Short Story: Kipapa

III. Kipapa[1]

[apologies. This story requires a radical overhaul and expansion.]

“Uncle, what is that?”

All is red tinged darkness, but there is a disturbance, a vibration, coming from somewhere above.

“That,” answers a deep voice, “is a dream.”

“A dream?” asks the first voice. “Are we asleep?”

A pause. “Sometimes a shadow walks upon our backs,” answers the deep voice. “And in its casting, we dream. And remember.”

“Remember what?”

“Who we were.”

***

Cliff enters Kipapa Gulch from the mauka end, close to the lychee farms. The downward path in is steep, crumbly chalk rock. Each step, precarious, must be taken oblique and slow. At the bottom of the gulch, the path bifurcates. Cliff takes the makai fork, follows it as it widens into a packed-earth truck path that winds through a grove of papaya. He soon sees the H-2 freeway tower above him, the incessant flow of cars upon it a subdued roar, a ceaseless last breath.

He pauses at the base of one of the freeway’s support pillars, searches its surface, places his palm over one of many obscure looking symbols. He closes his eyes, as though trying to discern life in the pulse of the traffic above.

How could he have allowed it to happen?

He had long prided himself on being a figurative rolling stone. Life in a military family forced him to. Three years, sometimes four, another world, another life. Under such conditions, one could not afford to lay roots down anywhere. Not here in Mililani, “heartland” of Oahu. Not in his sophomore year at Mililani High.

And definitely not to fall in love.

***

“Mililani. ‘Look to the Sky.’ I don’t remember this.”

“It is what the shadows call the village they built above.”

“Above?” Panic warbles the younger voice. “Uncle, where are we?”

“A gulch embraces and penetrates Mililani, a gulch now called ‘Kipapa,’ ‘lay prone,’ ‘pave over.’ That is where we are, where we have been, for a very long time.”

“Why are we here?”

A pause. “I do not remember. But- I do remember something else- a story perhaps.”

“A story?”

“Yes,” replies the deep voice. “It begins with a young orphan boy. He was called ‘O’okele’, ‘Stick-in-the-Mud,’ because it was his job to break hard earth with his stick for the taro fields. Now, the boy knew the most he could ever hope for in life were a few decades of back-breaking labor. He accepted this without question, without complaint. And with that acceptance came invulnerability. Nothing touched him, not insults, hunger, weariness. He was like the very earth that he worked, bearing the weight of every footstep in unyielding silence. He probably would have continued like that until the end of his days, were it not for her.”

“Her?”

“Yes. She was granddaughter of the local chief. Young, wild, feckless, she spent her days making mischief, and Stick-in-the-Mud was her favorite target. Almost every day, she crept to the edge of the taro fields to hurl mud at him, and always, he ignored her. But one day, she ran to him, tears in her eyes. ‘Please,’ she pleaded, ‘Father’s angry, he is coming, you must hide me!’ Stick-in-the-Mud had never seen anyone cry. Even the earth softens in the rain, so the saying goes. So, he led her to a trench in the field, the water cool, deep, and hid her there, until her father came and went. After that, she was grateful, and never threw mud at him again.”

***

It all began with that stupid Hamlet assignment, Cliff recalls.

Not only did the students in Mrs. Brown’s English class have to perform a soliloquy from the play, but prior to this, they had to partner off with another student (assigned a different soliloquy) and serve as a practice audience for each other.

Cliff got partnered off with Erica. He hardly knew her. Maybe it was because, in the Venn Diagram of high school society, their sets didn’t intersect. Cliff was one of the Nerds; Erica, meanwhile, was a Goth and Drama Queen. She belonged to that small group of black-clad thespians, coagulated like a dark scab on the front lawn of Mililani High.

She was petite, in a black dress that made her porcelain skin seem positively luminescent. Her eyes large, limpid; her lips, pouty. If not for her short boy-length blonde hair, she could be Betty Boop incarnate.

“Hey,” she said softly, as Cliff took a seat across her.

He nodded, tried to be all business. “So, do you know which one you’re doing?”

“Ophelia,” she said. “And you?”

“To be or not to be.”

“Appropriate,” Erica nodded, smiling. “Brooding. Thoughtful.”

Awkward silence. Suddenly nervous, Cliff studied the backs of his hands, like some confused palm reader, searching dark wrinkles for fortune. “You know, I’m not much of a drama person,” he admitted finally.

“Me neither,” Erica shrugged.

