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the president’s eyes.

CHAPTER 5
    Muffled sounds from the luau invade my restless sleep. Drumming, the whipping sound of fire flung through the air. Performers grunt the
Kumulipo
, the epic chant of Hawaiian beginnings, and call out to their Hawaiian gods. The tales celebrate the link between all living things. Earth, sea, sky. Flora, fauna. Man, woman, gods. All is connected. All is sacred.
    O ke au i kahuli wela ka honua

O ke au i kahuli lole ka lani

O ke au i kuka`iaka ka la

E ho`omalamalama i ka malama
    In the beginning there is only
Po
, disorder, churning throughout the deep.
    Out of the universe come the gods. Kāne, the creator god, appears in the darkness, holding aloft a great calabash. He tosses the gourd high into the vast emptiness. It breaks in two, its curved shell becoming the dome of the sky and its scattered seeds the stars, and the remnants drifting downward to form the Earth.
    Out of the oceans rise the shores, liquid fire roiling in the void. Ai, Ai, Ai. Rise up
.
    Kāne fills the land and the sea and the air with creatures of every kind. He crafts the
honu
, the great turtles, to pass between earth and sea.
    There is new heat within my belly, and I yearn to spill the urge. Precious and majestic, the sea foam rocks me awake, and I stir with life
.
    Kāne crafts the first human, Wākea, with a mound of red clay scooped from the sea cliffs. Wākea is made son of Papa and Rangi, Earth and Sky. He is joined with his wife Lihau`ula, and from them all the
ali`i
, the chiefs, and the kahunas, the priests, of Hawai`i shall descend.
    * * *
    The hum of the air conditioner reminds me where I am. A resort hotel on the shores of a sacred land. Dad hangs up the hotel phone.
    “Learn anything?” I ask.
    “Go back to sleep, hon. Everyone’s as clueless as we are.”
    The night is silent. I drift back to sleep. I dream of shores beyond contact with modern man. I see the sacred
honu
, the sea turtle, heaved ashore, bridging sea and surf, pushing backthe sand to lay its eggs. I see the face of a mother and father, betrayed. My mother and father, Papa and Rangi. Earth and Sky. They suffer an unthinkable disorder. They weep, white with death.
    Kāne has fled, and in his absence billows
Po
.
    Chaos.
    * * *
    In the morning there is no alarm. I rise out of sleep slowly, to a distant chirping of car horns. I glance at the alarm clock. It’s blinking twelve o’clock. I push the covers back from my clammy skin and begin to drift back to sleep.
    Then I spring awake. No alarm? I look around. Dad is asleep. The lanai doors are closed and the room is stifling.
    I wipe sweat off my forehead. The curtains are open, and the bay is bright with pastel sunlight. Honking. Honolulu is supposed to have horrible traffic—there aren’t enough highways, no rail system—but this is ridiculous.
    “Dad. Dad, what time is it?”
    We’re due at the clinic at eight.
    “Dad!”
    Dad shoots up in bed. He glances at the alarm clock and frowns. He checks his watch. “We’re fine. Almost seven. You’re not supposed to eat breakfast anyway.”
    He’s still gathering his bearings, scanning the room and rubbing at his eyes. “Why’s it so
humid
?” He reaches above his headboard and tinkers with the air-conditioning. It blasts to life, and I immediately feel its cool relief.
    Dad tries the remote. The flatscreen turns on but remainsblue. He slips into a pair of shorts and steps out onto the lanai. When the door opens, car horns assault my ears, and I recognize the grumble of generators.
    “Power’s actually out,” he says. “This is crazy.” He turns the air conditioner and television back off, habit guiding him to save energy.
    I join him on the balcony. Nothing looks particularly out of the ordinary, but we’re facing gardens and pools and beaches. There are a couple of surfers on the waves, and paddleboards, kayaks, canoes, and sailboats farther out. A helicopter hovers to the north. To the left, gridlocked traffic along the