House of the Moon - 19. Chapter 19

Calling Sam

I wake before the sun.

For a moment I don’t know where I am — only the warmth at my back, the steady rise and fall of breath against my shoulder, the weight of an arm draped across my ribs. Then the room settles into place around me: the faint gray light at the window, the soft creak of the house in the early hour, the scent of salt and woodsmoke lingering in the air.

And Daniel.

His chest is pressed to my back, his legs tangled with mine beneath the blanket, his skin warm against my own. He holds me the way he did through the night — not tight, not possessive, but sure. As though he knew I might `wake in pieces and wanted to keep them from scattering.

I breathe in slowly.

His arm tightens, just a little. “Eh,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, “you waking already.”

“Yes,” I whisper. “Just now.”

He shifts behind me, not pulling away, only settling closer. His forehead rests against the back of my neck, warm and steady. “You sleep good.”

“I think I did,” I say. “Better than I expected.”

He hums softly, a low sound in his chest. “Good. You needed that.”

I close my eyes again.

And the dream returns — but not the one that tore me apart.

Sam stands on the shoreline at dawn, the tide low and quiet behind him. The sky is pale, the first light touching the water in long silver strokes. He is whole. Dry. Unbroken. His boots leave soft prints in the sand.

He doesn’t speak.

He only looks at me — steady, calm, the way he did on mornings when the sea was gentle and the world felt possible.

A breeze moves between us, carrying the scent of salt and something sweet I can’t name. Sam lifts his chin slightly, as though acknowledging me, as though saying I’m here without a single word.

The water rolls in, touches his feet, recedes.

He doesn’t fade. He doesn’t drown. He doesn’t turn away.

He simply stands there, quiet and alive in the dream, letting me breathe in his presence without fear.

The shoreline brightens. The light grows. And the dream softens into morning.

I wake with a slow inhale.

Daniel’s arm is still around me, warm and sure. His breath stirs my hair. His legs are tangled with mine beneath the blanket, skin to skin, steady as the earth.

He blinks awake when I shift. “Eh… morning already.”

“Yes,” I whisper. “It seems so.”

He studies my face, still half‑asleep but alert enough to read me. “You dream again.”

“Yes.”

He brushes his thumb along my side, gentle. “Bad one.”

“No,” I say. “Not this time.”

He waits.

“It was Sam,” I murmur. “But he didn’t speak. He just… stood there. Whole. Calm.”

Daniel nods slowly, as though he understands more than I’ve said. “Sometimes the heart change the dream when it ready.”

I breathe out, long and quiet. “It felt like… peace.”

Daniel presses a soft kiss to my shoulder — nothing more. “Good,” he whispers. “You deserve that.”

The morning light grows, pale and warm through the window. The plantation hums faintly outside — workers beginning their day, the world moving forward.

Daniel shifts closer, his arm tightening around me again. “You want get up.”

“Not yet.”

“Okay.” He settles back into the pillow, his breath warm against my skin. “We stay little more.”

I rest my hand over his where it lies across my chest.

For the first time in a long while, morning does not feel like something I must survive. It feels like something I might meet.

Daniel’s arm stays around me, warm and steady. The morning light grows a little stronger, soft gold brushing the edge of the window. I shift in his hold, and he lifts his head slightly, eyes half‑open.

“You thinking again,” he murmurs.

“Only a little.”

He studies my face, still waking. “Your eyes look softer today.”

“Do they?”

“Mm.” He touches my cheek with the back of his fingers. “You breathe easier.”

I rest my hand over his. “I feel… steadier.”

He smiles, small and warm. “Good. That all I want.”

We lie there a moment longer, the quiet between us gentle, not heavy. Then I draw a breath.

“I should get up,” I say.

Daniel nods. “I watch you.”

I slip from the bed, the cool air brushing my skin. My legs feel stronger than yesterday. I cross to the washbasin, pour water into the bowl, and splash my face. The shock of it wakes me fully.

I dry off and begin dressing — trousers first, then my shirt, buttoning it slowly. When I glance back, Daniel is sitting up, blanket around his waist, watching me with a quiet, steady tenderness.

