Palehua:
We were guests of a friend whose family owned the land where a small cluster of cabins was located up at Palehua. We'd been there for most of the afternoon, but the darkness was settling in now that the sun was behind us to the west. Of course, we could see the city lights off in the distance, but it felt like we were swimming to shore from a shipwreck. We could see the lights of Waikiki from far off, but It didn't make us feel any better because we knew a proverbial shark was in the water somewhere. That's what it felt like right at that moment.
An unknown fear took hold of us for some reason, and we ended up huddled together in one cabin because we were too afraid to walk the short distance to our own cabins. One couple felt they needed some privacy and went off into the night where they could be more amorous without giving everyone a free show. That's when all the trouble began. Number one, we didn't anticipate the cold and weren't dressed appropriately. Number two, it's terrifying to hear a blood-curdling scream from somewhere in the pitched black of night. Because, number three, you know it's one of your friends who just left the cabin, and you want to help them, but you're too afraid of what you might find.
With only one flashlight between us, we huddled together, and on the count of three, we pushed the cabin door open and prepared ourselves (not really) for whatever was about to come. Just inside the tree line where the open area ended, we saw countless torch lights, and we could just make out the shadowy figures holding those torches. The fiery light was not comforting; it gave off a strange glow as if the fires alone were alive. The couple who'd wandered off earlier were just at the edge of the tree line. They lay naked and prone face down with their hands clasped behind the back of their heads. A large procession of Hawaiian warriors slowly emerged from the trees, all bearing torches. I'd heard about them for many years while growing up here on 'O'ahu but never thought anything of it until now, but there they were. Fear is not the word to correctly describe what I felt then; it was more than that. Was it awe? No, it was reverence, respect, and aloha.
Without my having to say anything to the rest of the group, we quickly removed our clothing and followed suit. We all lay flat with our hands clasped behind the back of our heads and kept our eyes closed. We heard the sound of chanting in Hawaiian and the sound of feet marching past us, but I will never forget the individual voices whispering names into my ear,
“Aukai,” “Kahalewai,” “Kahiamoe,” “Mahi,” “Makahi,”
The names went on and on; they were family. We'd lost our sense of time so that when the entire procession had finally passed, the sun was already rising over Diamond Head. Most of us were alive, but not the couple. They'd died sometime during the night; their bodies were stiff because of rigor mortise, and there was a kind of grey membrane film that covered their eyes. There was no evidence of any foul play or accident. It was as if their bodies just suddenly stopped working. Now that it was day, I could verbally say it without fear,
"Night Marchers,"
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