100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween 2024. # 6. Apapane.

 1

I'm only a walker or a hiker if I need time to think or if I'm perusing the neighborhood for those uniquely old plantation-style homes from the past.

Today's jaunt is an aimless trek through Kaimuki. I'll simply go where the road takes me. I have a few snacks and a bottle of water with me. I'm wearing a dry-fit top and basketball shorts. My shoes are perfect because the soles are thick enough to feel like I'm walking on a cushion of air. There's a nice, consistent breeze today, so I don't feel like I'm being choked by the humidity. The greatest hits from the '70s are on my playlist, privately invading my head space through my ear pods. Janice Joplin begs to have another piece of the heart taken, and soon, the noodling base guitar and the driving drum beats from Grand Funk Railroad want everyone to listen to him. He's your captain. It's a great way to get lost in the ethers of your musical safe space when you don't want to be found for a while. I'd come upon the east end of Kapiolani Park before I realized I was there. I needed to stop by the restroom before I went any further. The city and county boys emptied the waste bins and replaced the bare receptacles with new plastic liners. They excused themselves as they passed me. I assumed my position at the urinal, and it was there at that moment when the slight chill of chicken skin comes over a man while the micturition leaves his body, that I heard a woman's voice behind me.

"Kōkua, ke 'olu'olu, kōkua," I jumped and whipped around to find a red apapane perched on a wooden shelf on the opposite wall. It looked injured, being only to flap one wing. "Kōkua," I heard the woman's voice again. No other person was in the bathroom besides myself and the apapane, so where was this woman asking for help? As I would later find out, she wasn't in any stalls or outside. Was the voice coming from someone's Bluetooth speaker? Before cupping the bird in my hands, I realized my zipper was still open and that my business was also open for anyone to see should they walk into the facility, thinking I was one of those bathroom park cruisers. 

2

On the way home, I remembered a new bird shop that had opened near the gas station in Kapahulu. That's where I brought the red apapane. The owners were beside themselves, thinking I'd wounded the bird, and began chastising me. "If I wounded this bird," I began. "Why would I bring it here, of all places?"

"Well, it's a wild bird and native to our forests, so we don't see how it ended up in a park bathroom, as you claim," the two of them blustered.

"So, I'll bring it back to the bathroom?" I pretended to walk out the door while gesturing.

"No, no, no!" They fell all over themselves and gently rescued the apapane from my hands. I made it a point to leave my business card behind. 

Two weeks later, Jen and Felicity Maruyama, the owners of the Bird Shop, called me. When I brought the apapane to their shop, the two claimed they'd heard a woman's voice asking for help in Hawaiian. 

"My wife is freaking out," Felicity said. "That says something if my wife is freaking out because I'm usually the one that's unhinged,"

"Even our customers heard it," Jen added. "We even had our store blessed by a Kahu, but the voice hasn't stopped."

"What's even scarier is that people walking by the store after hours have called the police because they've seen a Hawaiian woman wandering around inside the shop," Felicity said. "We've seen it too from the CCTV we installed when we first opened,"

"What about the apapane?" I asked. "What was wrong with it?"

"A slightly bruised wing," Jen replied. "Otherwise, the bird is fine."

"We had plans to take a hike and set it free, but now we're just completely freaked out. Would you mind coming to get it and taking it yourself?" Felicity begged.

"Are you two saying the bird is haunted?" I laughed.

"This only started when you brought the bird here, so yeah, maybe," Jen replied. "The bird might be haunted or possessed."

3

The logical choice was the trail heading up to Ka'au Crater at the back of Palolo Valley. It was first light, and the sun was new as it lit the early morning sky. The apapane sat in the small cage that Jen and Felicity gave me. The bird was still and made no effort to move or flit about. I'd only left my car for less than a minute when the tiny door to the cage opened on its own, and the apapane flew out, heading straight to the trees. I felt a tinge of disappointment as I had planned a moment as to where and when I would set it free. That choice wasn't meant for me to make. Nature decides. 

With that realization, I discarded the bird cage in a nearby receptacle, put in my ear pods, and turned on my playlist. Along the trail, I came upon the pipe that led to the first waterfall. I was surprised that I was the only person on the trail. Usually, there are a few people here and there, but today, I'm it. I'd only reached the first waterfall when I saw her at the opposite end. There was no real description except that she was a Hawaiian woman, dark-skinned, with red ehu hair, wearing a red ahu'ula on her shoulders and nothing else. Something moving about in the trees above caught my attention, and when I focused on what it was, I saw that the entire canopy was filled with red apapane. The woman knew I was there even though she never regarded my presence. She knelt at the pond, cupped her hands in the water, and brought it to her mouth, quenching her thirst. Standing up now, her height must have been at least six feet or more. She was majestic and noble yet wild and unabated. Finally acknowledging that I was there, she bowed her head to me.

"Mahalo," she said. "Mahalo."

She spread her arms open and pushed down in one motion, kicking the dirt and dry leaves around her like a dust storm. She jetted straight up above the canopy, and she was gone. A second later, all the apapane sitting in the trees went with her, creating a natural streak in the heavens. After they'd gone, a strange silence remained in their wake. It felt like the aftermath of some life-changing event, and what was left behind was the mundanity of life, the reality of your daily existence. However, it wouldn't turn out to be completely sad. Every now and again, in random places, I hear her. Almost as if she's there to let me know she is out and about. I acknowledge it by looking toward where the sound is coming from, giving a short wave and nod. It's the unique thing about Hawai'i. In our environment are the greater and lesser gods. Perhaps not prayed to and worshipped in the way they used to be, but are still ever present. Letting us know in those rare moments that they are with us, ever a part of our lives in some way, shape, or form. In those rare instances, they sometimes come as a red apapane.