“But- isn’t that your group? The Drama Goths?”

“Don’t judge me by the color of my skirt,” Erica pouted petulantly, the left corner of her mouth drawn up ever so slightly. “I’m just as stage shy as the next girl.”

Cliff shook his head, embarrassed. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I shouldn’t stereotype. I - guess not everything’s so- black-and-white, huh.”

Erica made a wincing expression, chuckled. “So, when and where?”

“When and where what?”

Erica blew a thin stream of hair up into her bangs, before smiling. “When and where do you want to meet. For this assignment?”

“Oh,” Cliff muttered. “I don’t know. How about here, lunch recess?”

“Sorry, can’t,” Erica said, with no explanation. “I was thinking something more like the weekend.”

Cliff thought for a moment. “I don’t have a cross country meet this Saturday, so that would be okay.”

“So now all we need is a place,” Erica mused, tapping her index finger against her perfect white teeth. Suddenly, inspiration hit her. “Hey, there’s something I wanted to ask you about, since you’re so smart. Pop quiz. Do you know what a Lares shrine is?”

“You shouldn’t stereotype,” Cliff said, smiling. “But actually, I do know. Lares were ancestor spirits that protected family lines. They’re also associated with the home. In ancient Rome, Lares were worshiped with small towers built at crossroads.” He cocked his head slightly. “Let me guess. Siouxsie and the Banshees?”

“Cities in Dust,” Erica said, honestly surprised. “Wow, guess everything’s not black-and-white! I never would have pegged you as a Siouxsie fan.”

Cliff smiled sheepishly.

“Listen,” Erica said excitedly, “I have a sort of Lares shrine of my own. It’s a great place to practice. Why don’t I take you there, say, Saturday?”

“Where is it?” Cliff asked reluctantly.

“First say yes or no,” Erica taunted.

Cliff was usually such a good judge of character, at least with regards to the fundamental questions. He could usually tell, for instance, whether or not he could trust a person at face value. Usually in the first few seconds of contact. Usually. But for some reason, he found it hard to peer into Erica’s eyes, to look at those lips. There was some kind of interference. In the end, he smiled a half-smile. “Yes.”

Erica grinned. “We can meet at 16 Acres,” she said. “You know where that is, right?”

Cliff nodded.

“And, just to let you know,” Erica said, “This is a secret place. I don’t take just anybody there.”

Cliff fought the goofy smile that crept to his lips.

***

“Uncle? Is that the end of the story?”

“Would that it were,” says the deep voice. “As the girl grew older, she began to ask Stick-in-the-Mud to walk with her at night, especially when the moon grew full. But Stick-in-the-Mud was reluctant. ‘We mustn’t be seen together,’ he cautioned. ‘Your grandfather-‘ ’I am granddaughter to the chief!’ she would interrupt. ‘I can do whatever I wish.’ Stick-in-the-Mud didn’t argue. But he knew that daughters of chiefs had the least power of all, they were married off to seal alliances, to placate savage foes. Because he wouldn’t walk with her, she would instead sit beside him, saying very little. Finally, when moon and stars traveled halfway across the sky, he would rise slowly. ‘You must go home,’ he would say. And even though she obeyed him, finally, she would always cling to him suddenly just before leaving, murmuring, ‘Even surrounded by warriors, I feel safest around you.’”

***

It was raining the first time Cliff entered Kipapa. No, not at first. But as soon as Erica led him around the papaya grove, the clouds, some so low they’d practically walked through them on the way down, the clouds shuddered, pelted the ground violently.

Erica, for once dressed in something other than black, an oversized white T-shirt and jeans shorts, squealed and pulled Cliff hurriedly along the path. Thankfully, they weren’t far from the H-2, and soon took shelter beneath it, beside one of its support pillars.

“Great,” Erica muttered, squeezing water from the front of her shirt. “This would happen when I wear white.”

Cliff removed his grey Trojans sweat top, and gingerly handed it to Erica, his eyes carefully avoiding her transparent chest.

“Thanks,” Erica murmured, stabbing her arms through oversized sleeves.

Cliff politely looked away, through the falling curtain of rain. “So,” he began awkwardly, “is this the place?”

“Here,” Erica murmured almost reverentially, running a hand across the surface of the support pillar, “This is my Lares shrine.”

