House of the Moon - 16. Chapter 16

Under the Handmade Stars

Daniel knocks softly at my bedroom door, barely more than a brush of knuckles against the wood. I sit up as he steps inside, carrying a small tray with both hands. A cup of coffee steams gently beside two biscuits topped with a bright smear of mango jelly, the color catching the early light.

He smiles at me—quiet, warm—and sets the tray on the side table.

“Julian,” he says softly, “Koa outside. He waiting for us.”

I thank him for the tray, and his smile deepens just a little. The coffee is hot, rich, and I drink it quickly, letting the warmth settle through my chest. The biscuits are soft, the mango jelly sweet and bright on my tongue, and I finish them as Daniel waits with that patient stillness of his, hands folded loosely behind his back.

When I set the empty cup aside, he nods once. “We go when you ready.”

I rise from the bed and move to the small chest where my clothes are folded. Daniel stays near the door, giving me space, though I can feel his attention like a quiet warmth in the room. I pull my nightshirt over my head and set it aside.

For a moment, the room goes still.

When I glance toward him, Daniel’s eyes lift before he can stop himself—not bold, not lingering, just a brief, unguarded look that carries more feeling than he ever says aloud. A faint color touches his cheeks as he lowers his gaze again, respectful as always.

“Take your time, Julian,” he murmurs, steadying his voice.

I finish buttoning my shirt, smoothing the fabric down my front. “Daniel, tell Koa I’ll be down as soon as I finish dressing.”

He lifts his eyes just enough to meet mine, gives a small nod. “Okay, Julian. I go tell him.”

He slips out quietly, pulling the door almost closed behind him.

Once I finish dressing—trousers, shirt, boots laced tight—I lift the tray and carry it downstairs. The kitchen is already warm, the morning fire crackling low in the stove. Hana turns the moment she hears me, wiping her hands on her apron. She takes the tray from my hands before I can set it down.

“Good,” she says, brisk but fond. “You ate.”

She tilts her head toward the side room. “Come with me. I show you Mr. Pig.”

I follow her into the cool side room where she keeps her larger preparations. Mr. Pig rests on the long wooden table, already cleaned and prepared, his skin pale and smooth beneath the thin sheen of salt she has rubbed into him.

She rests a hand on his flank. “First thing, I take off his jacket,” she says, meaning the outer layer she has already removed. She runs her fingers along the shallow cuts she has made. “I score the meat. Not too deep. Just enough so the salt go inside.”

She reaches for a bowl of coarse red Hawaiian sea salt. The crystals catch the light like tiny rubies.

“Salt always go first,” she says. “Make the meat sweet, tender.”

She rubs the salt into the scored lines with firm, practiced motions.

“Next, wild red peppers. But not too much.” She sprinkles only a small amount. “Too much, he bite back. Just enough for flavor.”

She reaches for a bundle of long, glossy ti leaves. “These keep him tender. Keep the heat even.” She smooths each leaf before laying it across the pig. “Ti leaves always go between the meat and the hot stones.”

She pauses, resting her fingertips lightly on the wrapped flank.

“This feast,” she says, her voice softening, “it not just food, Julian. Your men been working hard. New fields, new barn, new life. They tired, but they stay. They trust you.” She taps the ti leaves gently. “This feast tell them you see that. You honor that.”

I nod, feeling the weight of her words settle in my chest.

“You go now,” she says. “Daniel and Koa waiting.”

Outside, the morning light is brighter, the sky a soft blue washed clean by the night. Down near the clearing, Daniel and Koa work at the imu pit. The stones glow a dull red beneath the thin layer of embers.

Daniel nods toward them. “Gotta heat ’em slow. If we rush, they crack. Then the imu don’t cook right.” He picks up a smaller stone, turning it in his palm. “These ones hold heat long time. Good stones.”

Koa straightens, grinning. “Daniel talks like he’s a master of the pit. Give him a few more minutes and he’ll start lecturing the stones.”

Daniel shoots him a look—half stern, half amused. “I not lecturing. I teaching.”

Koa laughs. “Teaching, lecturing—same thing. You’re talking to rocks.”

Daniel sighs, but the corner of his mouth lifts.

