SERENA N MICHEL | Huakaʻi a Lehua
Story by Serena N Michel Excerpt | The night was still in Waiʻanae moku. All was silent in the valley of Lualualei. No tree stirred, and the water along the valley’s shoreline lapped softly against the sand and sizzled lightly on its way back into the ocean. Ulehawa Stream was smooth and flat, and the moon could see her reflection on its surface. With a mahina poepoe, the kinolau of Māui was defined along the ridgeline of Palikea and Puʻu Heleakalā. The stars were clear and many. The night sky was fully awake. Its stillness was ever-present and deeply-felt. And then a cry ripped through the air. It came from the first hale along Ulehawa Stream, just across from the shore. The natural world seemed to shift and respond with the cry. The waves clapped gently louder, and the moon and stars radiated faintly brighter. The cry had been so sudden, it was incomprehensible with the sound of the water receding from the shore. But then the environment returned to its natural state, the atmosphere became calm again, and the cry was distinct. It was the cry of a newborn child.
Story by Serena N Michel
Excerpt |
The night was still in Waiʻanae moku. All was silent in the valley of Lualualei. No tree stirred, and the water along the valley’s shoreline lapped softly against the sand and sizzled lightly on its way back into the ocean. Ulehawa Stream was smooth and flat, and the moon could see her reflection on its surface. With a mahina poepoe, the kinolau of Māui was defined along the ridgeline of Palikea and Puʻu Heleakalā. The stars were clear and many. The night sky was fully awake. Its stillness was ever-present and deeply-felt. And then a cry ripped through the air.
It came from the first hale along Ulehawa Stream, just across from the shore. The natural world seemed to shift and respond with the cry. The waves clapped gently louder, and the moon and stars radiated faintly brighter. The cry had been so sudden, it was incomprehensible with the sound of the water receding from the shore. But then the environment returned to its natural state, the atmosphere became calm again, and the cry was distinct. It was the cry of a newborn child.
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Kumu and the moʻolelo. He asks, “Does anyone<br />
know the significance of this story?<br />
No one speaks. I have the urge to know,<br />
and wish I knew, the answer. Justine’s raspy voice<br />
fills the silence: “The islands are one; they are not<br />
separate from each other. We are one Hawaiʻi.”<br />
Kumu’s grin is wide. I think I see a slight<br />
layer of tears in his eyes. “Ae, Justine. And this<br />
is why Lualualei, and one of the reasons why<br />
Waiʻanae moku, is a wahi pana, a celebrated<br />
place.” He pauses. “‘Kay everyone, da bell’s about<br />
to ring. Do you have any questions about da<br />
moʻolelo of Māui?” With no reply, Kumu continues.<br />
“Remember, every place on dis ‘āina has a<br />
story to it. Don’t listen to stereotypes. Learn nā<br />
moʻolelo behind these places.”<br />
“Ae, Kumu,” we say in unison as the bell rings.<br />
Kama quickly grabs her backpack and<br />
goes out the door before I can ask her to wait.<br />
But I know the reason for her hurry, because I see<br />
Kumu’s eyes watch her go out the door, too. Justine<br />
is also watching with the slightest smirk on her<br />
face, but it quickly disappears.<br />
———————<br />
I get home from school and hear Papa<br />
making food to eat—his scraping spoon against<br />
one of our metal pans. I inhale the savory smell<br />
of chicken, and my stomach rumbles. I put down<br />
my bags near the couch and walk over to the<br />
kitchen, and I peek inside to watch my Papa. As<br />
he always does when he cooks, he’s humming,<br />
18
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