A new work in progress....

This story is a work in progress about twin boys who inevitably commit matricide. I have three vignettes for your reading pleasure. All comments welcome, as always.....

Kaua: war
Malu: peace

Two Births and an Omen

Kamalani’s death came fifteen years before she had the knowledge of its arrival, while she looked into the eyes of a healer.

She had always been a quiet one, with the dark, long hair of the South Seas, olive skin and a quick smile. As a child, she would walk the beaches for sea shells, barefooted and smiling, with a longing to weave them together in necklaces for her friends. However, once she got them home, they would sit in her bucket, eventually collecting a dead smell of the sea and getting tossed back in the rolling water by her father, a fisherman. She grew up slowly and happily as an only child, finding the most pleasure out of the simplest things. She was not sheltered from the world, having grown up poor, but her family turned out well enough with the things they needed. She fell in love at sixteen and married at twenty. At twenty-one, she became pregnant with twins.

Her sons were born within a minute of another, on a stormy afternoon in August. The sky had been clear in the morning, but by eleven the clouds had rolled in and the mountain range in the distance was veiled in mist. The lightning leapt from cloud to cloud like hopscotch and the heavens shook in a fury. A wind came up from the sea and called in a hollow, banshee-voice. Kamalani lay motionless, breathing through her mouth and nose as she had been taught. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. To take her mind off the growing pain radiating out of her body, she repeated quietly through grit teeth, E komo mai, little children. E komo mai. Her husband was away at work again, crushing the rock around their community to build the roads entering the city; she was alone except for the doctors, nurses and patients within the hospital. Her hands lay at her side, flat on the sheet-covered mattress, without a person to take them up in their own hands, as she had heard so often about; in the rush to get to the hospital, she had forgotten to call her mother. Nearly inaudible, the doctor tried to calm her anxious eyes with soothing words, verbally petting her like a deer found injured in the woods. She took in her breath through the narrow opening in her mouth, it sounding crisp and cutting through the air with the onslaught of another contraction.

The rest of the hospital was quiet, except for the tapping of feet across the floor, or the occasional squeal of rubber wheel-chair tires over linoleum. Her moans made a resounding echo down the corridor, causing one old man, who had a tendency to walk back and forth throughout the day, to stop during his rounds of the maternity wing and say solemnly:

“Those boys will be the death of her.”

The man had a reputation for second sight, knowing the future before it came to pass. Should Kamalani’s family have heard the pronouncement, the babies would have been taken and drowned before their first cry.

At the clap of thunder and a grunt of Kamalani, out came the mua, black hair curly and his gray eyes open. The boy was silent, wet with the liquid of the womb about his face, his demeanor calm and expectant. At 5 pounds, 1 ounce, he was small, but strong.

“And his name?”

“Malu,” she said quietly. “He is my peace.”

“It is a good omen,” one nurse was overheard saying to another.

As he was handed away, the mother screamed again, this time her hand clenching the damp bed sheets in agony, her eyes catching those of the doctor as he looked toward the clock for the time of birth. Another boy, not so hairy and almost a full pound heavier. He was a screamer and immediately began writhing in the arms of the nurse. His wet little body was slippery; he forced the nurse to clutch him frantically, the way he flapped his arms. Later, Kamalani told him it reminded her of a caught chicken. He was fierce, with charcoal eyes shut tight, his face turning color from the noise in his throat and his little stomach heaving in and out with new air. Over the din, his name was pronounced by the father, as he strode through the doorway in mud-caked boots, his own shadow-black hair wet with the new rain:

“Kaua. His name will be Kaua.” The nurse looked to Kamalani and she nodded, accepting the name, and fate, of the little stranger.

