The Cove

The small cove shaped by a bend in the stream and time-slicked rocks sat in the afternoon sun. The light danced on the water as it trickled over stone, swirling in eddies at the base of the fall. Laua‘e ferns hugged the banks, their hand shaped leaves stirring in the breeze. Wild grasses leaned in, tangled with guava saplings. Up higher, where the trail met the road, a massive mango tree stood watch, bare of fruit this time of year but generous with shade. Sunlight slipped through the canopy in shifting ribbons, catching on a dragonfly's wings as it sat on a floating leaf before losing it again to the shadows. A skink climbed the side of a mossy stone. Every once in a while, a mynah’s call broke the silence, but mostly the cove waited.

  She laid the change down on the counter and shuffled it as she added in her head. $4.85 on four, please. The attendant at the rural gas station, which doubled as a grocery store and a post office, didn’t say a word, scooped up the change and punched in the numbers. As she turned back to the car, she noticed a man standing near the bulletin board with a camera slung casually over his shoulder. She tried to remember where she recognized him from, then recalled her friend’s birthday party the past weekend. She had kept feeling someone staring at her. But she nodded politely as she walked past him. The man looked away, unreadable.

      She pumped the gas and looked at her baby in the backwards facing car seat. And her two other sons, brothers only a year and a half apart, were scattering Pokémon cards across the floor of the back seat and laughing. She sighed and tilted her head back, letting the pale blue sky swallow her for a moment.

      Pulling in her driveway, she noticed the rubbish can on its side, contents spilling onto the grass. Damn dog, she mumbled. She opened the door to help the boys out. The baby started crying, having just woken as soon as the car turned off. Hey sweetie, mama’s got you, she sang softly. 

      Inside, the small attached ‘ohana unit smelled of nag champa and something citrusy. The two brothers kicked off their rubber slippers and ran inside, the smaller one tagging behind his older sibling. She carried the now quiet baby into the cool shade of their home and assessed her surroundings. A toy shelf lined one short wall before the open bathroom door and the king size bed on the floor took up much of the adjacent wall. An overstuffed dresser stood as a makeshift half wall between the bed area and the kitchen. When she turned back to the door, she saw the secondhand sofa with its mismatched throw pillows. It sat beneath the one large window, looking out onto a sloped yard of buffalo grass in need of a mow.

     Later, while she made dinner for the boys, the baby chirping in his bouncy chair and the older two rummaging through the costume bin, her mind slipped to another dinner. The last one she had made for her husband. The baby then had been only weeks old, the older boys just as wild, and she had cooked anyway, determined to keep the rhythm of a family. He’d already said he was unhappy, that he wanted to explore a friendship with the bartender at his favorite bar. She had tried to be open-minded, but her stomach surged into her throat every time she thought of it. That evening she set the table, kept glancing at the clock, fed the children alone. Still no sign of him.

      Finally, she stacked the plates in the sink, coaxed the kids into the car with the promise of a treat, and drove to the bar. She told herself she would only do a quick pass, just to ease the dread. But when she saw him through the large front window, at the bar, hip to hip with the younger woman, their elbows touching and posture mirroring, she parked in the road, left the engine running and walked straight inside.

      She came up behind them without being noticed, stood still, and said in a low voice, You are making this very hard for me. It was all she could manage, the only sentence her throat would allow. They both turned. She did not stay to see their faces. She simply turned too, walked back to the car where her children waited, and drove away. Remembering all of that now, she feels tension raise her shoulders. The baby squealed at his brothers, a plastic sword raised between them, but she spooned food onto each plate, her hands steady.

          As she got the boys into the bath, she glanced around the old bathroom. She had known she could manage in the tiny apartment the moment she saw it. The elderly Japanese couple had offered a compassionate rent, and she had actually gasped when they showed her this room. It was what remained of the original plantation house, charmingly untouched.  Gilded mirrors, a floor-to-ceiling window that opened into a pocket courtyard and curtains that looked like they belonged in a 19th-century hotel. It felt like a room that remembered women. And as soon as she saw it, she knew she had found the perfect home for her three boys. Most nights, after bath time, she’d settle into the bed with the baby at her breast and the boys curled on either side, and read Harry Potter aloud. She did all the voices, pronouncing Hermione as if it was a Hawaiian name.