Koa signals to two helpers. “Go to Hana. She’ll need you to carry the pig.”

Soon Hana appears with the helpers, carrying Mr. Pig on a long wooden board. They lower him into the pit, heat rising in a shimmering wave.

“Slow,” Daniel murmurs. “Careful.”

He layers fresh ti leaves over the top, then reaches for the bundle of banana leaves.

“Banana leaf go next,” he says. “Under the burlap. Hold the moisture. Keep the heat even.”

He lays the banana leaves over the ti leaves, smoothing each one with his palm.

Koa brings a basket of purple sweet potatoes. “These go in too. They cook perfectly in the steam.”

Daniel and the helpers place them around the edges.

Next comes the wet burlap—heavy, dripping, soaked through. Steam rises as it meets the heat.

“Lay it flat,” Koa instructs. “No gaps.”

They spread the burlap over the banana leaves, sealing in the moisture.

Then Daniel steps to the side and lifts a folded tarp, thick and dark. “Tarp go on now,” he says quietly. “Keep everything tight.”

He and the helpers unfold it together, laying it across the burlap until the entire pit is covered. The tarp settles with a soft sigh as the heat presses upward from below.

Only then do they begin shoveling dirt back over the mound—first in careful handfuls to anchor the edges, then in steady, practiced motions. The earth piles higher, smoothing into a rounded hill, the tarp hidden beneath the soil, the heat sealed deep inside.

Koa steps back, brushing his hands clean. “That’s it. Now the whole thing is sealed.”

“How long?” I ask.

“Overnight,” he says. “And two hours before the feast, we’ll open it. By then the meat will fall apart. And Hana will work her magic.”

Daniel nods, quiet pride in his expression. “Gonna be good feast.”

And standing there with them—the earth warm beneath my boots, the morning bright around us—I believe him.

With the imu sealed and the morning settling into a steady warmth, we turn our attention to the lūʻau grounds. The clearing beside the big tree is already raked smooth, the grass trimmed low, the space wide enough for everyone on the plantation to gather.

Koa looks over the area, hands on his hips. “All right,” he says. “Let’s start setting the tables.”

Daniel and I follow him to the shed where the sawhorses are stacked. The wood is worn smooth from years of use, edges rounded by hands and weather. We carry them out two at a time, setting them in long rows beneath the shade of the trees.

Next come the boards—wide planks sanded clean, sturdy enough to hold the weight of dishes, lanterns, and whatever Hana decides to place upon them. Daniel lifts one end while I take the other, and together we lay them across the sawhorses until the tables stretch in neat lines across the clearing.

Koa steps back, nodding. “Good. Now the cloths.”

We bring out the folded tablecloths Hana washed the night before—white, cream, and soft shades of blue. The fabric smells faintly of soap and sunlight. Daniel shakes each cloth open with a gentle snap, and we spread them across the boards, smoothing the corners, tucking the edges so the wind won’t lift them.

The clearing begins to change—what was only open space becomes a place meant for gathering, for laughter, for celebration.

“Tomorrow morning,” Koa says, “we’ll put out the flowers. Ginger, plumeria, ti, whatever Hana brings. She’ll make it look right.”

Daniel nods, his voice soft. “Gonna be pretty.”

I look over the rows of tables, the cloths catching the light, the space slowly taking shape. Everything feels deliberate, careful, touched by the hands of people who want this day to mean something.

“We’ll make it as perfect as we can,” I say.

Daniel gives a small smile, warm and quiet. “We will.”

And with the tables set, the cloths smoothed, and the morning still bright around us, the lūʻau begins to feel real—something rising out of the land just as surely as the feast cooks beneath it.

Morning comes clear and bright, the air cool enough that the grass still holds a faint shimmer of dew. Hana is already outside when Daniel and I step onto the veranda. She has three baskets at her feet—ginger blossoms, plumeria, and long strands of ti leaves she braided the night before.

She doesn’t look up as we approach; her hands are already moving, quick and sure, sorting blossoms by color and size.

“Good,” she says. “You two awake. Come help.”

Daniel kneels beside her without a word, lifting a handful of plumeria. The soft white petals glow in the early light. Hana nods approvingly.

