“For some curious reason I have been impelled, these last few days, to talk with you, for I feel that of all the people I remember in America, your spirit is closest to my own, and I have wanted to tell you two things, my beloved sister in God. First, I thank you daily for having written to me as you did about your brother Abner. Each day that passes I find him a stronger man, a finer servant of God. He is gentle, patient, courageous and extremely wise. Sharing his burdens, in this new land which he is determined to resurrect, is a joy that I had never in America even dimly anticipated. Each day is a new challenge. Each night is a benediction to good work either started or completed. In my letters to you I have never spoken of love, but I think that now I know what love is, and my dearest wish for you is that some day you may find a Christian gentleman as worthy as your gentle brother. His limp is much improved, but I massage his muscles each night. To be more correct, I used to massage them, but lately a very plump Hawaiian woman who is known to be highly skilled in the lomilomi, the medicinal massage of the islands, insists upon doing the job for me. I can hear her now, a huge motherly woman announcing, ‘Me come lomilomi little man.’ I tell her repeatedly that she must refer to my partner and guide as ‘Makua,’ which means Father, but this she will not do.
“The second thought I would share with you is my growing sense of working directly under the will of God. At one time I did not know whether I had a true vocation for mission work or not, but as the weeks go past and as I see the transformation that we are accomplishing in these islands, I am doubly convinced that I have found for myself the one satisfying occupation on earth. I rejoice to see each new dawn, for there is work to do. At five o’clock in the morning, when I look out into our yard, I see it filled with patient, handsome brown faces. They are willing to remain there all day in hopes that I will teach them how to sew or talk with them about the Bible. Malama promises me that when she has learned to read and write, I can start to teach her people to do the same, but she will not allow any of them to master the tricks until she has done so. However, she has consented to this. In her afternoon lessons she allows her children and those of the other alii to listen, and I find that her beautiful daughter Noelani is almost as quick as Malama herself. My dear husband has great hopes for Noelani and feels certain that she will be our second Christian convert on the island, Malama of course being first. Darling Esther, can you, in your mind’s eye, picture the intense wonder that comes over a pagan face when the clouds of heathenish evil and illiteracy are drawn away so that the pure light of God can shine into the seeking eyes? What I am trying to tell you, dearest sister, is that I find in my work a supreme happiness, and although what I am about to say may seem blasphemy—and I can say it to no other but my own dear sister—in these exciting fruitful days when I read the New Testament I feel that I am reading not about Philemon and the Corinthians but about Jerusha and the Hawaiians. I am one with those who labored for our Master, and I cannot convey even to my dear husband the abounding joy I have discovered in my grass shack and its daily circle of brown faces. Your Sister in God, Jerusha.”
While Jerusha was teaching Malama, Abner was free to explore the village, and one day he noticed that all the men and many of the stronger women were absent from Lahaina, and he could not discover why. The alii were present, and in their large grass homes south of the royal taro patch they could be seen, moving about beneath the kou trees or going to the beach in order to ride their surfboards on the cresting waves. It was good to be an alii, for then one’s job was merely to eat enormous calabashes of food so as to grow large, and to play at games, so as to be ready if war came. Year by year the alii grew greater and more skilled in games, waiting for a war that came no more.
But one of the alii was missing, for Kelolo had not been to visit the missionaries for some days. He had sent food and three planks out of which Abner had hacked shelving for rude closets, but he himself had not appeared, and this handicapped Abner, because only Kelolo could say where the church was to be built. Then, when the missionary had reached the height of impatience, he discovered that Kelolo was out at the edge of town, digging a deep, wide pit. Keoki was not present to translate when Abner found the excavation, and all Kelolo would say was, “Thetis,” measuring the deep pit with his arms extended.