After a quick cleaning, each was wrapped in a blanket and handed to a parent – Malu went to Kimo and Kaua to Kamalani. The babies became quiet as they looked into the eyes of their parents, separated for the first time from their womb-mates. Kaua was dark around the ears, already showing the skin tone that would develop as he grew older. His black eyes, when quiet, showed that he had a darkness inside him. By and large, it was noticed, he had the greater spectrum of emotion. As a young man, he proved himself equal to his older brother, earning the title lua that was given to him at birth. His mother smiled on him, and her tears stained his face. Malu rather, had a long birthmark over his right side, hidden as he was wrapped in a blanket. He was quiet and asleep, resting in the large embrace of his father.

When Kamalani’s mother showed up at the hospital, carrying her large bamboo and tapa purse, she lost her temper at not hearing of the birth sooner, until she saw the mark on Malu's side. She said, rather haughtily, that it was a sign of protection.

“The boy must be given to Kane-hekili. He will be protected by the thunder god. The mark is that of an aumakua. He will be raised in the old tradition, governed in the old ways. He will keep the kapu.” Everyone was quiet, looking about the room for an argument, until Kamalani spoke up,

“No. He will not be given to the old gods. He is protected by the cross and his living family. Nothing more.”

“He must – “

“Nothing more.” The argument ended as suddenly as it began, thus sealing the fate of the old religion in the Truett household and putting an end to the muttered prayers and left out food offerings. However, as the boys grew in their own stature, they gleaned pieces of information from Kimo, each secretly nursing the wish to live hundreds of years earlier, with tattooed bodies and tattooed hearts.


Caeser

“Hele mai 'ai!,” Kamalani called from the screen door. She yelled it again so the children could hear, they being seven years old and untamable. Far out over the red-dirt road, she could make out their dusty heads, Kaua and Malu racing forward, yipping and yelling at one another, skipping as they came along like young mustangs.

“Let’s go, Hele hope!,” Kaua called, though he was the younger.

“Who you calling ‘little brother,’ Little brother?” They played this game continuously, each one considering himself the better of the two and, as a result, each calling the other ‘Little brother.’

Kaua replied to Malu, “I’ve always been bigger,” to which Malu retorted between breaths, “I will always be older. 60 seconds makes me Mua.” They reached the screen door in a cloud of earth, neither one really winning, both panting and tired.

“Not even 60,” Kaua snuck in.

“Enough games, you little buggas,” Kamalani chimed. “Time for food; go clean up.”

“What we having, ma?” Malu asked.

“Whatchu think? I bought spam and eggs yesterday, so we have spam and eggs today.”

“With rice.”

“Always with rice.”

Gasping for air, Malu walked ahead, hands swinging freely near his sides. His chest heaved up and down repeatedly – he was asthmatic and tried to make his lungs work the oxygen into his blood. Kaua had veered toward the kitchen, putting his stubby little fingers into the frying pan and pulling out a piece of scrambled egg. Quickly, he popped it into his mouth and made a sneer, scrunching his nose and squinting his eyes. He ran into the pink and gold bathroom to meet Malu, pulled up close to his ear and said, barely over the running water:

“Put lots of Tobasco on the eggs.”

“Burned?”

“Rubbery.”

“Oh.”

Kaua stuck his hands in the water over Malu’s, looking him in the face through the mirror as he did so. Malu kept wringing his hands together, without noticing. The younger boy flung his hands toward the elder, barely missing his chest and wetting his shirt, sprinkling it with water. Another sneer appeared on the boy’s face.

“You know what?,” Malu said.

“What?”

“I no caya.”

“Yeah. You do. You caya. No can no caya.”

“You wrong, Hele hope. No caya.” Both boys rubbed their hands on the backside of their scuffy jeans, the denim turning dark where their fingers had been a moment ago. They walked to the dining table, sat down and brought their hands to rest, palms upward on the tabletop.

“Hands clean?,” Kamalani asked. She came into the dining room with two plates, filled with food, held high over the young ones’ heads. Malu answered for both of them.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, ma`am.” She set the food in front of each of them, they looking like a mirror of one another, except Malu’s hair was wild and curly, where Kaua’s was clipped close to his round skull, accentuating his slanted eyes and large forehead. Each ate with a combination of fingers and fork, hands moving methodically between plate and mouth. Malu shook the Tobasco sauce over the eggs, turning the yellow and white mixture a pinkish color.