“You look good this morning,” he says softly.

“So do you.”

He gives a small laugh. “I not even dressed yet.”

“That doesn’t change anything.”

He tilts his head, curious. “What you mean.”

I take him in — the lines of his shoulders, the strength in his arms, the calm in his posture. There is nothing lewd in the sight, nothing heated. Only beauty. Only the man who held me through the night.

“You’re the most handsome man I’ve ever seen,” I say quietly.

Daniel’s breath catches. His eyes soften, warm as the morning light. “Eh… you make my heart feel big when you say things like that.”

“Good,” I whisper.

He rises then, letting the blanket fall away as he crosses to the basin. His movements are unselfconscious, natural, the way a man moves who has never been taught to be ashamed of his own body. I watch him wash — the water running over his face, his hands smoothing back his hair.

When he finishes, he reaches for his old clothes, then hesitates.

I nod toward the drawer. “Wear the new ones.”

He smiles — shy, almost. “You like those.”

“I do.”

He opens the drawer and takes out the clothes we bought in Kona — the soft blue shirt with the orchid print, the well‑fitted trousers. He pulls them on slowly, smoothing the fabric over his chest, adjusting the cuffs, fastening the buttons with care.

When he turns to me, the light catches him just right — the faint orchid pattern blooming softly across the blue.

“You look…” My voice breaks. “Daniel, you look so good to me.”

He steps closer, concern flickering across his face. “Eh, you okay.”

I nod, but a single tear slips down my cheek. “I never want to be parted from you.”

Daniel reaches up and wipes the tear with his thumb, gentle as breath. “I not going anywhere,” he murmurs. “Not today. Not tomorrow. I stay as long as you want me.”

I swallow hard. “I want you.”

He presses his forehead to mine. “Then I here.”

A soft knock sounds at the door.

Daniel steps back slightly, though his hand stays on my arm.

I open the door.

Koa stands there, boots dusty, hair damp from the morning air. His eyes sweep over me first — checking, assessing — then over Daniel in his new clothes, the orchid‑print shirt catching the light.

“Good morning,” he says quietly. “I wanted to make sure you were both alright.”

“We are,” I say. “Better than yesterday.”

Koa nods, relief softening his features. “Breakfast is nearly ready. Hana said to tell you she made something light.”

Daniel steps beside me. “We come down soon.”

Koa’s gaze lingers on me a moment longer, steady and warm. “Take your time. There’s no rush.”

He steps back and heads down the hall.

I close the door.

Daniel slips his hand into mine. “You ready.”

I nod. “Yes. Let’s go.”

And together, we walk toward the morning.

The stairs creak softly beneath our feet as Daniel and I descend together. The morning light spills through the open windows, warm and gold, carrying the scent of fresh bread and roasted taro. The house feels alive again — not loud, not bustling, but steady.

Hana looks up the moment we enter the dining room. “Good morning,” she says, her voice warm. “Sit. Eat. You both need strength.”

Daniel stays close to me, close enough that our shoulders brush as we take our seats. Koa is already at the table, a plate before him, his posture relaxed but his eyes alert, watching me with quiet care.

“Morning,” he says. “You look better.”

“I feel better,” I answer.

Daniel nods once, confirming it without words.

Breakfast begins in a gentle rhythm — the soft clink of utensils, the low hum of conversation, the morning breeze stirring the curtains. Daniel sits at my right, as he always does now, his presence a steady anchor. The orchid‑print shirt softens the lines of his shoulders, the faint pattern catching the light each time he moves. Every so often his knee touches mine beneath the table, a small reminder that he’s here.

I take a sip of tea, then look between them — Daniel, warm and steady; Koa, calm and grounded.

“I want to ask you both something,” I say quietly.

They look up at once.

“If someone dies at sea,” I begin, “and there is no body… how do Hawaiians honor the dead?”

Daniel’s expression softens immediately. Koa straightens, attentive.

Daniel speaks first, his voice low and gentle. “We do many things, depending on the family, the place, the heart.” He sets down his fork. “If no body come home, we still call the spirit home.”

