on the words. As unwelcome as they are, they feel right. I’m haunted by the tribal tattoos of those men. Several races—haoles among them—but all locals. Attacking tourists. Attacking me. Almost certainly gangbangers, but still. I shiver and run my hand through my smoky hair.
“Lei.” Dad shakes his head. “You were amazing up there.I don’t think I could have done it. You’re a hero, you know that?”
I feel my cheeks grow warm.
“Heroine.”
Adrenaline still simmers in my veins. I feel powerful, angry.
One week
.
Right before my eyes, my beautiful islands are changing forever.
And so am I.
CHAPTER 11
The rising sun turns our broken windshield into a hundred glinting shards. The haze has intensified. For the third day since we left Honolulu, we are camped out in our car, slowly weaving south over crowded roads littered with abandoned vehicles.
Because of the reports of tsunami damage to boats moored along the north and east coasts, we’ve focused our attempt to charter a ride south of Honolulu, along a bay called Kaupa Pond. It’s rimmed with houses, each with a dock. There must be a pier along here that will offer us a way off O`ahu. But the only boat traffic beneath the bridge that leads to the open ocean belongs to coast guard patrols, which intercept unofficial ships like sparrow-hungry hawks, commandeer gasoline, and turn sailboats back to shore.
Dad pulls into a strip mall, zigzags across the untidyparking lot, and stops in front of a busted-out grocery store. “Give it a try. Quick.”
I jump out and trot over to the newspaper vending machines. We’re scavenging for information. But every rack is empty.
How did things unravel so fast?
No news. No food. No medicine. We’ve tried seven different pharmacies in the past forty-eight hours, all ransacked, nobody on duty. I have enough pills to last the month, and a few dozen more back home, but what happens when they run out?
I return to the car and shake my head. We pull back onto the main road.
I glance at our gas needle: down to a third of a tank.
Why are there so many ditched vehicles? Have the cars run out of gas? Or have the drivers run out of steam, tired of circling?
Most of the abandoned cars seem newer.
Too many electronic parts?
Our no-frills rental is acting strange: radio dead, but all the warning lights lit up. We have to pull over when it rains, because the wipers don’t work. The headlights randomly flicker or dim at night. Dad’s worried about the fuel pump. He closes his eyes and whispers something every time he starts the car.
To my left, the caldera of an extinct volcano sinks into the ocean, creating a deep-blue bay teeming with coral. Straight ahead, singed by a crown of fiery morning light, is the tall peak of another cinder cone, Koko Head.
According to one of my favorite Hawaiian myths, it was at Koko Head that Pele made her last stand on O`ahu. I try to remember the whole story.
Pele seduced the husband of her sister, Nā-maka-o-Kaha`i, the goddess of water and of the sea, so she fled to the Hawaiian Islands. Pele thrust down her
o`o
, her shovel, in Kaua`i, claiming the land as her home, but her sister flung the sea at her. Waves filled the fiery hole made by Pele’s
o`o
, and she escaped to O`ahu.
Each time Pele dug a new fire pit to call home, Nā-maka-o-Kaha`i commanded the rain to wash her away. Koko Head was her final dwelling on O`ahu.
Finally, she arrived on Hawai`i. She ascended Mauna Kea, the world’s tallest mountain measured from seafloor, and dug her
o`o
on the summit, far beyond the sea’s reach.
Nā-maka-o-Kaha`i used Poli`ahu, the goddess of snow, to best Pele on the mountaintop by freezing her out, and Pele retreated one last time to neighboring Mauna Loa.
The Mauna Loa and Kilauea volcanoes remain her active homes to this day. Mauna Loa last erupted in the 1980s, almost erasing Hilo. Pele could command the lava to bubble out of there again at any moment.
I feel closer to her than ever.
“Lei.” Dad shakes his head. “You were amazing up there.I don’t think I could have done it. You’re a hero, you know that?”
I feel my cheeks grow warm.
“Heroine.”
Adrenaline still simmers in my veins. I feel powerful, angry.
One week
.
Right before my eyes, my beautiful islands are changing forever.
And so am I.
CHAPTER 11
The rising sun turns our broken windshield into a hundred glinting shards. The haze has intensified. For the third day since we left Honolulu, we are camped out in our car, slowly weaving south over crowded roads littered with abandoned vehicles.
Because of the reports of tsunami damage to boats moored along the north and east coasts, we’ve focused our attempt to charter a ride south of Honolulu, along a bay called Kaupa Pond. It’s rimmed with houses, each with a dock. There must be a pier along here that will offer us a way off O`ahu. But the only boat traffic beneath the bridge that leads to the open ocean belongs to coast guard patrols, which intercept unofficial ships like sparrow-hungry hawks, commandeer gasoline, and turn sailboats back to shore.
Dad pulls into a strip mall, zigzags across the untidyparking lot, and stops in front of a busted-out grocery store. “Give it a try. Quick.”
I jump out and trot over to the newspaper vending machines. We’re scavenging for information. But every rack is empty.
How did things unravel so fast?
No news. No food. No medicine. We’ve tried seven different pharmacies in the past forty-eight hours, all ransacked, nobody on duty. I have enough pills to last the month, and a few dozen more back home, but what happens when they run out?
I return to the car and shake my head. We pull back onto the main road.
I glance at our gas needle: down to a third of a tank.
Why are there so many ditched vehicles? Have the cars run out of gas? Or have the drivers run out of steam, tired of circling?
Most of the abandoned cars seem newer.
Too many electronic parts?
Our no-frills rental is acting strange: radio dead, but all the warning lights lit up. We have to pull over when it rains, because the wipers don’t work. The headlights randomly flicker or dim at night. Dad’s worried about the fuel pump. He closes his eyes and whispers something every time he starts the car.
To my left, the caldera of an extinct volcano sinks into the ocean, creating a deep-blue bay teeming with coral. Straight ahead, singed by a crown of fiery morning light, is the tall peak of another cinder cone, Koko Head.
According to one of my favorite Hawaiian myths, it was at Koko Head that Pele made her last stand on O`ahu. I try to remember the whole story.
Pele seduced the husband of her sister, Nā-maka-o-Kaha`i, the goddess of water and of the sea, so she fled to the Hawaiian Islands. Pele thrust down her
o`o
, her shovel, in Kaua`i, claiming the land as her home, but her sister flung the sea at her. Waves filled the fiery hole made by Pele’s
o`o
, and she escaped to O`ahu.
Each time Pele dug a new fire pit to call home, Nā-maka-o-Kaha`i commanded the rain to wash her away. Koko Head was her final dwelling on O`ahu.
Finally, she arrived on Hawai`i. She ascended Mauna Kea, the world’s tallest mountain measured from seafloor, and dug her
o`o
on the summit, far beyond the sea’s reach.
Nā-maka-o-Kaha`i used Poli`ahu, the goddess of snow, to best Pele on the mountaintop by freezing her out, and Pele retreated one last time to neighboring Mauna Loa.
The Mauna Loa and Kilauea volcanoes remain her active homes to this day. Mauna Loa last erupted in the 1980s, almost erasing Hilo. Pele could command the lava to bubble out of there again at any moment.
I feel closer to her than ever.
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