The Islands at the End of the World (20 page)

“Promise you’ll free that knot if you have to.”

“Okay.”

One shared look. We leap.

A wave swells up and nearly knocks us against the hull
of the boat. I scramble to secure my pack. Dad is beside me, chest up, holding on to his pack with his good hand, kicking, breathing labored. I hold on to the rope near him, reducing the slack, and swim away from the boat as hard as I can.

We rise several feet with the crest of another wave. The next one will break right on top of us.
Hold your breath, Dad
, I think. Then we’re underwater.

I surface several feet closer to the rocks and study my options.

I must navigate us through a narrow gauntlet, time the swell just right so that it delivers me right up to the wall of the nearby shelf without smashing me against it.

Then I’ll have seconds to scurry up the rock face before the next wave pounds, loosening my grip. Meanwhile, how to hoist up Dad and two packs?

The boat slams into the rocks with a deafening crunch, as if they were the jaws of a sea monster. The hull scrapes along the ocean’s sharp teeth, splintering open. I don’t look; my sights are set on the lava shelf before me. I detect a crude natural stairway a little to the right, and swim feverishly to align with it.

The next swell carries me up to the low wall. I seize a handhold in the volcanic rock as the tide reverses, my pack hooked in the crook of my opposite elbow. The rope disappears into the water, but it’s still tied to my waist. Beneath the surf, my feet scramble for purchase, hindered by the weight of my hiking boots. Finally, my toe grips a ledge and I pull myself up the crude stairway, racing the next swell. My leg
is tangled in the rope, but plenty of slack remains. Just as I reach the top of the shelf, the waves break on the wall, and a geyser of ocean water pummels me.

I crawl farther ashore, gasping for breath. And then I’m tugged backward by my tangled leg. My forehead smacks against the rock and I grope wildly for a handhold as my pack and I slide toward the ledge, Dad rushing away with the reverse tide. I turn and lock my free foot into a deep pock and, now on my back, whip my arms out behind me to grip the rough rock.

The tugging finally stops. I spring up and free my leg. Blood drips into my eyes from my forehead. I wipe my face and search for Dad in the swell.

I see the bag. Not him.
Is he already gone, sunk below the waves?
Then I spot his head behind the bag. His good hand grips a shoulder strap. His face is contorted in agony, and he’s struggling to keep his head above water.

“Hang on!” Frantically, I reel in the rope.

I’m blasted by another wall of water; the tide reverses. I loop my hand around a bight in the rope and pull fiercely. Nāmaka-o-Kaha`i wants Dad for herself, but I want him more.
Jealous witch!
I sob with rage.
Pull
.
Pull
.

I drag him up to the base of the crude stairway. “Ditch the bag!”

He releases the backpack and clutches the same handle I used. The bag bobs away, but the rope is still looped through the shoulder strap. As the swell relents I stoop down the shelf and grab the strap of his empty gun holster. He pulls himself
upward with three good limbs, and I yank him forward with all my might.

We tumble into a heap atop the shelf as another wave punishes us. Dad crawls forward, coughing violently, while I pull on the rope to reel in his backpack.

A moment later, we huddle together just out of reach of the spray, our packs piled beside us amid a nest of tangled rope.

“No way I could have done that alone,” Dad pants, coddling his shoulder.

Emotions swell and wash over me. Nausea.

The boat has capsized thirty feet away, pinned against jagged boulders. The monster sea feeds on its prize, grinding, twisting, cracking, and splintering fiberglass with each lash of its watery tongue.

Dad coughs, looking around. I follow his gaze. We’re on a thin shelf of volcanic rock, pinned against a cliff wall at least five hundred feet high. There’s no path forward, no path backward, and the tide is still rising. The village of Kalaupapa sits serenely in the mid distance along a low-lying plain, but it might as well be on the shores of New Zealand. Our packs are waterlogged. The suitcases and the gun are lost. My head hurts, my eyes sting with salt and blood. Dad bleeds from his shoulder—it’s been like that for two hours now, which can’t be good. I have no idea what our next move is.

“That’s one island down,” Dad says. Every word is painful. “Two to go. Welcome to Moloka`i.”

We sit as far out of the reach of the rising tide as we can, our backs right up against the cliff face. No way to know whether the shelf we’re on will eventually be submerged. Our wrecked boat continues to grind and splinter on the rocks like a bone gnawed by a hungry dog. We’re just barely shaded from the sun by the high cliffs. It’s getting warm. And Dad is growing sleepy. I shake him out of another trance and he sits up. We have no plan. I’m on the brink of despair.

But perhaps there are a few miracles left.

I watch with confusion and then with mounting hope as an outrigger canoe materializes against the churning sea from the direction of Kalaupapa. Its crew of three is aiming toward us.

“Dad! Look!” I nudge him and he drowsily follows my gaze.

They
have
come for us. I can scarcely believe our good fortune as I watch the outrigger stop sixty yards out from shore, directly in front of us. The middle rower stands. He lifts up two life vests and a rope, and then dives in.

Dad and I watch as he swims over. I help the swimmer get his balance on the edge of the shelf. He’s haole, in his fifties. Strong.

His eyes are kind. “Are you all right? Is everyone here?” He speaks with some sort of accent—French?—long ago worn smooth.

I nod. “It’s just us. My dad is badly hurt.”

“What’s wrong?” He hands me a vest and glances over at Dad.

Am I supposed to say that Dad was shot? How will he react? Will he guess that we stole our boat and leave in disgust? I could make up a story.…

“Quick. What’s wrong?”