Koa nods. “There are several traditions. None of them require a body.”

Daniel lifts his hand slightly, counting each one with slow, thoughtful care.

“First,” he says, “we hold a spirit‑calling ceremony. We speak the name. We call the person back to the land, so they not wander lost.”

Koa adds, “It’s meant to guide the spirit, not trap it. A way of saying: You are remembered. You belong.”

Daniel continues.

“Second — ocean offerings at dawn. Flowers, ti leaves, sometimes food. We give to the sea what the sea took.”

I swallow. “That feels right.”

“Third,” Daniel says softly, “we burn the things that belong to the person. Not all — just the ones that hold their mana. Their spirit. Burning send the mana back to the ancestors.”

Koa nods. “It’s a release. A way of letting the grief move.”

Daniel’s voice lowers further.

“Fourth — we make a kanikau. A lament. Words for the one who gone missing. We speak the sorrow out loud so it not stay heavy inside.”

Koa adds, “It doesn’t have to be formal. It can be a few lines. A memory. A cry. Anything true.”

Daniel lifts his last finger.

“Fifth — we bury something symbolic. A stone. A shell. A piece of cloth. Something that stand in place of the body. So the family have a place to go. A place to talk story with the one they miss.”

The room is quiet.

The morning light glows warm across the table. Hana pauses in her work at the sideboard, listening without interrupting.

I breathe in slowly. “Would it be alright… if I did those things? For Sam?”

Daniel reaches across the table and lays his hand over mine. “Eh,” he murmurs, “that more than alright. That good for your heart.”

Koa nods, his voice steady. “We’ll help you. You don’t have to do any of it alone.”

A warmth rises in my chest — grief, yes, but something steadier beneath it. Something like belonging.

Daniel squeezes my hand once, gentle. “We do it together.”

And for the first time since the harbor, the idea of honoring Sam does not feel like breaking. It feels like healing.

After breakfast, the workers begin gathering outside, drawn by quiet word passed from one to another. No one speaks loudly; the air itself feels reverent, as though the land knows what we are preparing to do.

Daniel stands at my right. Koa at my left. The three of us step forward together.

The workers form a loose circle around us — men from the fields, women from the cookhouse, children peeking from behind their mothers’ skirts. Faces solemn, respectful. They wait for me to speak, but my voice catches.

Daniel senses it immediately. He steps closer, his hand brushing my back. “We tell them together,” he murmurs.

Koa nods. “You don’t have to carry the words alone.”

I draw a breath.

“We’re going to hold a spirit‑calling ceremony,” I say. “For Sam. For the man the sea took from me.”

A ripple of understanding moves through the crowd.

“We’ll do it at dawn,” I continue. “At the kukui clearing. All of us.”

Daniel lifts his chin. “We call his name. We guide his spirit home.”

Koa adds, “And we’ll make offerings to the ocean. Flowers. Leaves. Food. Whatever feels right.”

The workers nod, murmuring softly among themselves. No one questions. No one hesitates. They simply accept — and stand with me.

Daniel turns to me. “We choose the symbolic object now,” he says gently. “Something that stand for him.”

I look around — at the earth, the trees, the sky. Then my eyes fall on a small piece of driftwood lying near the steps, pale and smooth from the sea. I pick it up.

It fits perfectly in my hand.

“This,” I say. “He loved the ocean. This feels right.”

Daniel nods. “Good choice. The sea touch that wood many times.”

Koa studies it, then meets my eyes. “It will serve well.”

We begin walking toward the kukui clearing, the workers following at a respectful distance. The path is soft beneath our feet, the morning light filtering through the trees in long, golden beams.

Daniel walks close beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. “You doing good,” he murmurs. “Your heart strong today.”

“I’m trying.”

“You not trying alone.”

The clearing opens before us — wide, quiet, ringed with kukui trees whose leaves shimmer silver‑green in the light. It feels sacred without needing to be named so.

“This is the place,” I say.

Daniel nods. “Good mana here.”

Koa kneels near the center, testing the earth with his hand. “We can bury the driftwood here. The ground is soft.”

I hand him the piece of wood. “Thank you.”