“Those go on the tables first,” she says. “Make the place bright. Ginger next. Ti leaves last.”

I take one of the baskets and follow Daniel toward the lūʻau space. The tables we set yesterday stand in neat rows beneath the trees, the cloths still smooth, untouched by wind or dust. The clearing feels different this morning—expectant, as though the land itself is waiting.

Daniel pauses beside the first table, setting down his basket. For a moment he simply looks at the space, the rows of cloth-covered boards, the soft morning light filtering through the branches.

“Pretty already,” he murmurs. “Gonna be real nice tonight.”

I stand beside him, taking in the quiet order of it all—the work of many hands, the promise of the feast still cooking beneath the earth.

“You’ve done good work,” I say.

He glances at me, a small smile touching his mouth. “We all did.”

For a moment, neither of us moves. The morning is still, the air cool, the scent of flowers drifting faintly from Hana’s baskets. Daniel’s shoulder brushes mine—light, unintentional, but warm all the same.

Then the sound of footsteps breaks the quiet.

The workers begin to arrive in small groups—men from the fields, women from the cookhouse, even a few of the older children who have been given the morning free. They gather at the edge of the clearing, smiling when they see the tables, the cloths, the baskets of flowers waiting to be placed.

Koa steps forward, clapping his hands once. “All right,” he says. “Let’s make this place look good.”

The workers spread out, taking flowers from the baskets, laying plumeria in soft arcs across the tables, tucking ginger blossoms into the folds of the cloths, weaving ti leaves into simple, elegant shapes. Laughter rises among them—quiet at first, then brighter as the clearing fills with color and movement.

Daniel lifts another handful of plumeria and sets them gently on the table before us. “Gonna be perfect,” he says softly.

And looking at the space—the flowers, the tables, the people working together—I believe him.

By late afternoon the clearing is alive with movement. The workers return carrying bundles of lanterns—glass globes, tin frames, and strings of small lights that will glow like stars once the sun goes down. They climb ladders to the lower branches of the big tree, tying the lanterns with twine, spacing them so the light will fall evenly across the tables.

Others hang long strands of ti leaves between the trunks, weaving blossoms into the green until the whole space feels touched by color and care. The children run back and forth with small baskets of plumeria, placing petals along the pathways, their laughter bright in the warm air.

Daniel stands beside me, watching the lanterns sway gently in the breeze. “Gonna look real nice tonight,” he murmurs. “Light soft. Good for everybody.”

I nod, taking in the scene—the tables dressed in cloth, the flowers arranged, the lanterns catching the late sun. The place feels transformed, ready.

“Come,” Daniel says quietly. “We check the imu.”

We walk down the slope toward the mound of earth. The soil is still warm beneath our boots, a faint breath of steam rising from the seams. Daniel crouches, pressing his palm lightly to the ground.

“Heat still strong,” he says. “Good sign.”

I kneel beside him. The earth hums with a low, steady warmth, the kind that speaks of hours of slow cooking beneath the surface.

“Two more hours,” Daniel says. “Then we open.”

We stand and head back toward the house, where Hana waits on the veranda with her apron tied tight and her sleeves rolled up. She has a list in her hand and the look of someone who has already decided exactly how the evening will go.

“You two,” she says, pointing at us with the end of a wooden spoon, “go wash up. When the imu open, everything must move fast. I want the tables ready, the serving bowls lined up, the lanterns lit.”

She turns to the workers behind us. “You—finish the flowers. You—check the benches. And someone bring me the big knives from the kitchen.”

Her voice carries across the yard, sharp and sure, and everyone moves at once. She nods, satisfied.

“Good. We almost there.”

The sun dips lower, turning the sky gold. The lanterns are lit one by one, their glow soft and warm. The workers gather near the clearing, waiting. The air smells of earth and flowers and the faint sweetness of plumeria drifting on the breeze.

Koa steps forward, shovel in hand. “All right,” he says. “Time to open the imu.”

Daniel stands at my right, steady and calm. The helpers gather behind us, ready with hooks and thick gloves. The mound of earth waits, warm and breathing, the feast hidden beneath.

The evening begins.

