Chapter 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.
The table went quiet. Even the geckos on the ceiling seemed to hold their breath.
I scanned the room in the moment before Pearl began to speak; old Secret Service training took over as I read the space before the principal target drew focus.
Edith, dripping and resplendent in a wet purple caftan, already had her reading glasses out as she dabbed her face with one of the towels Aunt Fae had given out.
Lei set down the roll she’d been about to bite into and was watching Pearl with the focused attention of someone who had seen the elder open her mouth to say important things before and knew to be fully present for it.
Keone reached for my hand; I let him take it.
Officer Peahi flapped her notebook to get things moving.
“I see you have brought the documents in question.”
“Yes. I wouldn’t have if I’d known we’d get caught in a thundershower, but they seem okay.
” She tapped the transparent binder. “These papers came into my possession last month. I found them while sorting my late husband’s research papers.
He was an amateur historian and spent years studying land rights in East Maui.
He had tracked these down and obtained copies from the state archives.
As you know he passed away thirty years ago, and I didn’t know about this cache.
” She smoothed the archival binder flat on the table with a careful hand.
“My husband always said the right moment would make history important again. That time seems to have come.”
Through the plastic, I could make out formal handwriting in both Hawaiian and English, and at the bottom of the first page, an elaborate signature above what appeared to be a royal seal.
“This is a land grant decree signed by King David Kalākaua in 1887,” Pearl said.
“It designates Awawakapu, also known as Sacred Valley, as wahi pana. A legendary and sacred place, to be held in perpetual trust for the Hawaiian people.” She flipped to the second page.
“The decree explicitly names the ki?i pōhaku—the petroglyphs—as cultural treasures integral to the site’s sacred designation.
They serve as historical records of the families who were kahu of the valley.
” She glanced at Uncle Kalani. “Your family is named, Kalani. The Opuna line is listed as hereditary cultural stewards.”
“That was what I knew from our oral traditions.” Uncle Kalani’s weathered face didn’t change expression, but his hand went to the lei at his throat, gently stroking the bright leaves.
“My grandmother told stories about our family’s kuleana.
Our responsibility to the valley. I believed them.
That is why I keep the heiau tended and perform ceremonies there for the Kanaka Maoli when they ask for it–weddings, funerals.
But I never had proof in the haole way of what I was meant to do.
” He touched the edge of the plastic sleeve. “Written proof.”
“Now you have that,” Pearl said.
Edith leaned over the archival sleeves, her reading glasses perched on her nose.
“Crown land designations from the monarchy period have a complicated legal history,” she said, her voice shifting to the cadence she deployed when the law was involved.
“After the overthrow in 1893, crown lands were seized and transferred to the Territory, then the State. But perpetual trust designations tied to cultural and religious sites have been upheld in significant court cases. The key language here, ‘held in perpetual trust for the Hawaiian people’ . . . that’s not a standard land grant. That’s a protective covenant.”
“Meaning?” Officer Peahi asked.
“Meaning this could form the legal basis for challenging commercial development of Sacred Valley.” Edith looked up as her eyes flashed with conviction. “If these papers are authentic—and they look genuine to me—they could stop Chang’s development plan cold.”
“And if someone knew the papers existed,” my sharp-witted Keone said, “they might want to weaken the case for Sacred Valley’s protected status by removing the features that make it culturally significant.”
The implication settled over the table. Overhead, a gecko chirped emphatically.