Cliff looked closely at the pillar, and found its surface covered with marks and scrawls, some done in permanent ink, some in black spray paint. Siouxsie lyrics, hieroglyphic-like drawings. Cliff examined one motif in particular, somewhat cartoonish, repeated several times in several places. It looked like this:




“I come here sometimes to think,” Erica said. “And I thought this would be the perfect place to practice. The acoustics are great.” She frowned. “Except today.”

“What’s this supposed to be?” Cliff pointed to the repeated motif.

“That? That’s Kilroy.”

“Kilroy?”

“I heard about it from my father,” Erica explained. “Kilroy was supposed to be some legendary soldier from WWII. He always appeared first on the scene, making sure everything was okay for the soldiers who followed. And he would leave that drawing to let them know he’d been there.” In response to Cliff’s puzzled expression, she continued. “Look, my family’s military. I guess at some point, to cope with the temporariness, I started tagging. And Kilroy seemed like the- right, I don’t know, guardian symbol. I guess it’s like tombstones. If I didn’t make some kind of mark, no one, especially me, would know I was ever here.”

“Tombstones are for the dead,” Cliff commented. “You’re still alive.”

“You’re not military,” Erica said dismissively. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“But I am,” Cliff replied quietly. “In fact, my father’s due.”

Erica paused. “So how do you deal with it?”

Cliff tried to gaze through the thinning rain as he spoke. “I just- do my thing,” he said, “Keep to myself.”

A hush fell upon the gulch; individual drops fell from individual leaves.

“I once knew someone like you,” Erica murmured. “Hard to reach. My first real boyfriend. I called him ‘ghost boy.’” She sighed. “Believe me, it doesn’t work. Not when life’s on the clock.”

Silence.

“Shouldn’t we be practicing?” Cliff blurted, suddenly uncomfortable.

Erica nodded, took a leaning seat against the support pillar.

Cliff pulled out his textbook, leafed through to the dog-eared page. He cleared his throat. “To be or not to be-“ he chanted quickly.

”No,” Erica interrupted. “The way you say it, all hurried, it’s not even a choice.”

Cliff nodded, took a deep breath, and tried again. “To be-“

Erica shook her head emphatically. “No.”

“Look,” Cliff said suddenly angry, “I’m not a Drama Queen, alright? So cut me some slack.”

Distant thunder.

“Sorry. Please, don’t be mad.”

“I’m- not mad,” Cliff muttered. “It’s just-“

“Just slow down,” Erica cooed, “Try to- remember what makes you happy, and what makes you sad. Then express that difference.”

Cliff exhaled fully. “Okay.”

Eyes closed, he tried to remember happiness.

***

“Uncle, did the girl love Stick-in-the-Mud?”

No answer. The story continues. “One night, the girl told Stick-in-the-Mud that he had to run away. ‘I overheard grandfather’s council. The chiefs are planning to invade Oahu, to plunder Mailikukahi’s prosperity. Every able bodied man is to join the campaign. Elders, even boys. You must run.’ Stick-in-the-Mud laughed. ‘Where would I go?’ he asked. ‘I don’t know,’ the girl cried. ‘Perhaps if I fight bravely,’ Stick-in-the-Mud mused, ‘your grandfather will respect me. And who knows? Perhaps he will allow me to be with you.’ Tears welled in the girl’s eyes. ‘No!’ she cried, ‘You mustn’t! Take me away with you instead, can’t we run away somewhere?’ Stick-in-the-Mud’s heart softened, but his question was the same. ‘Where would we go?’ he whispered. ‘Where would we go?’”

***

The next day, a much sunnier Sunday, found Cliff and Erica back at the support pillar.
“What’s our motivation?” Erica asked, looking up from the text. “We’re supposed to be lovers, right?”

“No,” Cliff replied. “I think we’re just close childhood friends, but with potential.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, Hamlet, he’s not a man of ‘action,’ so to speak-“ (Erica chuckled at that) “-and Ophelia, she just goes crazy after he dumps her. You only get hurt that deep when your hopes are too high. When you’re still- you know.”

Erica’s eyes lit up. “Are you confessing battle scars?”

“No,” Cliff said matter-of-factly. “Never fallen in love.”

Erica deflated. “Oh right,” she muttered, “Ghost boy.” She glanced down at the text. “So, what makes you an expert on Ophelia’s love life?”

Cliff shook his head. “It’s not about love. It’s anything. The first time’s always hardest, when you don’t know any better. Like the first time I- that was the only time I- after that, well, I knew better.”

“Only time you what?”

Cliff didn’t answer.