He rises. “We’ll prepare everything for dawn.”

As we stand there, Hana arrives, carrying a basket of ti leaves and flowers. She sets it down gently, then looks at me with that deep, steady wisdom she carries like breath.

“This is good work you’re doing,” she says. “Calling a spirit home is an act of love, not sorrow.”

I swallow. “I hope it brings peace.”

“It will,” she says. “For him. And for you.”

She touches my arm, firm and reassuring. “Grief needs a place to go. You’re giving it one.”

Daniel steps closer, his voice soft. “We all help you. Every step.”

Koa nods. “You won’t stand alone tomorrow.”

I look at the clearing — the trees, the earth, the basket of offerings, the driftwood in Koa’s hand — and for the first time since the harbor, I feel something shift inside me.

Not the end of grief. But the beginning of its shape.

Koa kneels beside the basket Hana brought, sorting through the ti leaves with practiced hands. The workers gather around the edges of the clearing, quiet and respectful, waiting for direction. Hana joins Koa, her movements sure and steady as she begins arranging flowers — plumeria, hibiscus, a few sprigs of maile.

“Ti leaves first,” she says softly. “They protect. They guide.”

Koa nods. “We’ll weave them into a lei for the offering. Strong, simple, true.”

I kneel beside them. “Show me what to do.”

Hana smiles gently. “Your hands will remember. Just follow the leaves.”

She places a ti leaf in my palm, cool and smooth. I fold it the way she shows me, twisting the stem, tucking the edge beneath itself. My fingers move slowly at first, then more surely. Daniel kneels beside me, watching with quiet pride, the orchid print on his blue shirt soft in the shifting light.

“You doing good,” he murmurs. “Your hands steady.”

We weave the leaves together, one by one, until a long green lei forms between us. Hana adds flowers — white, red, gold — tucking them into the folds with care.

“This will go to the ocean,” she says. “At dawn.”

Koa lifts the lei, inspecting it. “It’s strong. It will carry the spirit well.”

Behind us, the workers begin gathering in small groups. Some sit on the grass, others stand beneath the kukui trees. A few begin humming softly — a low, mournful melody that rises and falls like the tide.

“They’re starting the kanikau,” Koa says quietly. “The lament.”

I listen.

The voices blend — men, women, even a few children — weaving grief into sound. Not words yet, just tone. A foundation. A heartbeat. The beginning of something that will become a lament for Sam.

Daniel touches my arm. “They do this for you,” he says. “For him. For the sea.”

I swallow. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s honest,” he says. “That what make it strong.”

When the lei is finished, Hana sets it gently in the basket. “We’ll bring this tomorrow,” she says. “Before the sun rises.”

Koa stands, brushing dirt from his hands. “We’ve done enough for now. Let the workers finish the kanikau. They’ll bring it to you when it’s ready.”

Daniel rises beside me and offers his hand. “Come. We walk back.”

I take it.

We walk slowly along the path, the morning light filtering through the trees. The air smells of earth and flowers, warm and alive. Daniel stays close, his hand brushing mine every few steps, the orchids on his shirt shifting softly with each movement.

“You feel lighter,” he says.

“I do,” I admit. “Being here… doing this… it helps.”

He nods. “Your heart know what it need.”

We reach the edge of the clearing where the path splits — one way toward the house, the other deeper into the trees. Daniel stops.

“You want little time alone?” he asks softly.

I look back at the clearing — the workers humming, the kukui leaves shimmering, the basket of offerings resting in the grass.

“Yes,” I say. “Just a moment.”

Daniel nods. “I wait for you by the house.”

He squeezes my hand once, then walks away, his steps quiet on the path.

I return to the center of the clearing.

The workers continue their soft humming, shaping the kanikau. The air feels thick with meaning — not heavy, but full. I kneel where the driftwood will be buried tomorrow, pressing my palm to the earth.

“Sam,” I whisper. “I’m calling you home.”

The wind stirs the leaves overhead, gentle as breath.

For the first time since the harbor, I feel him not as loss — but as presence.

Not gone. Not drowning. Just… near.

I close my eyes and let the moment settle into me, quiet and whole.