“You like it?,” Kamalani asked.

“Uh-huh,” they said between mouthfuls. Kamalani walked back into the kitchen, whistling as she went. Kaua looked at Malu and smiled, egg showing over his teeth. “Oo ike it?”

“Haha. Yeah. I ‘ike it. You stupid.”

“You.”

“No, man. You.”

“No play, man. No call me stupid. You stupid.”

“I no caya whatchu think. You stupid. Talk food in yo mouth. Stupid Hele hope.”

“Say it again.” Kaua’s eyes turned dark and his demeanor changed. He took his intelligence seriously, especially since he knew Malu was smarter than him.

“What? You stupid? Ok brah, if that’s whatchu want. You stupid.” A fork came flying then, narrowly missing the ear of Malu. His face became solemn and his brow tightened. Kaua smiled, knowingly. “Fine. We finish eat, den fight.” Malu’s tone was serious. He knew that once the two began the journey down this road, the shadows would move in quickly and there would be no turning back. When the boys fought, they did so in hopes to utterly destroy the other, like young tigers out to prove his worth.

“Fight now. I can eat your food later.”

“You heard me, Little brother. I finish eating these rubbery eggs, den we fight outside, away from mama.”

“You smart, Little brother. We wait. But still, I gonna kick your ass, den come back and eat your food.”

“We’ll see.”

“Yeah. We will.” During the rest of the meal, the two were silent. Each one looked at his opponent across the table and didn’t remove his eyes from his twin, fingers still working from plate to mouth and back again. Kamalani moved about the house, unnoticing. Kaua occasionally sniggered to himself, while Malu remained quiet, his stomach in knots and palms beginning to sweat. He knew he was good at fighting, they did it so often. But still, he never liked punching his brother, especially since he usually got punched right after.

They finished their meal, placed their dishes in the kitchen and wiped their mouths on the crook of their elbows. Kaua did so with a smile, sinister in its origin; he always looked forward to the fight. His eyes remained jagged little slits and his mind worked furiously to a foregone conclusion. Kimo, their father, had been teaching them both how to box for the past six months. As a result, Kaua was picturing upper-cuts and hooks, while Malu thought of bobbing, weaving and jabs. The boys walked over to Kamalani and Kaua said, “Eh Ma, we go down the street. Go play ball, k?” She turned and looked at her twins and smiled, hands gripping a rag covered in wood cleaner for the table.

“You rinse your dishes?”

“Ae,” Malu lied.

“Ok. Go play. Be in before the lights come on.”

“Ok.” Malu wrapped his arms around his mother’s legs, gripping it in a hug, like a soldier going off to war. “Love you mama.”

“Ae. You too.”

As they walked out the house, screen door slamming behind them, Kaua was quick to put in his snide comment, voice all aquiver, “Love you mama. What, you ready to die, Hele hope?”

“No. I ready to kill, so I tell mama. She remember I love her after you dead.”

They walked down the dusty road until they came to the white fence and long meadow. Hopping the fence, Kaua looked at his brother, eyes blazing. “How much more, you think?”

“Little bit more. No want people to see from the road.” They jogged over the knoll and set their meager belongings next to the monkey paw tree, Kaua slamming his fist into his open hand, Malu pumping his shoulders up and down, each like his father taught them. They took their places just beyond the rootwork and Malu breathed deep, ready. Each boy put his little hands up, left handed position, elbows tucked in. “Hele mai,” Malu said, popping his neck back and forth. Kaua charged.

The fight lasted longer than either one expected, each one relying on the techniques his father had been drilling into him. Kaua came with power and unhindered aggression, while Malu focused on counterattacking, utilizing his jab, and working his combinations. In the end, though, they ended up like little boys, each rolling in the dirt and grappling for an advantage. Kaua pushed Malu’s face into the brown earth and cried out, “Eat dirt, Little brother!”

