Page 7 of Talk Story

He took my hand and squeezed; I was glad of the contact.

The young policewoman, Officer Peahi, I caught from her badge—was finishing with Pearl and moving toward Tiki’s excavation spot. Good. She’d handle it properly.

“Let’s get everyone together before this rain arrives,” Ilima called, her voice carrying pleasant but immovable authority. “Artie’s store has more malasadas. Let’s get out of the weather and talk.”

Tiki chose to abandon the dig and fall in step beside me, tail high, apparently satisfied that the right people had been alerted. She trotted toward Sharkey with the self-possessed air of a consultant who had completed her presentation.

I glanced back at the broken crane lying in the grass, the single remaining wing catching the last of the afternoon light; then I followed my cat to the car.

4

The Ohia General Store wasn’t organized in the usual way of such establishments. Artie Pahinui kept fresh bread on the same shelf as his O-rings and marine sealant, and somehow it worked; the place carried a little bit of everything that both tourists and residents of this remote area might need. Finding what you needed was a bit of a treasure hunt, and not a bad thing.

A recent change to the layout was that they’d expanded the counter that had held coffee and fresh food on one wall. Now the store featured a café area with multiple comestible offerings and a large round table with chairs. This provided an indoor spot for informal gatherings, like the one we were arriving for.

My Aunt Fae, who had apparently received advance coconut wireless notice of the situation—was already stationed behind the counter with a stack of towels. The air smelled of the recently brewed pot of Kona dark coffee steaming on the sideboard.

“You been trying out for a wet T-shirt contest?” Aunt Fae handed me a pineapple print towel with no-nonsense efficiency. She wore her usual uniform of faded Ohia General Store T-shirt and Levi’s, her salt-and-pepper bob frizzy in the humidity. Her booted foot thumped on the floor as she fetched me a bright pareo off the shelf to cover up with. “I heard about the garden destruction. Pua called. Then texted. Then called again.”

“Of course she did.” I wrapped the small towel around my wet hair, and the pareo around my transparent white tee. “Has she started a GoFundMe yet?”

“Ten minutes ago. Already at three hundred dollars.” Aunt Fae arched a brow. “And of course I contributed and reposted it. Now grab some coffee and a cinnamon roll and warm up.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Pearl’s motorized wheelchair hummed through the door, with Lani guiding her past the racks of locally made soaps, children’s beach toys, hats and bags of fertilizer. Wet from the downpour, Pearl’s silk kimono had taken on the texture of wet tissue, but her chin was thrust forward with determination. Mayor Ilima followed them, her thick braid listing to starboard and muumuu clinging damply. Lei, Edith Pepperwhite, and Malia Peahi brought up the rear; the new officer’s notebook was already in hand to take statements.

Uncle Kalani came last. His ti leaf lei had survived the deluge better than any of the rest of our outfits; the woven leaves glistened with droplets that caught the store’s overhead light. He moved to the large round café table with unhurried dignity and took a seat. Everyone else followed suit.

Artie materialized from the kitchen carrying a tray. Despite being blind, he navigated the crowded store without touching so much as a display of Ohia keychains, setting the large metal platter of warm cinnamon rolls on the table with precision.

“When the coconut wireless tells me there’s trouble,” Artie said, pouring coffee into Opal’s mismatched thrift store ceramics and handing them out, “I start baking—because soon folks will be showing up in need of comfort food.”

“Uncle Artie,” I said, biting into a cinnamon roll so light that it melted in my mouth in a burst of sweet, fragrant frosting. “You, sir, are a treasure.”

Artie waved this off with a modest hand, but his lips tightened in a smile and his shoulders straightened. He had lost weight in recent months after his doctor-mandated lifestyle overhaul, and he moved with ease compared to last year when his diabetes, combined with a heart scare, had shaken all of us.

Some people you don’t want to think about losing.

Opal appeared from the door connecting the store to their living quarters, carrying another tray, this one of sliced papaya. Her shoulders were wrapped in a purple velvet scarf held closed with a peace sign pin in red, white, and blue rhinestones; her short white hair spiky from a shower and her kukui nut rune pouch rattling in her pocket. She was pale but alert, and she settled into the chair beside Artie with the focused expression she got when her intuitive insight had been activated.

“Something important has been disturbed,” she said. “The runes have been trying to tell me all morning.”

“They’ll have to get in line,” I said. “We’ve got petroglyphs missing and a garden destroyed. Plenty of disturbance to go around.”

“Confirmation,” she said. “The runes are never wrong.”

Sometimes I wished they were.

“But not a literal disturbance. I’m referring to something deeper.” Opal’s pale blue eyes found Uncle Kalani’s across the table. The two of them exchanged a look that bypassed the rest of us entirely, some unspoken knowledge or frequency.

“The stones have been crying out,” Uncle Kalani said quietly. “Your runes hear it too.”

A few uncomfortable minutes went by; I could only assume the rest of us didn’t know how to address these comments by the most spiritually sensitive of us. Instead, we helped ourselves to cinnamon rolls and coffee, digging into a restorative rush of caffeine and sugar.

Finally, Officer Peahi cleared her throat. “Ms. Yamamoto. You mentioned land grant papers at the garden that were signed by King Kalākaua. I need to understand their connection to the vandalism at the garden.”

Pearl set down her coffee mug with a decisive clink and held out one hand to Lani, who produced a weathered leather satchel from the back of the wheelchair. Pearl unzipped it with arthritic fingers that still managed to convey absolute authority. She withdrew a slender clear binder; inside it, several archival sleeves contained pages of aged paper, their edges brown and fragile.