I walk back toward the house, the path soft beneath my feet, the morning light warming the tops of the trees. Daniel waits for me on the lanai, leaning against the railing, arms folded loosely across his chest. When he sees me, his face softens.

“You okay,” he says quietly.

“Yes,” I answer. “Better.”

He steps forward, brushing his fingers along my arm. “Good. I feel that.”

We stand together for a moment, letting the breeze move around us. The house hums with quiet activity — workers passing by, voices low, footsteps soft. The air feels different now, as though the land itself is preparing.

A group of workers approaches from the path. At their center is Kaleo, the oldest among them, carrying a folded cloth bundle in both hands. The others walk with bowed heads, reverent.

Daniel straightens beside me. Koa appears from the doorway, sensing the moment.

Kaleo stops before me and unfolds the cloth.

Inside lies the kanikau.

A long strip of kapa cloth, painted with dark strokes of charcoal and red earth. The symbols flow like water — waves, wind, the outline of a canoe, the curve of a rising sun. Beneath it, written in Hawaiian, are the first lines of the lament the workers shaped together.

Kaleo bows his head. “This is for you,” he says. “For him. For the sea that took him.”

I touch the kapa gently. The texture is soft, warm from their hands. “Thank you,” I whisper. “All of you.”

A murmur of acknowledgment moves through the group. They step back, giving space, leaving the kanikau in my hands.

Koa rests a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll carry it to the clearing at dawn.”

Daniel nods. “We do it together.”

The workers disperse, returning to their tasks. The house grows quiet again.

Hana steps out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She looks at the kanikau, then at me, her eyes deep with understanding.

“Walk with me,” she says softly.

I follow her to the side of the house where the shade is cool and the wind carries the scent of plumeria. She turns to me, her expression gentle but unflinching.

“Grief is not a thing you conquer,” she says. “It is a thing you learn to carry.”

I swallow. “Some times it feels too heavy.”

“That is why we share it,” she says. “Why we call the spirit home. Why we sing the kanikau. Why we gather at dawn. So the weight is not yours alone.”

I look down at the kapa cloth in my hands. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“No one ever is,” she says. “But readiness is not required. Only love.”

Her words settle into me like warm rain.

She touches my cheek, mother‑gentle. “Tomorrow will hurt. But it will also heal.”

I nod, unable to speak.

She smiles softly. “Go. Prepare for the evening. Rest if you can.”

I return to the house where Daniel waits, leaning against the doorway. He sees the look on my face and opens his arms without a word. I step into his embrace, letting the warmth of him steady me, the orchids on his shirt brushing lightly against my cheek.

“Tonight,” he murmurs, “we get everything ready. Then we sleep early. Dawn come fast.”

Koa gathers the flowers and ti leaves, checking each one with care. Hana prepares a small bowl of food for the offering — poi, fish, a bit of sweet bread. Daniel and I fold the kapa cloth together, smoothing the edges, treating it like something sacred. The orchids on his blue shirt shift softly each time he moves, the faint pattern catching the lantern light.

The sun sinks low, painting the sky in gold and rose. The workers finish their tasks and drift toward their homes, leaving the house wrapped in a soft, expectant hush.

Daniel lights a lantern and sets it on the table, the warm glow flickering across his face and across the orchid print on his shirt. “We ready,” he says. “Everything done.”

I look at the offerings, the lei, the kapa, the driftwood resting in its place.

“Yes,” I whisper. “We’re ready.”

And as night settles over the plantation, I feel the first true stillness in my chest — not the absence of grief, but the beginning of peace.

Evening settles slowly over the plantation, the sky turning from gold to rose to a deep, quiet blue. The workers finish their tasks and drift home in small groups, voices low, footsteps soft on the path. The air feels different now — not tense, not sorrowful, but expectant, as though the land itself is holding its breath for dawn.

Inside the house, lanterns glow warm against the walls. The offerings rest on the table: the ti‑leaf lei, the flowers, the small bowl of food Hana prepared, the folded kapa cloth with the kanikau painted across it, and the piece of driftwood that will stand for Sam.