Under the surface of the water, near the small waterfall, the turbulence kicked up ancient mud, cloaking the small cave at the waterfall’s base in darkness. In the dappled light closer to the shore, gobies darted among pebbles while a lone crawdad slowly moved along, antennae tapping about like a blind man. Pond bugs skimmed the surface without making a ripple, while o’opu eyed them lazily from below. A shadow passed quickly near the cave, startling the skink and sending it scampering. As evening progressed, cattle egrets argued loudly in the trees then settled again. Beneath it all, something listened.

She is up at dawn, sneaking out from under the baby whose milky white lips are parted in deep sleep. At the kitchen counter she quietly fills the tea kettle and glances at her tea boxes, determining the mood of the morning. On the couch with her Earl Grey, she looks over at her kids on the bed. The oldest boy sleeps clinging to the edge of the bed while his younger brother on the opposite side sleeps perpendicular to the rest of the family. She feels something. Peace, she thinks, and sips her tea to ward off the inevitable next intrusive thought. There was a time when mornings meant hitchhiking to the beach with a friend. Now it’s a rare minute of silence with a warm cup of tea.

She rinses her mug and sets it in the sink, then moves quietly across the room to begin the day. A fresh diaper and a new onesie for the baby, a whispered promise of cinnamon toast for the bigger boys if they get their shorts on without whining. The kettle whistles again, a forgotten second cup of tea. She clicks it off and wipes the counter with a damp towel. The baby blinks awake and yawns, the small pink of his tongue curling like a cat’s. Wanna go to the stream? she asks the room. The boys, now climbing onto the couch in a tangle of limbs, nodded. Can I bring my net? the older one asks. And my bug jar? the younger echos. She smiles, already reaching for the woven bag that holds sunscreen, fruit snacks, a bottle of water and one small paperback novel, just in case. Outside, the morning light is gold and green through the albizia leaves, and the day feels full of promise.

      As she wrestled the baby into his sun suit, tugging his sticky feet through the narrow legs, she thought about walewale, that glistening film that lizard deities were said to exude from their bodies. Want to hear a story? she asked, settling him into the sling. The older boys looked up, their bug jar forgotten.

You remember moʻo? she said. The water gods? Not the ocean, only in the streams and waterfalls. They can be huge, or small as a gecko. Sometimes, when one moves through her cove, she leaves a shine on the stones. It’s called walewale. The old people say if you touched it, it might mark you. Lucky, maybe. Or not. She tightened the sling and went on. There was a chiefess once who bathed in a pool and came out glowing. Some said the moʻo had blessed her. Others said she had gone where she shouldn’t. Either way, she was never quite the same. The older boy frowned. So if we see it, we don’t touch? She shook her head gently. We just notice. And we leave the water clean.

They seemed satisfied with that, turning back to their game of pretending which net was the strongest, which bug jar could hold the fiercest beetle. She kissed the baby’s damp hair and thought of the stream waiting for them, green and gold in the morning light.

Down the road a bit, a rooster crows occasionally. He struts around his hens and brood scratching away at the side of the dirt and gravel road, sending puffs of dust toward a small cottage. A man blinks hard against the light outside from his bed in the loft. A half empty bottle of tequila stares him down from the side table. There is a lingering scent of cigarettes and something else, tangy, feral. He climbs down the ladder and blasts himself with cold water from the hose, gasping. Inside, the space is small and dark. In the kitchen, which is simply a shelf next to a small fridge, he blends up a smoothie with garden greens, yard bananas, market strawberries and bee pollen.