Koa sinks his shovel into the mound, the first cut breaking the smooth surface of earth. A soft hiss rises as steam escapes, curling into the cooling evening air. The workers gather in a wide circle, their faces bright with anticipation. Daniel stands at my right, steady and calm, the heat from the pit warming the ground beneath our boots.

“Careful,” Daniel murmurs to the helpers. “Dirt hot. Move slow.”

They shovel away the soil layer by layer until the tarp shows through—dark, damp, and steaming. Together they grip the edges with thick gloves and lift it back. More steam bursts upward, carrying the deep, rich scent of roasted meat and ti leaves.

A murmur ripples through the workers.

Under the tarp lies the wet burlap, darkened by hours of heat. Koa and Daniel pull it back, revealing the banana leaves beneath—soft, wilted, shining with moisture. The scent grows stronger, warm and sweet.

When the banana leaves are lifted, the pig appears—golden, glistening, the meat pulling gently from the bone. The purple sweet potatoes lie around it, their skins split open, steam rising from their soft centers.

A cheer rises from the workers—low at first, then bright and full, the sound of people who know good food when they see it.

“Perfect,” Koa says, satisfaction deep in his voice. “Just right.”

Hana steps forward, hands on her hips, eyes sharp. “Bring him to the tables,” she orders. “And don’t drop him. I worked too hard for that.”

The helpers laugh and lift the pig onto the wooden board, carrying it toward the serving tables where Hana waits with her knives and bowls. She begins her work at once—cutting, seasoning, arranging—her movements quick and sure, the way only years of practice can make them.

Lanterns glow overhead, casting warm light across the clearing. The tables are set, the flowers bright, the air alive with the scent of food and the hum of voices. The feast is ready.

I step forward, standing before the workers and their children. The lantern light flickers across their faces—tired, hopeful, proud.

“First,” I say, raising my voice just enough to carry, “we are going to start with the children. When I call your name, come up. I have a surprise for you.”

A cheer erupts—high, bright, full of excitement. The children bounce on their toes, hands clasped, eyes wide.

I read the names one by one. Each child runs forward, breathless with joy. I hand them a wrapped gift and a small box of candy. Their faces light up—astonishment, delight, pure happiness. Some clutch their gifts to their chests; others hold them high to show their friends. Their laughter fills the clearing, warm as the lantern light.

When the last child returns to their family, I lift my voice again.

“Next,” I say, “I have a surprise for the adults. Come up.”

A ripple of surprise moves through the workers—smiles, murmurs, a few raised brows. They step forward slowly at first, then with growing excitement, the children tugging at their hands, urging them on.

The night is warm, the feast ready, the imu opened, the tables glowing beneath the lanterns. The star spin in the lite breeze reflecting the light. And as the workers gather before me, the joy on their faces tells me everything I need to know.

This is a night they will remember.

The workers gather before me, lantern light flickering across their faces. The children clutch their candy boxes and gifts, still buzzing with excitement. The adults stand behind them, curious, hopeful, unsure.

I lift the first envelope from the small wooden box at my feet.

“Mano,” I call.

He steps forward slowly, hat in hand, eyes lowered in respect. When he reaches me, I place the envelope in his palm. He opens it carefully, as though afraid to tear the paper. When he sees the twenty‑dollar bill inside, he freezes.

For a heartbeat, he simply stares.

Then he lifts the bill high for everyone to see. A cheer rises from the workers—loud, bright, full of disbelief and joy. Mano’s face crumples, and tears spill down his cheeks, catching the lantern light like small beads of glass.

“Thank you, sir,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Thank you.”

He steps back into the crowd, still holding the bill aloft, and the others clap him on the back, laughing, wiping their own eyes.

I call the next name, and the next. Each worker comes forward, some shy, some trembling, some trying to hide the emotion in their faces. Every envelope holds the same gift, and every reaction is different—astonishment, gratitude, disbelief, quiet tears, whispered blessings.

By the time the last envelope is given, the clearing feels changed—lighter, warmer, filled with something deeper than celebration. A sense of being seen. Of being valued.

Koa steps beside me, voice low. “You did good, Julian. They won’t forget this.”