Abner was still perplexed when he saw, staggering along the beach, a procession of more than two thousand men and women, the dust from their movements filling the sky. They were goaded along by royal lieutenants, and they were burdened heavily by bundles of logs cut into six-foot lengths and slung from their backs by vines. The yellowish wood was obviously precious, for if even a small piece fell, sharp-eyed lieutenants struck the careless carrier and directed trailing women to salvage the dropping, for this was sandalwood: aromatic as no other, choice in the markets of Asia, the life-blood of Hawaiian commerce, and the goal of all Americans. It was the treasure and the curse of Hawaii.
Deep in the forests the trees hid, less than thirty feet high and marked by pale green leaves. Years ago, before their worth was known, the trees had flourished even in the lowlands, but now all those of easy access were gone, chopped down by the alii for whom they were kapu. Kelolo, if he wanted the two shiploads that would pay Captain Janders for the Thetis, had to drive his servants high into the mountains and on into remote corners of the island. Now, as the heavily burdened men staggered to the pit, Abner understood. On that first day while he had been instructing Malama, Captain Janders had laid out a pit the exact size of the Thetis’ hatch, and when the pit was filled with sandalwood twice over, the ship would be Kelolo’s.
As the precious logs tumbled into the excavation, Kelolo’s men jumped in and laid them close together, for Janders had insisted many times, “No air! No air!” and Abner realized that these men had been in the mountains for some days. He was therefore disturbed when Kelolo ordered them back into the forests immediately. Summoning Keoki, Abner argued: “Your father shouldn’t take his men back at once. What will happen to the taro beds? Who will catch the fish?”
“They’re his men,” Keoki explained.
“Of course they are,” Abner agreed. “But it’s in Kelolo’s own best interests that they be given a rest.”
“When an alii smells sandalwood, the mind turns and thought departs,” Keoki replied.
“I must see your father,” Abner insisted.
“He won’t want to see you now,” Keoki warned. “His mind is concerned only with sandalwood.”
Nevertheless, Abner donned his black claw-hammer, tall hat and best stock, his invariable uniform when delivering the word of the Lord. In the heat of the day he strode southward past the king’s quarters and out to the cool kou trees and the great grass houses of Malama and her consort-brother. He heard his wife Jerusha instructing huge Malama in the writing of letters, American style, but he paid no attention, for he wished to see only Kelolo, and he found him playing in the surf.
The chief, seeing Abner’s official uniform, and not wanting a lecture at this time, refused to come out of the water, so Abner had to pick his way gingerly along the sandy shore, shouting above the waves as they washed in. “Kelolo!” he cried like a prophet from the Old Testament. “You have broken every promise to me.” Imitating his instructor’s voice, Keoki repeated the words.
“Tell him to go away!” Kelolo grunted, splashing water into his big face and rolling about in deep pleasure.
“Kelolo! You have not set aside the land for the church.”
“Oh, I’ll give you land for the church … one of these days,” the sybaritic nobleman shouted back.
“Today!” Abner demanded.
“When I finish with the sandalwood,” Kelolo promised.
“Kelolo, it is not sensible to lead your men back into the forests right away.”
The big man scratched his back on a coral head and growled, “You’ve got to get sandalwood when you can find it.”
“It is wrong to demand so much of your men!”
“They’re my
men!” the chief insisted. “They’ll go where I tell them to go.”
“It is wrong, Kelolo, to hoard sandalwood when the taro patches and the fish ponds remain unattended.”
“The taro will take care of itself,” Kelolo said grimly, diving deep to be rid of the irritating voice.
“Where will he come up?” Abner asked.
“Over there,” Keoki replied, and the missionary ran along the sand, holding onto his tall hat, so that when the chief surfaced, there was Abner staring at him.
“Kelolo, God says we must respect all who work.”
“They’re my men,” the huge nobleman growled.
“And that platform,” Abner continued. “It’s not been taken down.”
“Don’t touch the platform!” Kelolo warned, but the missionary was disgusted with the chief’s behavior and ran awkwardly across the sand to the offending platform of old gods and reached down to throw aside the rocks of which it was composed.