Malu pushed up hard with his arms and kicked his head back, slamming it into the face of Kaua. The older spat the mud and saliva onto his brother and, turning, punched him in the nose so that Kaua’s eyes watered. Malu then went for the end-all hold, his headlock. Knowing that he could not sustain much more due to his asthma, Malu cinched his lock tightly, unconsciously turning his hips and breathing deep through his nose and mouth. On the ground, Malu looked up to the heavens in silent prayer, his blue eyes blinking through the branches. Kaua’s face began to turn color, cursing and spitting like a caged lion. “I kill you, Malu. I kill you.”

“No,” Malu said quietly. “No, Hele hope. I knock you out. You go sleep and I run home. ” He tightened his grasp, arm gripping his wrist and Kaua began to lose focus, the struggle and fight going out of him. In a moment, he was in an unconscious quiver. Malu had won. The Caesar shucked dirt onto his fallen opponent with the instep of his foot, dusted himself off and ran home before the street light came on.

Malu immediately struck out to the spigot, washing his face and hands, knowing the mud on his face had hardened. Kaua came up to him a few minutes later, a red ring around his neck. Malu put his hand on his jaw and rubbed it quietly. “Nice hook, brother.”

“Ae. You wont get me in that headlock again. I go right to sleep.” Everything was back to normal, they forgetting the comments about stupidity and each congratulating the other on what went well. The task at hand, though, was to get washed up and in the house without Kamalani noticing the ring around Kaua’s neck, or the dirt-filled clothes. After all, they were supposed to be playing ball, not going to battle.

They took turns dusting one another off with their hands and decided to go in the house, right to the television and lay on their stomachs as though nothing had happened. This they did with such efficiency that no word was uttered regarding their tattered looks. Kamalani finished her cleaning and the boys got in the bath, Malu dumping sand pails of water on Kaua’s head, the boys giggling like children and not the warriors they proved themselves to be.


A History Lesson

Kimo dusted himself off just outside the screen door, stamping his boots on the ragged welcome mat. From within, he heard the whoopings of boys gone mad with joy and unhindered imaginations. Smiling, he opened the screen with a screech of the hinge and was quickly inside, muscling the twins over his head like planets about his ecliptic. “You wanna fight me, eh?” Chuckling, he spun the two around, tossing them on the couch not too far away. “I am the king, remember?” Dirty and sore, he walked to the sink with the knowledge that Kaua and Malu would follow. They ran up to the victor, each grabbing a leg, and held on dearly while Kimo danced and stomped for their amusement. He roared like a lion and began scrubbing his hands with a pumice stone.

“Dad, you think we be as big as you someday?,” Malu asked over the running water.

“Nah, brah. Bigger.”

“Dad, you want play games with us, huh?,” came the question from Kaua.

“Ae. Ok. Whatchu two monkeys wanna play?”

“Cowboys and Indians,” Kaua said.

“Ae? That’s no good. Indians not like us, Kaua. We too strong for little boy games like dat. How ‘bout something else? Where’s Mama?”

“Uhh… I think she’s cleaning the bathroom. Smells like bleach,” Malu said.

“Why? Don’t matter. We gonna play, right?”

“No.” The boys’ faces momentarily drooped with sorrow, then one by one they recognized the thing Kimo was getting at. When Kamalani was away, the boys would get a brief lesson in the old ways. Kimo, covered in tattoos and with a respectable knowledge of the old myths and legends, hoped to pass along this knowledge to his boys as a secret legacy. Christianity was good for women, he thought, but no self-respecting man would acquiesce to such stringent rules without some sort of compensation. “Sit over there, on the couch,” he said pointing with a soapy hand. “I’ll be in after I rinse.” They looked at him with doe eyes, still latched to his legs. “I won’t say it again.”