Hana claps her hands sharply. “All right! Enough crying. Time to eat!”

Laughter breaks across the clearing, and the workers move toward the tables. The feast begins.

The dishes stretch across the boards in long, colorful lines— the golden roasted pig, tender and falling apart under Hana’s knife; purple sweet potatoes split open, steam rising from their soft centers; bowls of lomi‑lomi salmon bright with tomato and onion; fresh poi in smooth, pale mounds; grilled fish wrapped in ti leaves; pineapple slices arranged like sunbursts; coconut pudding chilled in small wooden bowls; and Hana’s special sweet bread, warm and fragrant, the crust brushed with butter.

The workers fill their plates, their children weaving between them, laughter rising like music. Lanterns sway overhead, casting soft circles of light across the tables. The night is warm, the air sweet with flowers and roasted meat.

Daniel stands beside me, watching the feast unfold. His shoulders are relaxed, his expression soft, touched by the joy around us.

“Good night,” he murmurs. “Real good.”

I look at him, at the way the lantern light warms his face, at the quiet pride in his eyes.

“You did a great deal to make it so,” I say.

He shakes his head gently. “We all did. But…” He glances at me, voice lowering. “You make them feel seen, Julian. That mean something.”

For a moment, the noise of the feast fades—the laughter, the clatter of plates, the music beginning near the far tables. It all softens into a warm hum around us.

Daniel’s hand brushes mine—light, accidental, or perhaps not accidental at all. His voice is barely above a whisper.

“I glad I here with you.”

I feel the truth of it settle deep, steady and warm.

“And I’m glad you are,” I say.

The lanterns sway. The workers laugh. The feast continues. And beside me, Daniel stands close, the night unfolding around us like something bright and new.

The feast is in full swing now. Lanterns sway overhead, casting warm circles of light across the clearing. The workers eat with the kind of joy that comes from long labor rewarded, their children running between the tables with sticky fingers and bright laughter.

Then the hula music begins.

It starts with the ipu heke—a deep, steady thump that rolls through the warm night air like a heartbeat. A second rhythm joins in, the soft tapping of ili‘ili stones, smooth and sure. Someone begins to chant, low and melodic, the words rising and falling like waves against the shore.

The workers rise from the tables, some shy, some eager, forming small circles where the lantern light falls brightest. Their movements are slow at first—hands telling stories, hips swaying in gentle arcs, feet stepping lightly in the grass. The children dance too, mimicking the motions with bright laughter, their joy spilling into the night.

Above them, the handmade stars turn gently in the breeze.

The thin wooden shapes wrapped in tin foil catch the lantern light and throw it back in small flashes—silver glimmers that sway like tiny moons. They hang from the branches of the big tree, spinning slowly, brightening the clearing with a soft, shimmering glow.

Daniel watches them with quiet pride. “Look good, yeah?” he murmurs. “They shine real nice.”

Before I can answer, Kalei—broad‑shouldered, silver‑haired—steps forward holding a tin cup raised high. The music softens, the chanting fades, and the crowd quiets.

He looks at me, voice warm and steady. “Eh… I like say something. For all of us.”

He lifts the cup a little higher.

“To Julian,” he says. “He see us. He take care. He give our keiki joy. He give us hope.”

His voice catches just slightly, but he keeps going, gentle and sure.

“We work hard, yeah? Long days. But he stay with us. He stand with us. That mean plenty. So… mahalo, Julian. From all of us.”

A cheer rises—loud, full, heartfelt. Cups lift, lanterns sway, and above us the handmade stars shimmer like they hearing every word.

I nod, unable to speak for a breath. “Thank you,” I manage. “All of you. This place… it only lives because of your hands.”

The cheer grows louder, rolling through the night like a warm wind.

The hula music swells again—the ipu beating steady, the stones tapping in rhythm, the chant rising with renewed strength. The workers dance, their movements graceful and grounded, telling stories older than any of us. The children weave between them, their joy bright as the lanterns overhead.

Daniel stands beside me, watching it all with quiet pride. The lantern light softens the lines of his face, warms the deep brown of his eyes. He steps a little closer, his shoulder brushing mine.

“You did good tonight,” he says softly. “Real good.”

