without breath, Yoshio thought. Well, I’m fast losing mine. He suddenly realized that he had been exacerbating his nausea by inhaling too fast; the tips of his fingers were tingling and his lips were going numb.
Nishikaichi now dozed on his feet, jerking awake only when his balance faltered. Yoshio swept the ground of debris with one foot and carefully sat down. He did not dare to look at Ella and into her defiant stare.
-I’m feeling very bad tempered about all this, Mr. Harada, she said once, but when he did not respond, she said nothing else.