Erica’s expression grew indignant. “So, are you saying things hurt, they’re only real, once? That everything after is, what, fake?”

Cliff sighed. “Look, forget about it. We have to get back to practicing.”

But Erica doesn’t forget about it. “What if I said I fell in love with you right now,” she said, approaching so close that Cliff could feel her breath. “And what if you weren’t my first. Would you just- dismiss me- as ingenuine?”

Cliff’s face blanked, then blushed. And then, he set his jaw. “You said you fell in love with me,” he said coolly, “so I would have to dismiss you as ingenuine outright.”

For a moment, Erica’s hands wrung an imaginary neck. Then, realizing something, she seemed to melt, backing away. “I feel so sorry for you, ghost boy,” she murmured.

And suddenly, caught by inspiration, she rushed away towards the pillar, her fingers tracing its surface, like root tendrils drawing water and life:

“O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!
The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword:
The expectancy and rose of the fair state,
The glass of fashion and the mould of form,
The observed of all observers, quite, quite down!
And I, of ladies most deject and wretched,
That suck’d the honey of his music vows,
Now see that noble and most sovereign reason,
Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh;
That unmatch’d form and feature of blown youth
Blasted with ecstasy: O, woe is me,
To have seen what I have seen, see what I see!”[2]

Cliff whistled in amazement.

“I think you’re ready,” he said quietly. “I think you’re going to steal Mrs. Brown’s breath away.”

And secretly, he half-admitted to himself that she’d already stolen his.

***

“Did Stick-in-the-Mud run?” asks the young voice.

“No,” replied the deep voice. “He boarded one of many outriggers. The early morning of the invasion was quiet, the seas calm. Stick-in-the-Mud sat under the starry sky. A young boy, barely twelve years of age, sat beside him. Curious, Stick-in-the-Mud asked why he was there. ‘I am here to prove myself,’ the young boy said bravely. Stick-in-the-Mud shook his head. ‘Fool, what good will proving yourself be if you die?’ The young boy, unshaken, replied: ‘What good a life unlived?’ Stick-in-the-Mud was silent. He looked away across the expanse of the still-dark sea, thought of the girl. And he pondered the boy’s question, over and over, ‘What good a life unlived?’”

***

“An A!” Erica’s eyes were bright. “First time I’ve ever gotten one from that stingy bitch.”

The two of them are leaving Mrs. Brown’s class, heading ever so gradually over to the front lawn.

“Well,” Cliff smiled, “it’s all thanks to you.”

“No,” Erica corrected. “It was the two of us. We made a great team.”

Cliff’s eyes dropped to the safety of shoelaces. “So, uh, listen-“

”Oh yeah,” Erica interrupted, “Sorry, keep forgetting. I’ll bring your sweater to class tomorrow, alright? But in the meantime.” She reached into a deep baggy pocket of her huge black “purse” and pulled out something strange and eerie-looking. It was a small pewter figurine, shaped into a skeletal claw, a claw that supported a crudely shaped glass skull upon its fingertips. She handed the awkward and ugly figurine to Cliff.

“Uh, thanks,” he mumbled hesitantly, as he took the figurine from Erica and studied it, his eyes somewhat bemused.

“I meant to give it to you earlier,” Erica said. “It was supposed to be a lucky charm for today’s performance, you know, like Dumbo’s magic feather?”

Cliff still looked confused.

“It’s supposed to represent Hamlet,” Erica continued. “You know, ‘Alas, Horatio, I knew him well?’” She shook her head. “I know, wrong soliloquy. But as a true Hamlet fan, well, you should know, it’s the thought that counts, right?”

Cliff smiled warmly. “Thanks,” he said softly, honestly grateful. He was about to say something more, but he wasn’t certain what he wanted to say, where he wanted to go from there. So he repeated, once again, “Thanks.”

Erica smiled back, nodded. She looked like she wanted to say something as well.
Just then, a lanky guy, pale-skinned, with purposefully unkempt hair wrapped an arm around her. “Oh, Cliff, this is Richard.” She nodded towards Cliff. “This is the guy I was telling you about.”

“The closet thespian!” sang the boy, eyes hooded. “Hey, Tri-School’s putting on a production of ‘The Frog Prince.’ Try out! We need a good frog.”

Erica socked Richard in the shoulder.

“What?” Richard grinned, as he guided Erica away.

“See ya!”

