Page 58 of Talk Story

Aunt Fae smiled—a closed-mouth, secretive expression. “She got called away. Someone needed her attention.”

My spidey-sense intuition sent up an alert; I was almost sure she had gone to meet Pali—and when I glanced over at Keone, he gave me a nod and a thumbs-up, reading my mind.

Wherever Elle and Pali were right now was right where they were supposed to be.

Once we’d made some headway on the meal, Lei clapped her hands and called for attention. All the folks who’d been outside and elsewhere gathered around.

“Okay,” she said. “Since you’re all going to hear it on the coconut wireless by tonight anyway, you might as well get the facts. Here’s where things stand with the case.” She set her plate on her knees. “Update on the Valley first, because that’s the cornerstone of the case, and what matters most.” She gave a nod to Uncle Kalani when she said it. “The petroglyphs and the cave site are going to be granted protected status under the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act—NAGPRA for short, which covers Native Hawaiian cultural items and sacred sites. A preliminary federal determination came through; thanks to Edith for pulling together all the filings. As a result of her efforts, the Chang Development operation in the Valley has also been stopped by a judge’s order until status can be determined and established.”

Edith doffed her witch-style red hat. “Hurrah! Worth all the bureaucratic baloney to get to this point. But I couldn’t have done it without Dr. Patel’s report—too bad she turned out to be a bad egg.”

“Yes,” Lei acknowledged. “That means the petroglyphs are legally recognized as belonging to the Valley and the lineal descendants and Native Hawaiian organizations connected to it—not to a museum, not to a developer, not to the state. The carvings will go home and be protected there, permanently, by federal law.”

The sound that went around the room was soft and deep, a murmur of relief that had been a hundred and fifty years in the making. Uncle Kalani closed his eyes. Pearl pressed her folded crane to her chest. Ilima reached over and gripped Aunt Fae’s hand, two matriarchs from opposite ends of the earth bearing witness.

“Now—the criminal proceedings.” She glanced at Malia, who picked up the report, her voice flat and official.

“After discussion with our Attorney General, Victor Chang, Madison Chang, and David Santos are all being charged in connection with the desecration and theft of cultural antiquities from the Awawakapu site,” Malia said. “Federal counts under the Archaeological Resources Protection Act and NAGPRA, plus state charges for the theft and the criminal property damage at the Heritage Garden. Victor and Madison are additionally charged with masterminding the kidnapping, unlawful imprisonment, and attempted murder of Dr. Emerson.” Every head turned to Emerson, who froze like a toad in headlights with attention on him. “Those are serious felony charges,” Malia went on. “Kidnapping alone carries a long sentence. Santos is already facing his own charges from the other case.” She didn’t say Pearl’s name, but Pearl’s chin lifted. “And will stack on top. The DA’s office told us this morning they intend to pursue all of it. No quiet plea bargains. The case will go to trial.”

“And Victor’s still in the hospital,” Ilima said. “Broken pelvis.”

“Broke it in three places when he fell into the pit,” Lei confirmed. “He’s stable, he’ll recover, but it’ll be a long road—surgery, months of rehabilitation, and a lot of pain before he walks right again. He’ll do that from a cell or a hospital bed unless he can make bail—which will likely be in the millions.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Karma,” Opal pronounced, waving a half-eaten drumstick with serene finality.

“You reap what you sow,” Aunt Fae said from the kitchen doorway, drying her hands on a dishtowel. I’d have paid money to see those two on a jury together.

“That valley took care of itself. You go up there to take what’s not yours, the ‘aina going remembah,” Uncle Kalani said. Nobody argued with that. “I have been thinking on the stones,” he went on. “About how they should come home. They were carried off in the dark, in a thief’s truck, with no respect. That is not how they will return home.” His weathered hands moved through the air as he spoke. “They are at a county facility in Kahului now, in boxes. I want to bring them home the right way, by water first. A canoe to carry them, paddled from Kahului around the coast to Ohia Bay, the way the ancestors traveled, with chanters at the bow.” A murmur moved through the room, warm and rising. “Then we will take them up from the bay on a float, decorated properly with ti leaf and flowers. We will go slow, slow, through Ohia so everyone can come watch history pass. And we will take the carvings up to the Valley and move them through the caves hand-to-hand, carried by the people, into the place where they belong. With pule. With offerings and songs. And hula. With everyone who fought for them walking alongside.”

My heartbeat picked up; he’d painted such a vivid picture—and I would be a part of it!

For a moment nobody spoke. Then Pearl Yamamoto, who had survived poison and outlived nearly everyone, said in her small clear voice: “Yes. That is how it must be done.”

The room came apart in joyful discussion: Ilima already talking permits and a calendar date, Artie reaching for his ukulele, Edith flipping to a fresh page on her legal pad with the gleam in her eye of a woman who’d found a project, Josie declaring she would handle the canoe and float decorating organization and protocols with Uncle Kalani, Opal announcing there would absolutely be food and a great deal of it.

In the excitement I had to move. I got up with my empty paper plate and went to the kitchen to toss it; Keone’s arm came around me there and pulled me into his side. I leaned into the warmth of the feeling of really belonging, as our community planned a homecoming for the Valley’s stolen heart.

Some days you solved the case and drove home with a rock on your chest.

And some days the stone goes home where it came from, carried on the water, feted on a float, sung back into the dark by descendants of those who made it.

I was so glad for the small part my cat and I had played in bringing that about—and for the community that had told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was a part of it.

EPILOGUE

It took five weeks to bring the stones home.

There was the police department to satisfy first—evidence release forms, chain-of-custody signatures, and a federal archaeologist down from Honolulu to confer with Dr. Emerson and certify that the petroglyphs were going where NAGPRA said they belonged. Uncle Kalani consulted the moon and the tides and some older reckoning he didn’t explain to the rest of us and named a Saturday in late September. So a Saturday in late September it was.

There were permits for the procession and a road closure through Ohia that Ilima pushed through in record time. There was a waʻa (canoe) to find and a crew to paddle her, and a date to settle that the kahu deemed correct, ti leaf and maile to gather.

The morning came clear and fresh-washed—what Maui gives when it’s decided to be especially generous. I stood on the sand of Ohia Bay with Aunt Fae on one side of me and Tiki at my feet, and we watched the sea for a canoe.

The Hawaiian families had come in kīhei—rectangles of cloth, some plain undyed muslin like kapa, some stamped with ʻohe kāpala patterns in earth red and black. Each one was draped over the left shoulder and knotted, worn over their clothes.

The Kaihale family had turned out in force. Ilima stood at the waterline in a kīhei the deep red of ʻalaea earth, regal as any chiefess, her mayoral demeanor put aside for something even more majestic. Lei’s partner Pono Kaihale had come with his family for the ceremony. Keone’s other cousins and aunties and a dozen people I was still learning the names of stood in a loose reverent crescent on the sand, leis on, faces turned to the water.