“Ok, ok.” The two hustled onto the couch with glinting eyes. They knew that, should Kamalani find out about these little “history lessons,” as Kimo called them, everyone would be in trouble for a long time; they would inevitably spend a Saturday at the catholic church down the street, heads bowed and brow sweating. Even Kimo hated the thought of it. But, it seemed worth the risk.

Walking back to the couch, Kimo looked down the hall toward the bathroom. With a rising anxiety he silently pulled the index finger up on his right hand toward the boys as a sign to wait for him just a moment longer. After acknowledging their recognition, he turned down the hall to hear Kamalani whistling in her high soprano voice. “Eh babe, all pau hana.”

Startled, she looked up with favor in her eyes. “How was work?”

“Da usual. Hard. Dirty. Tiring.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Hey, I taking the boys out front for a while. Don’t miss us too much.”

“What you doing?”

“Showing them different kinds of la`i.”

“Ok.” Feeling satisfied in his deception, Kimo walked back to the boys on the couch, both of whom were locked in a staring match. Their eyes watered, but neither blinked. Kimo put his hands on both of their shoulders and gave a little squeeze, making them blink and jerking them back to reality. Nobody won and nobody lost.

“We’re going out front. Get your slippas.” Everyone got up at the same time, Kaua and Malu jostling for position to be closest to Kimo while he held the door for the little heathens. Looking over his shoulder, he said quietly, “We gonna pule on da other side of dat tree.” He pointed to the spot he meant with an upward thrust of the head and a purse of the lips. Malu and Kaua ran to the spot, happy to be outside. “Ok, circle up and put your thumbs to the right. You know the rules.”

The boys did as they were told, bowing their heads in anticipation, eyes open, left hand palm down, right hand up, each clasping the hand of the other until the circle was complete by Kimo. He began to chant in a slow, small voice, asking for protection for the knowledge about to be given to these two, that they might do well with it. His voice rose and fell with the inflections of a trained ho`opa`a. After studying with his grandmother for so long, Kimo hoped that he might one day get to teach Kaua and Malu the art of such a lost art as chanting.

Finishing up after a brief period, the three of them sat down in a circle, the young boys’ eyes locked on their father in silent admiration. They never understood what was being chanted, but they always talked about it afterwards. It must be important, they concluded, as the priest down the road never sent such chills up their spines with his hollow words and boring prayers. When Kimo puled, rather, they felt alive and fresh, bubbling over. Long afterwards when the boys became men, they told their children of the chanting of their father, comparing it to the wind, the rain and the sea.

He began quiet enough, but eventually rose his voice in pride and admiration. He spoke of strength and fortitude, in hope of teaching the young these same attributes. His storytelling was in an eloquent English – not the Pidgin his boys were accustomed to.

“Maui was the strongest man to live in this world or otherwise, with arms as thick and brown as the koa wood and a brain as quick as a flash of lightening. You have heard me tell of how Maui roped the sun and robbed fire for his people, but today, my boys, I will tell of the Great Hook and how Maui and his brothers fished up the islands in the entirety, only to look back and falter, letting them slip back down to the murky surface.” He continued on this way for about half an hour, telling of the journey onto the water, the hook that brought up the fish and the islands, of Hina and her bailing and how his brother looked back in the boat to see her beauty and falter in his pulling. By the end of the story his voice had begun to gain in its raspiness and the sun had set its course behind the mountains.

“Papa,” Malu said.

“Ae.”

“You didn’t make that up, right? I mean, that’s real. Maui’s real?”

“Ae, my son. Maui’s real. His strength, his stories, it’s all real. I will not lie to you, my son.”

“And Jesus?”

“What about him?”

“Is he real too?”

“Ah. I see. Those are questions for your mama. She will tell you of Jesus and I will tell you of the old ways. It is up to you what to take for your own.”

They got up, knobby-kneed and tired, stretching in the dusk. Kimo placed his hands on the heads of Kaua and Malu, scratching their little scalps and laughing. They filed back into the house, hunger taking pains to make itself known in the quiet stomachs of the three.