***

“The invasion was doomed from the start. Even Stick-in-the-Mud, who knew little about warfare, even he sensed this. Invasions only succeed through overwhelming numbers or through stealth, and they had neither. By the time they arrived at the Waikiki lagoon, the sun was already above the horizon, it climbed high and hot in the sky as they crossed the white Ewa plain. Soon, they came upon rolling hillocks. Stick-in-the-Mud and the young boy, part of an advance force, scrambled into dips between the hillocks. Before long, the slopes on either side grew tall and steep, boulder riddled, tree-shrouded. And when Stick-in-the-Mud had advanced far enough into the deepening gulch, it happened. First, small rocks whistled down from the slopes, occasionally striking men full on the skull. Then, rolling boulders crashed down, punching holes in ranks. And finally, as warriors attempted to climb the steep slopes to retaliate, spears whistled through the air and impaled them. Everywhere, there was death, the earth of the gulch stained red with blood.”

“What happened to Stick-in-the-Mud? And the boy?”

“The boy tried to scamper up the slopes, but Stick-in-the-Mud stopped him, held him back. ‘We are surrounded by death! We have only one choice.’ And he pushed the boy into a trench. ‘Play dead,’ he commanded, falling to the ground himself. ‘Play dead!’”

***

Cliff found out the very morning he intended to tell her. His mother mentioned it, first thing, trying to sound excited, something about Rancho, Las Vegas.

He left the house in a daze, like the walking dead.

Still, seeing Erica, even surrounded by Goths, even attached to that Robert Smith wanna-be, well, it made everything almost alright. Almost. He walked across the front lawn with the courage of someone who had nothing to lose. “Hey, Erica, can I- talk to you?”

Erica glanced at Richard, nodded.

Cliff led her away to an empty corner of the lawn.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Look, I just wanted to tell you. You were right, about a lot of things.” He glanced up, got dazzled by the morning sun. “I- wish I had met you earlier.”

Erica laughed softly. “That’s- nice of you to say.” She bit her lower lip. “Well, I- think you’re pretty cool yourself. Hidden cool, which maybe is true cool. Lares shrine, remember?”

Brief shared laughter.

Erica laid a hand on his arm. “You really are a thespian, you know. In real life. Audition for the play, alright? I’d really like to work with you again. Maybe get to know the real you. Not the ghost.”

Cliff nodded, smiled. “Sure.”

“See you later?”

“...Bye.”

***

“Uncle, what happened next?”

“Mailikukahi’s forces entered the gulch, walking amongst the corpses. Every prone body was stabbed to make sure it was indeed dead. Even though it had been hours since the slaughter, sometimes one of them would leap up suddenly, just before or just after being impaled. Each was easily pursued, cut down. Soon, Mailikukahi’s men approached the boy. Through half-closed eyes, red earth in his nostrils, Stick-in-the-Mud could see the boy’s fear, the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He remembered his words: ‘What good a life unlived?’ And with a feeling like the cloudless sky, a feeling he felt for the first time in his life, he calmly stood, stick grasped firmly in his hands. ‘What good, indeed?’ he whispered softly.”

“Uncle?”

Silence.

***

Cliff returns to himself.

He gently removes his palm from the concrete, traces a finger fondly, regretfully, over the outlines of the symbol that remains stained on its surface.

He notices everything is painted fire.

Looking to the west, he sees sunlight slant through cracks in Waianae clouds. He’s stayed far too long. He removes something small from his pocket, and places it on a tiny corner of the concrete support pillar. Then, shaking his head, he leaves the Lares shrine, leaves Kipapa, leaves Erica, forever.

***

Sun sets, moon rises. The forgotten army rises from red earth like a silver fog.

“Wake up.”

“Uncle?” murmurs the younger voice wearily. “Where are we going?”

Stick-in-the-Mud doesn’t respond.

There is no point.

As soon as all are assembled, it will begin once again.

The night march, off to a battle lost a long time ago.

***

[1]Sometime in the 14th century or so, a group of chiefs from the Big Island formed an alliance and decided to invade Oahu, then ruled by a chief named Mailikukahi. Details of the ensuing battle are sketchy, but what is certain is that the invading force was soundly defeated at Kipapa (the gulch bordering what is now Mililani Town). In fact, the name Kipapa (“to pave over”) refers to the fact that the floor of the gulch was literally paved with the prone bodies of corpses. Kipapa is now a famous haunting ground for the Night Marchers (Huakai'po), ghosts of armies long dead.

[2]Ophelia, from “Hamlet,” Act III, Scene I