He had come from a more remote part of the island, where he’d been working on a farm. He had a degree in agriculture from a West Coast university and talked often about wanting to live simply, cleanly. He said he was trying to leave behind friends who still drank too much. He’d lost weight, gained muscle, and joked about being “California sober." From the outside, he looked like someone who had started over. But some habits only change shape. His were quieter now, smoke curling from rolled joints, long nights alone with a glowing screen, a restlessness that made him follow certain women too closely. He was good at hiding it, and better at charming strangers.

On the farm he had been magnetic. Children listened to his wild stories, visitors admired his energy and knowledge of tropical plants. But the shine wore thin. He planted things he wasn’t supposed to. Stayed where he wasn’t welcome. Crossed lines that could not be uncrossed. In the end, he left. Now he had moved to a new part of the island, taken a job at the food co-op, and begun again, smiling that same disarming smile.

The cove awakens. Beneath the surface, something inhales and the air goes still. A floating leaf begins to turn, circling the eddy once, twice, then slipping under. Downstream, where invasive hau tangles itself into low bridges over the narrowing stream, an ancient lo‘i lies hidden. The stones hold their pattern, deliberate, ceremonial, though to an untrained eye they are only rocks. Still, the design remains. Where the stream slows and deepens a greenish-yellow froth at the surface holds fast. Beneath a shelf of rock veiled in fine roots, two obsidian eyes open in the gloom. The mo‘o has been motionless a long time, settled into silt and shadow, limbs cool against stone. Now something shifts. She moves with care, scales whispering against rock. A ripple lifts and disappears. Above, yellow hau flowers tremble, though no wind passes through.

  Upstairs again in the loft’s dim light, he flips through the photos on his camera, the screen glow flickering against the rafters. Shots from last week’s party: someone dancing, someone passed out in a lawn chair, strings of paper lanterns like tiny moons. Then her. Caught mid-laugh near the bonfire, her face half-lit by flame, a kid balanced on her hip, another tugging at her hand. He zooms in slowly. Her bare feet in the grass. The way her hair falls. He shifts on the mattress, one hand still scrolling, the other moving inside his shorts. Outside, the rooster crows again. A wind stirs the mango leaves. He shuts the camera off, exhales sharply, and lies back. The smell of cigarettes still clings to the sheets.

They take the lower path behind the ohana, where the yard gives way to tangled brush and the faint outline of a foot-worn trail. The baby is tucked into the ring sling, cheek pressed to her chest, his small body warm against hers. The older boys run ahead, one narrating a battle between imaginary creatures while the other tries to explain how lava turns into rock. A cane toad startles from the roadside grass and launches itself into the ditch with a dull thump. Near it, a flattened cousin lay like a warning. She side-steps it and keeps walking, the boys oblivious. Her mind is already drifting ahead, what could she piece together for dinner? There are eggs, she thought. Maybe rice. Maybe she’d ask her new neighbor down the road if she could look for ripe avocados, their tree is bursting and they are letting them fall to waste. The boys veer left onto the trail toward the stream, and she follows, the sound of water growing clearer beneath the chatter and rustle of their footsteps.

      He hears them first, boys’ voices carrying in bursts, their pitch rising and falling with excitement as they near the bend. From his loft window he catches sight of them passing the mango tree: the woman with the baby snug on her chest, her steps steady but unhurried, and the two boys darting like birds in flight. He grabs his camera, his wide-brimmed hat and trades out his board shorts for a loose sarong. By the time he arrives, they are already down by the water, the boys leaning over a rock shelf, their arms splashing. He steps lightly across the stones and calls a soft hey. She looks up and smiles, maybe recognizes him a bit from around town. He asks if he could help the younger one with the net, just for a second, just to show him how to move slowly, and she nods. He squats near them, his sarong falling in such a way that exposes himself. The boys laugh when they catch a gobie, then watch it disappear back into the current. Gotta take care of the little guys, he said, they contribute to the biodiversity and resilience of the whole stream! She appreciates the small impromptu ecosystem lesson and asks if he is the one with the bursting avocado tree. He said yes, it is a beauty, you could stop by on your way home. He wiggles his camera in the air. I can take some shots of the boys? Send them to you. He snaps a few and shows her, the boys hair like halos, the green grass vibrant behind them. He asks for a photo of all of them, just one, the light is perfect, and she hesitates before nodding. She slips the sling off her body to lay the sleeping baby down on a bed of grass and leaves. The boys pose first, shirtless and wild-haired, then she joins them, barefoot and flushed in her bikini. He shows her the shot on the tiny screen and says something about her eyes being made for this kind of light. She laughs, a little unsure now, glancing down at the baby who had started to stir.