“Shot in the shoulder.”

“You? Deep cut.”

“It is?” I raise my fingers to my forehead.

“No biggie: you’ll wear it well. Can you follow the rope back to the canoe?”

“Yes.”

“Go. I’ll take care of him.”

I turn to dive, but remember: “Our bags. They float. We need them.…” I stop.
Is it wise to confess that we have food and medicine? How much can I trust these people? But why would they row all the way out here if their intentions weren’t good?

“I’ll tie them to the end of the rope. Your dad’s the priority.”

I pull myself along the rope, struggling against the water. One of the rowers rises and hauls in the line while the other steadies the oars, maintains the canoe’s position. I hold on tight and let the puller do the work. Behind me our rescuer, Dad, and the bags are reeled in.

The man pulling the rope helps us all aboard the canoe, and we turn toward Kalaupapa. The front rower has only one leg.

“We’ve been averaging a rescue a day,” the middle fellow says as he rows. They push hard to increase speed, but they haven’t even broken a sweat, and none are short of breath. “We all saw your boat stop. You’re very lucky to have made it to solid ground—both of you.”

Dad and I are tucked into the hull of the long, narrow canoe, covered in towels to protect us from the blazing sun. I’m behind him. “Keep pressure on his bullet wound,” says one. I see to my task, even though I’m afraid of hurting Dad. “She did it all,” Dad says. “She saved my life.”

“
You
saved our lives.” I try to change the subject. “Thank you. Thank you.”

The one-legged guy says, “That’s what we do now. In Kalaupapa, we vowed to serve the distressed. Traffic has been heavy, and so many don’t make it.”

“Lei. I’m …” Dad’s thought stalls.

I pat his good shoulder. “Hang in there. We’re getting you help. Don’t go to sleep, okay?”

He nods.

We land at Kalaupapa within the hour. A handful of people help us to shore. When they realize the extent of Dad’s injury, we’re ushered into an old Land Cruiser parked at the beach. Someone fires up the engine, and we’re off. I don’t know what’s going on, what’s happened to our bags. I don’t care. We’re racing now—and it feels like we’ve just lapped Death.

I melt into my seat. I’m in the middle, with Dad on one side and a woman on the other. She pulls a do-rag from her pocket and carefully pats down my forehead. “You may need stitches, darling.”

“Okay, thank you.” I brush her hand away, rest my head on Dad’s shoulder, and close my eyes.

Relax; they’re trying to help. Everything’s okay now
.

We skid to a halt. The driver jumps out and helps Dad out. We’ve arrived at an urgent-care clinic near the beach. Dad is helped onto a gurney and wheeled away. I follow.

Minutes later he’s wheeled through the last set of doors toward surgery, and someone pulls me back as we try to cling together.

“Lei.”

“Dad!”

“He’s in very good hands,” another stranger whispers in my ear. “These folks have had a lot of practice with gunshots lately. Come. Sit. We need to take care of
you
.”

The next hour is a blur. I get stitches in my forehead. I answer questions. Finally, I’m in a waiting room. The small clinic is busy. As I glance around I have the feeling that the
End of Days hasn’t caught up to this place yet. The hustle and bustle feels normal.

Eventually, though, my thoughts catch up with my battered body.

Panic claws at me, loneliness. A black hole. I’m plummeting, tumbling. I tuck my face into my hands and weep, flooded with all of the fear I didn’t have time to let in till now.

Forget all of it; it doesn’t matter
. But it’s not even over yet. This labyrinth is real, and I’m somewhere near the center. I just want to be in Mom’s arms. My feet press into the floor with enough power to budge the Earth. When will it let up? When is enough enough?

The world that worked is gone, but I’m still here. Anguish washes over me.

An older man sits beside me. He coaxes me into his gentle arms and holds me tight. I could never explain how, but I instantly feel his kindness. I weep against his chest.

I wipe my face against my sleeve and look at him. He is Hawaiian, with a potbelly, a round nose, and deeply pocked, ruddy cheeks. He has careworn, coffee-colored eyes, and the thickest mane of wavy black hair I’ve ever seen on a man his age. He looks nothing like Grandpa, but he reminds me of him. “Thank you.”

“How are you?” He hands me some tissue.

I shrug and blow my nose. “Better.”

“You guys are going to be okay now, yeah?”

I nod.

“Your dad’s getting patched up. He’s doing good.”

“Are you a doctor?” I ask.

“I’m a healer.”

We sit beside each other comfortably.

“Are those stitches under that bandage?”

“Yes.”

“Good. No scar gonna tarnish that beautiful young face.”

I laugh. “Do I look like I spend much time in front of the mirror anymore?”

His smile widens. “You and your dad on your way to Hilo, yeah?”

He must have been around when I was answering questions. I nod.

“Crazy out there, yeah?”

I nod again.

“I love the Big Island. Wish Moloka`i had mountains like that. Mauna Kea’s, what, fourteen thousand feet high?”

“Yeah. Think so.”

“All those telescopes and radio dishes.” He looks at me intently, trying to connect without coming on too strong. It dawns on me that I’ve been hugging a complete stranger.

“Would you like to be alone?” he asks.

“No, that’s all right,” I say quickly. I can feel the panic even now.

“I’ll stay.” We sit together in silence.

“Your name is Leilani?”

“Yes.”

“One of my very favorite names. I love the sound, I love the meaning.”

“Thank you.”

“Have you had any fits?” He points to my bracelet. “Since all this started?”