I look at him, at the way the light catches the curve of his cheek, the gentle steadiness in his expression. “We did it together.”

He shakes his head slightly. “Maybe. But… you make this place feel different, Julian. Better. You make people feel safe.”

The music drifts around us—ipu, stones, chant, voices rising in harmony. The workers dance, the children laugh, the lanterns sway like small moons in the branches. Above them, the handmade stars spin slowly, catching the light, turning the whole clearing into something bright and magical.

Daniel’s hand finds mine—not bold, not claiming, just a quiet touch, warm and sure. His fingers curl gently around mine, and he looks at me with a softness that feels like truth.

“I glad I here with you,” he murmurs.

The night settles around us—bright, alive, full of joy—and for a moment, everything else falls away. The feast, the music, the laughter… all of it becomes a warm hum beneath the steady beat of my heart.

“I’m glad you’re here too,” I say.

And beneath the lanterns and the handmade stars, with the hula music rising around us, Daniel’s hand remains in mine—steady, warm, and full of something that feels like the beginning of a promise.

The hula music deepens, the ipu heke beating a steady, warm rhythm that settles into the earth beneath our feet. The chanting rises again—soft, melodic, full of stories older than any of us. The workers dance in slow arcs, hands shaping the air, hips swaying in time with the drum.

Then Kalei looks over and calls out, voice bright with joy.

“Eh, Julian! Daniel! Come dance with us!”

A cheer rises behind him, the workers clapping, laughing, urging us forward. The children tug at Daniel’s hands, pulling him toward the circle. He laughs—quiet, shy—and lets them lead him. I follow, feeling the warmth of the moment settle into my chest.

Inside the circle, the lantern light glows soft on the grass. The handmade stars turn gently above us, catching the light in silver flashes. Daniel steps beside me, his movements small at first—shoulders loose, hands lifting in simple motions, feet tapping lightly in the rhythm.

“You follow me,” he murmurs, smiling. “Easy steps. Just feel the beat.”

I do. The drum settles into my bones, the chant into my breath. The workers dance around us, their movements graceful and grounded, telling stories with their hands—stories of wind, of waves, of journeys and homecomings. The children weave between us, laughing, spinning, their joy bright as the lanterns overhead.

Daniel glances at me, eyes warm. “See? You doing good.”

The circle widens, the music swelling, the handmade stars spinning above like small silver moons. For a moment, everything feels suspended—light, warm, full of life.

When the song ends, the workers cheer, clapping us on the back, laughing, calling out praise in soft, rhythmic voices. The circle breaks, people drifting back to the tables, to the food, to the lantern glow.

Daniel stays beside me.

The music softens into a gentle chant, the drums fading to a low heartbeat. The night air cools, carrying the scent of ti leaves and roasted pork. The handmade stars sway overhead, catching the lantern light in slow, shimmering arcs.

Daniel looks up at them, then at me.

“Julian,” he says quietly, “I like tell you something.”

His voice is soft, but steady. The kind of steady that comes from truth.

“I been scared before,” he says. “Scared to want things. Scared to hope. Scared to… feel too much.” He swallows, eyes lowering for a moment. “But tonight… with you… I not scared.”

The words settle between us—gentle, honest, warm.

He lifts his eyes again, and the lantern light catches the softness there.

“I care for you,” he says. “Plenty. More than I ever say before.”

The handmade stars turn above us, silver flashes drifting across his face. The hula chant hums low in the background, steady as breath.

I step closer, feeling the truth of his words settle deep inside me. “Daniel,” I say, “I care for you too. More than I knew I could. But my heart belongs to Sam, you know that.”

His breath catches—just slightly—and he smiles, small and real.

“Good,” he murmurs. “I glad.”

The music rises again in the distance, the workers laughing, the children running through the lantern light. The feast continues, warm and bright, but for a moment the world narrows to just the two of us beneath the handmade stars.

Daniel’s hand finds mine—quiet, sure, warm.

We stand together in the soft glow of lanterns and silver stars, the night humming around us, the feast alive behind us, and something new and steady beginning between us.

And that is how the night ends— with music in the air, light in the trees, and Daniel’s hand in mine.