Daniel stands beside me, his hand brushing mine, the orchid‑print shirt soft in the lantern glow. “Everything ready,” he murmurs. “We did good today.”

“We did,” I say softly.

Koa enters from the back door, carrying a small bundle wrapped in cloth. “These are the last of the flowers,” he says. “Fresh from the grove. They’ll hold through the night.”

He sets them beside the lei, then steps back, studying the table with a craftsman’s eye. “It’s all in place.”

Hana joins us, wiping her hands on her apron. “You should rest soon,” she says. “Dawn comes quickly.”

Daniel nods. “We sleep early.”

Koa looks at me, his voice gentle. “If you need anything — anything at all — I’m close by.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Both of you.”

They nod, then step away to give me space.

I stand before the table, letting the lantern light flicker across the offerings. The ti leaves gleam dark green. The flowers glow softly. The kapa cloth seems to breathe with its painted symbols — waves, wind, canoe, sun. The driftwood rests at the center, pale and smooth, touched by the sea that took him.

Daniel returns to my side, quiet as breath, the orchids on his shirt moving gently as he steps closer. “You want little time alone?” he asks.

“Yes,” I whisper.

He touches my shoulder once, warm and steady. “I wait in the room.”

He leaves softly, his footsteps fading down the hall.

Koa lingers only a moment. “We’ll be ready at first light,” he says. “You won’t stand alone.”

Then he, too, slips away.

The house grows still.

I place my hand on the driftwood, feeling its smooth surface, the faint grain worn by water and time. “Sam,” I whisper. “Tomorrow… I’ll call you home.”

The lantern flickers, casting long shadows across the table.

I breathe in slowly, letting the moment settle into me — the weight of grief, the shape of love, the quiet promise of dawn.

When I finally turn away, the house feels softer, gentler, as though it understands what tomorrow will bring.

I walk toward the bedroom where Daniel waits, the night deepening around us, the ceremony drawing near.

The night deepens around the house, quiet and warm. A few lanterns glow softly in the hall, their light steady and low. I walk toward the bedroom, the kapa cloth folded carefully in my hands, the weight of the coming dawn settling into me like a tide.

Daniel waits inside, sitting at the edge of the bed, his posture relaxed but attentive. The orchid‑print shirt lies soft against his frame, the faint pattern muted in the dim light. When he sees me, he rises at once.

“You ready for sleep,” he murmurs.

“I think so.”

He steps closer, brushing his fingers along my arm. “Your heart working hard today. You rest now.”

I nod, though a tightness lingers beneath my ribs — not fear, not sorrow, but anticipation. The ceremony feels close enough to touch.

Daniel senses it. He always does.

He reaches for the kapa cloth in my hands. “I put this safe,” he says. “No worry.”

He folds it once more, reverent, and sets it on the small table beside the bed. Then he turns back to me, his expression softening.

“Come,” he says. “Lay down.”

I do.

The sheets are cool. The room is quiet. Daniel lies beside me, close but not crowding, his warmth steady, his presence grounding. The orchids on his shirt brush lightly against my arm as he settles.

“You breathe deep,” he murmurs. “Slow.”

I inhale. Exhale.

The tightness eases.

Daniel shifts closer, resting his forehead against mine. “Tomorrow we call his spirit home,” he whispers. “You not alone for that.”

“I know.”

“You strong,” he says. “But even strong hearts need people.”

I close my eyes. “Stay with me.”

“I here,” he murmurs. “All night.”

His hand finds mine beneath the blanket. Our fingers lace together, warm and sure.

Outside, the wind moves through the trees — a soft, steady sound, like breath. The house settles. The lantern flickers once, then steadies.

Daniel’s thumb strokes the back of my hand, slow and gentle. “Sleep,” he whispers. “Dawn come fast.”

I breathe in the scent of him — salt, warm skin, the faint sweetness of the orchid‑print fabric — and let the weight of the day slip from my shoulders.

My eyes grow heavy.

Daniel’s voice drifts through the quiet, low and soft. “Good night,” he murmurs. “I right here.”

And with his hand in mine, I finally let sleep take me.