“No!” warned Keoki, but Abner would not listen, and began tossing the ancient stones into the sea. One rolled near Kelolo, and when he saw his own handiwork thus destroyed, he uttered a wild cry, leaped from the surf and dashed inland, grabbing the lame little missionary by his claw-hammer coat and throwing him violently to one side.
“Don’t touch the rocks!” he roared.
Abner, stunned by the suddenness of the attack, rose unsteadily to his feet and studied the naked giant who guarded the platform. Recovering his hat, he placed it firmly on his head and moved resolutely toward the collection of rocks. “Kelolo,” he said solemnly, “this is an evil place. You will not let me build a church but you hold onto your evil old gods. This is wrong.” And with his right index finger extended as far as it would reach, he pointed directly at the chief. “It is hewa.”
The naked warrior, hero of battles, was inspired to pick up this worrisome little man and crush him, but the solemnity of Abner’s manner stopped him, and the two stood there under the kou trees, staring at each other, and finally Kelolo temporized: “Makua Hale. I promised you land for a church, but I must wait until my king sends word from Honolulu.”
“Shall we tear down this evil place?” Abner asked quietly.
“No, Makua Hale,” Kelolo said firmly. “This is my church in the old fashion. I will help you build your church in the new fashion.”
Quietly Abner said, “When I stand beside these rocks, Kelolo, I can hear the voices of all the victims who were sacrificed here. It is an evil memory.”
“It was not that kind of temple, Makua Hale,” Kelolo said forcefully. “This was a temple of love and protection. I cannot surrender it.”
Abner had the sense to bow to this decision, but he did so in a way that Kelolo never forgot. Lifting one of the stones reverently, the little missionary looked at it and said, “If you consider this a rock from a temple of mercy I can understand why you wish to preserve it. But I shall build a church that will truly be a temple of mercy, and you will see the difference. To your temple, Kelolo, only the strong alii could come. In my temple it will be the weak and the poor who will find mercy. And when you see the mercy that spreads out from my temple, Kelolo, believe me, you will come to this shore and throw every rock in this pile far out to sea.” And Abner strode to the shore in as impressive a manner as his limp would allow, and at the edge of the sea he drew back his arm and pitched the solitary rock far into the waves. Then, holding his hat, he came back to Kelolo and said, “We will build my church.”
The tall chieftain kept his promise. Wrapping his tapa about him, he marched through the hot sunlight to a fine piece of land north of the mission grounds, where he paced off a generous area and said, “You can build your church here.”
“This is not enough land,” Abner protested.
“Enough for one god,” Kelolo replied.
“Your own temples have more land,” Abner argued.
“But they also have more gods,” Kelolo explained.
“My God is bigger than all the gods in Hawaii.”
“How much land does he require?”
“He wants a church of this size,” Abner insisted, and Kelolo was astonished.
But when the marking out was completed, he said, “Good. I will call the kahunas to determine how the church should be arranged.”
Abner did not understand Keoki’s translation and asked, “What’s he going to do?”
“Call the kahunas,” Keoki explained.
“What for?” Abner asked in astonishment.
“The kahunas have to decide where the door should be, where the people will sit,” Keoki explained.
Kelolo, sensing Abner’s repugnance, hurried to explain, “You must not build a church without permission from the kahunas.”
Abner felt dizzy. Frequently since his arrival on Maui he had been confronted by positive confusion. Malama and Kelolo both eagerly wanted Christianity for their island, and each had given substantial signs of surrendering a good deal to the new religion, but repeatedly they indicated that they considered it not a new religion, not a truth that would shatter old ways and introduce salvation, but merely a better religion than the one they had. Once Kelolo had reasoned, “If Jesus Christ can give you big ships with many sails, and Kane gives us only canoes, Jesus Christ must be much better. He is welcome.” Malama, impressed always with the power of the written word, had corrected her husband. “It is not ships that Jesus Christ brings. It is the mana there in the black box,” she said, indicating the Bible. “When we learn to read what is in the box, we will know the secret of mana, and we too will be strong.”