The moʻo blinks, long lids sliding sideways over dark eyes. Her body, slick and scaled, is mottled the color of river rock, perfectly camouflaged in the lo‘i. She exhales once, a low sound like wind through fern fronds, and begins to climb. Up through the tangled hau, her claws find familiar holds in the rock, following the cool breath of the stream. Leaves shiver in her wake though no breeze passes through. She moves without hurry. 

In her human form, she was beautiful. She had lived for many years as a woman in this valley, walking barefoot to the loʻi, carrying calabashes of water, sleeping with her children curled against her ribs. When her time ended, her body was given back to the stream, as others before her. The line of moʻo stretched back to the first-born of Kāne-huna-moku, but it also wound through the women of these valleys, whose spirits entered the water and learned to shift their shapes.

The moʻo settles beneath the waterfall, where the water pounds against her spine and cloaks her presence in white sound. Only her eyes, gleaming just below the surface, mark her watchfulness. Hidden in the churn where the pool swirls and eddies, she waits, ancient, patient and bound to the stream.

Without warning, he stripped off his sarong and tossed it over a rock, revealing himself as he moved toward the water. She looked away instinctively, suddenly very aware of her sons watching too. He waded in with exaggerated ease, then dove under, his body cutting through the pool like a knife. When he surfaced, he shook his head hard, spraying droplets toward the boys and whooping like they were all part of the same game. But his energy had shifted, louder, bolder. She kept her voice even as she gathered the plastic scoop nets from the edges of the rocks. We should be getting back, she said, gently lifting the baby, who whimpered at the sudden movement.

      He was already climbing out, water running in rivulets down his legs, and pulled the sarong back around his waist. Oh come on, don’t go yet, he said, panting slightly, eyes flicking from her to the boys and back. There’s ancient lo‘i just downstream. I’ve been there! It’s hidden, but I know the way. I’ll show you. And then we can pick some of those avocados. See what else is ripening in the garden! The words spilled out too fast, too eager. The older boy froze mid-step, watching his mother. The younger one, sensing something off, pressed his damp body against her leg. She adjusted the baby and gave a soft smile, the kind meant to keep things calm. But she was already turning, the net tucked under her arm like a shield. His hand clamped her arm. She gasped. Heat and cold flashed through her at once. She laughed lightly, too lightly, forcing her voice even. Maybe another time..?

      And, just as she started to turn back towards him, there was a splash, sharp, clean, loud enough to startle some mynahs nearby. They all looked, just in time to see the water still folding in on itself, rippling outward in wide, glimmering rings. He was gone.

She waited, squinting into the pool’s shifting light. The seconds passed. Nothing. No bobbing head, no gasping laugh, no showy dive toward the far side. Just the sound of water moving and the boys, now silent, standing close. His camera still sat on the rock where he’d left it, the lens pointed idly toward the treeline. They looked at each other, her sons and her, wide-eyed and unsure. Decisively, she moved like nothing had happened. Scooped up a rubber slipper, fished out a toy boat with one hand. The baby stirred but didn’t wake. At the edge of the water, she hesitated. The camera glinted in the light. She nudged it gently with her foot. It tottered, then tipped, fell with a soft splash, and disappeared into the green below. She didn’t look back.

 The mo’o lingered a moment beneath the surface, one eye trained on the woman gathering her children, guiding them gently, steadily, away. She watched the woman pause, nudge the camera into the water. That pleased the moʻo. She sank deeper, her body coiling along the floor of the cave beneath the waterfall, and the cove exhaled, a single hau leaf settling on the calm surface of the pool once again.