“Jesus does not bring either ships or books,” Abner had patiently explained. “He brings light that illuminates the soul.”
“We’ll take the light, too,” Kelolo had agreed, for he was tired of his smoky oil-nut candles when the white man’s whale-oil lamps were so obviously superior.
“I do not mean that kind of light,” Abner had started to say, but sometimes the Hawaiians were too much for him. Now, however, he was adamant. “No kahuna, no evil, heathenish priest is going to say how we shall build the church of God.”
“But kahunas …” Kelolo began.
“No!” Abner shouted. “The door will be here. The steeple will be here.” And he placed big stones at the critical orientations. When he was finished, Kelolo studied the intended building for a long time. He looked to the hills and beyond them to the mountains. He studied the pathway of the little stream and the distance to the sea, but mostly he studied the rise and fall of the land, as if it consisted of human hands waiting to receive the building which would soon rest within the palms.
Finally he shook his head sadly and said, “The kahunas won’t like it.”
“The kahunas will never enter it,” Abner said stiffly.
“You’ll keep out the kahunas!” Kelolo gasped.
“Of course. This is a church for those who obey Jehovah and keep his Commandments.”
“But the kahunas are eager to join,” Kelolo protested. “They all want to find what power it is your god has that enables his people to build boats and make new lights that are better than ours. Oh, you’ll have no better people in your church than the kahunas!”
Again the dizziness—the crazy irrationality of Hawaii—attacked Abner and he explained slowly, “I have come with the Bible to wipe out the kahunas, their gods and their evil ways.”
“But the kahunas love Jesus Christ,” Kelolo cried. “He is so powerful. I love Jesus Christ!”
“But you are not a kahuna,” Abner countered.
Slowly, Kelolo raised himself to his full austere height. “Makua Hale, I am the Kahuna Nui. My father was the Kahuna Nui, and his father, and his father all the way back to Bora Bora.”
Abner was stunned by this intelligence, but he felt that the moment was critical and that he must not surrender his position. “I don’t care if your great-grandfather Bora Bora was a kahuna …”
“Bora Bora is an island,” Kelolo said proudly.
“I never heard of it.”
Now Kelolo was astonished. “In Boston they did not teach you about …” He stopped, thought a moment, and then placed his right foot on the stone indicating the door to Abner’s church. “Makua Hale, we are in the time when gods are changing. These are always difficult times. When I argue as a kahuna, I am not defending the old gods of Hawaii. They have already been defeated by your god. We all know that. But I am speaking as the kahuna who knows this land. I have often spoken with the spirits of Lahaina and I understand the hills. Makua Hale, believe me when I tell you that this door is wrong for this land.”
“We will build the door here,” Abner said resolutely.
Sadly, Kelolo studied the obstinate man who understood so little about churches, but he argued no more. “Now I will lead my men back to the sandalwood trees. When we have returned three times, I will direct them to build your church.”
“Three times! Kelolo, the crops will be ruined by then.”
“They are my men,” the huge chief said stubbornly, and that evening he led two thousand of them back into the hills.
ON THE THIRTIETH DAY after the arrival of the missionaries at Lahaina, Malama, the Alii Nui, had her handmaidens clothe her in the new China silk dress that Jerusha Hale had sewed for her. She put on shoes for the first time—heavy sailor’s shoes with the laces untied—and covered her wealth of long black hair with a wide-brimmed straw hat from Ceylon. Then she ordered her servants to lay new tapa with extra care, and when this was done she lay prone on the floor, directed the fanning to begin, and spread before her a sheet of white paper, an ink pot and a China quill. “Now I shall write!” she announced, and in a clean, disciplined hand she composed this letter in Hawaiian for her nephew in Honolulu: