Belonging to Heaven
© 2013 .
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Deseret Book Company, P.O. Box 30178, Salt Lake City Utah 84130. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Deseret Book. Deseret Book is a registered trademark of Deseret Book Company.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Sears, Gale, author.
Belonging to heaven / Gale Sears.
pages cm
Summary: Retelling of the story of Jonathan Napela, one of the first—and most influential—converts to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
ISBN 978-1-60907-159-2 (hardbound : alk. paper)
1. Napela, Jonathan Hawaii, 1813–1879—Fiction. 2. Cannon, George Q. (George Quayle), 1827–1901—Fiction. 3. Mormon missionaries—Hawaii—Fiction.
4. Mormons—Hawaii—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3619.E256B45 2013
813'.6—dc23 2012050169
Printed in the United States of America
Lake Book Manufacturing Inc, Melrose Park, IL
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Table of Contents
Dedication
Hawaiian Language Pronunciation
Faith: 1843-1854
Faith: 1843-1854
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Hope: 1868-1872
Hope: 1868-1872
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Charity: 1873-1879
Charity: 1873-1879
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Epilogue
Author's Note
Acknowledgments
Bibliography
Other Books by Gale Sears
Dedication
To my precious daughter, Chandler
Ua hilo ‘ai i kea ho a ke aloha.
We are braided with the cords of love.
Hawaiian Language Pronunciation
A as “a” in father
E as “ey” in they
I as “ee” in see
O as “o” in no
U as “oo” in too
“ae” and “ai” are frequently spoken as an “i” or “eye”
“oe” and “oi” are often pronounced as the “oy” in boy
Faith
1843–1854
Faith
1843–1854
Prologue
Oloalu, Maui
August 3, 1843
The fingertips of the rising sun reached over the barren peaks of Ukumehamo, and the fisherman felt the warmth on his back. He stood on the reef, the waves gently lapping around his knees.
“Hee mahola,” he chanted. “Eia ka leho.” Here is the cowry. A red cowry to attract the octopus to his death. “Eia ka koa, he laau.” Here is the spear, a mere stick. “He lama noka hee mahola, no ka hee-palaha.” A spear of lama wood for the octopus that lies flat.
The octopus twisted languidly as it extended its tentacles along the ocean floor. Golden bits of sand swirled under its spongy body. The ocean was quiet; the warm liquid from the sun poured into the water, calling the eight-legged creature from his dark hole.
“Hee mahola. Eia ka leho.”
Chief Hawaii Waaole slowly let down the hook and lure. The muscles in his arms were schooled to the work. He had been taught this from his father, and his father had been taught from his father. For generations, from the great seafarers and warriors of Tahiti, the skill of the hook and the cowry—of the spear—of the knife, had passed into the sinew of his arms and the power of his dreams. The chief’s movements were graceful. The strength of his legs he used in running, and fighting, and standing motionless on the reef when the wind blew strong and the waves pulled. But, today the ocean was not a warrior; today the water was calm and the wind only a piping mamo bird.
“Hee mahola. Eia ka leho.”
The shiny brownish red and white cowry shell now lay on the soft sand. The fisherman pulled the line gently and the octopus shot toward the lure with amazing speed, wrapping its tentacles around the lure, and drawing it closer. Waaole gave an efficient snap to the line, and the hook embedded itself into the spongy flesh. The octopus thrashed as the fisherman pulled it from the shallows into the warm morning air. He laid the wriggling body on an outcropping of lava rock and stabbed it with his spear. The creature writhed for a few moments and then passed into death. Waaole squatted by the still form.
“Mahalo, beautiful friend. I accept your mana, and today I will pass your strength along to my son.” The fisherman stood and deposited the octopus into a gourd filled with seawater. “Today my son will marry. He will marry the beautiful Catherine Keliikuaaina Richardson.” Chief Waaole looked across the channel to the island of Lanai. A trading ship moved slowly northward toward the seaport of Lahaina, Maui. Not much wind today for your many sails. The chief smiled as he considered the good trades he made with the captains on the ships of merchandise. The whaling ships he left alone.
Waaole watched the ship slide away around the curve of the shoreline and thought of his ancient ancestors traveling the deep oceans. They came thousands of miles in their double-hulled canoes from the southern islands, thousands of miles from the Marquesas and Tahiti, with only the stars to guide them. The channel that ran past the island of Kahoolawe was called Kealaikahiki, pathway to Tahiti, the name passed down from generation to generation from a time before reckoning.
Chief Waaole stepped from the reef into deeper water and made his way to the shore. Much had changed in the island nation from the time his father was a young warrior for the fierce Maui chief Kahekili: British sailors under the direction of Captain James Cook had set their feet upon the lands; the islands had been united by the great Ali‘i nui, Kamehameha I; the greedy and unruly European and American seafarers had arrived, followed by the earnest Protestant missionaries who were eager to convert the heathen natives.
Chief Waaole moved out of the water onto the rocky shore and felt the breeze cool on his wet skin. He walked to the stream, drinking deeply of the clear water. He washed, shook moisture from his long hair, and tied the kapa cloth around his waist.
Wind whistled through the leaves of the kukui trees and Chief Hawaii Waaole heard the voices of his ancestors. He smiled. “Ah, yes. E pua ana kamakani.” The wind rises. “This day one of your people will marry. My son will come with his bride, and you will leap and dance when you see her. Keliikuaaina is the daughter of a Maui chiefess and a haole man from the Scotsland. This wahine is more lovely than a sunset over Moloka‘i. My son will have many handsome keiki.”
As he approached the village, the chief heard the laughter of children and the murmur of voices. It brought peace to his heart. His people, for the most part, were good and kind. Some had the akao‘o pu‘uwai, stingy heart, or drank too much of the English rum or American whisky. Some women had tongues that liked to run from place to place and tell unhappy stories, but mostly the people in his village were content and busy. Those who liked to be lazy soon found themselves sent up the mountainside of Haleakala to plant and dig sweet potatoes.
Today many hands were busy preparing for the arrival of the chief’s son. Five fat pigs were roasting in the underground imu, along with the aku and ahi fish, breadfruit, sweet potatoes, and bananas. The kalo root had been beaten into thick poi, and later in the day wooden platters would be filled with melon, coconut, sugarcane, and mountain apples. New pandanas mats had been woven and placed around the long low eating tables. Ti leaves and ginger flowers festooned the boards and filled the air with sweetness. Lovingly crafted maile leis were ready to adorn the new couple.
Tonight the village would join in the celebration of his son’s marriage, and all would sit and eat together. The old kapu of men and women eating separately had been disavowed by Kamehameha II some twenty years before. Chief Hawaii Waaole was glad for the abolishment of the kapu system. He liked to eat with his wife and to be spared from having to kill a slave whose shadow fell across his back.
Waaole walked into the village, passing thatched houses and a few small bu
ildings made of wood and plaster like the houses of the missionaries. He stopped by the hale kuke and handed the gourd to the men making food.
“Something special for my son’s dinner.”
Several women who were helping peered into the gourd. “Ah,” one said admiringly. “There is much mana here. Good for your son’s marriage.”
“He is a wise one, your son,” the old woman Ipukula offered.
Chief Hawaii Waaole smiled. “Mahalo, Ipukula. You have watched him grow from a boy of mischief to a man of sense.”
Ipukula’s head bobbed, but her eyes and her smile held a secret. “Oh yes, ‘oni kalalea ke ku a ka la ‘au loa.” A tall tree stands above the others. “The man who speaks some of the English and writes the letters. The man who looks ahead.”
She stepped out of the cooking house and moved into the yard. “My heart is full of joy today. My feet and fingers wish to talk of this joy.” Slowly she began to sway, her feet moving smoothly over the packed ground, and her gnarled fingers floating through the air, painting pictures with each movement. “I will tell the story—na wai ‘eha. The four waters of Maui.”
She began to chant:
Fed by the tears of heaven and the hidden pools of the mountains
Oh, life-giving waters
You flow down to the children of the land.
A deep, mellow voice joined the soft piping of the old woman as Chiefess Wiwiokalani joined the dance. All the villagers stopped their activities and gathered to watch, each heart filled with reverence and wonder. Their beloved chiefess was as tall as most of their men and weighed as much as a man and his son. The brown skin of her face was smooth, and her eyes spoke of wisdom and kindness. Because her father, Kihakaulia, and her mother, Koleamoku II, were cousins, her mana was strong.
The two women danced and chanted. They were opposite in look, but united in celebration.
Oh, life-giving waters,
Our kalo reaches out to you,
And the lehua blossoms float in your arms.
Our voices chant for you, Wailuku.
Our bodies sway for you, Waiehu.
Our faces smile for you, Waihe’e.
Our hands strike the hallow gourd for you, Waikapu.
Oh, life-giving waters,
You flow down to the children of the land.
The dance ended on a shared breath, and the villagers’ voices rang out in approval. Chief Hawaii Waaole went grinning to his wife and put his forehead on hers.
“Aloha nui.” He breathed deeply. “You honor our son today.” She smiled and he stepped back. He addressed his people. “And though Ipukula is a wonderful dancer, I must give the prize to my wife.”
Ipukula smiled broadly, showing several spaces where teeth should be. “Of course he must say that to keep the peace on his son’s wedding day.”
The villagers laughed.
Ipukula lifted her arms to the sky. “May the gods Lono, Kane, Kanaloa, and Ku, watch over Jonathan Hawaii Napela and Catherine Keliikuaaina Richardson on their day of joining. As well as the forty, and the four thousand.”
“Mahalo, Ipukula,” Chiefess Wiwiokalani said grinning. “You have asked for many gods to watch over us.”
The old woman grinned. “One cannot be too careful, especially on such an important day.”
Wiwiokalani turned to her husband. “And you must ready yourself for the wedding.”
The villagers went back to their tasks as their chief and chiefess moved toward their kauhale.
Wiwiokalani’s walk was slow, and Waaole matched her pace.
“You are happy for this day,” the wise chiefess stated.
They passed the celebration pavilion, and Waaole took a deep breath of the ginger-scented air. “I am. Our son is marrying a woman of great beauty.”
“And wisdom.”
“And beauty.”
Wiwiokalani stopped walking. “And wisdom.”
Waaole laughed. “Yes, and wisdom. Jonathan will need such a wife. Ipukula called him a man who looks ahead.”
“And so he is. As a young man he brought the Christian faith into his heart.”
“And he was one of the first graduates of the missionary school at Lahainaluna.”
“And he has become a district judge in Wailuku.”
The pair began to chuckle.
Chiefess Wiwiokalani clapped her hands. “He mo‘opuna na Palau o Hamohamo!”
Chief Waaole laughed. “Yes, yes! Look at us, the two old braggarts.”
“But, today perhaps we can be forgiven for mouths that speak too many big words.”
Waaole nodded. “I am sure the Lord Jesus will be forgiving of our boastful tongues today.”
The two continued on in silence, and Chief Waaole smiled as he thought about the Jesus of the many miracles and the kind ways. He, his wife, and son had been taught of the man of Jerusalem and the wise words of the Bible by the good Protestant missionaries who had given the people of Hawaii the alphabet and the written word. With these magic letters, their language, history, and genealogies could be written down. For a thousand years, the life of the Hawaiian people had been kept in the memories and chants of the kahunas. The beauty of the culture, the model of behavior, and the important ali‘i family ties were passed down from one holy man to the next. Waaole was proud that he and his wife’s royal lines could be chanted twenty generations.
While Waaole and his wife felt a tie with many of the Calvinist missionary families, some of the pastors who had come to the Sandwich Islands treated his people like outcasts and heathens. There were many of the old ways that these pious men of God condemned: the kapu system, the killing of malformed children, the chanting and the hula, brothers and sisters marrying, and the keeping of slaves. Chief Waaole had once pointed out to Reverend Andrews that America still had slaves, for which he had received a tongue-lashing about the evils of slavery and how America would pay a dear price for allowing such an abomination. Waaole admired the man. Less than a year after their talk, Reverend Andrews left the mission when he found out that some of the funds for his missionary work came from slave states.
Chief Waaole agreed with the faithful of Jesus that many of the ancient ways should be condemned, but there was one judgment he did not understand—the banning of the mele and the hula. Singing and dancing were the air and water of his people’s lives, and it was a weight on his heart that they could not practice these joys openly. They sang the songs of the church, and that brought him some happiness, but not to be able to sing openly of the land, and the heavens, and the people made him sad. Hawaii Waaole shook his head. There were far worse things practiced by the rowdy seafarers in the town of Lahaina. Lahaina—the name meant the land of the harsh sun—and it was a fitting name now, not only for the heat that withered crops, but also for the bars and brothels that withered men’s souls. The church-going sailors of New England often left their moral restraints behind when their ships passed the Cape Horn and sailed into the warm waters of the Pacific.
Waaole thought of the school the missionaries had established at Lahainaluna. The wood, adobe, and plaster buildings sat high on the hillside overlooking the harbor. Did the holy men hope to separate themselves from the corruption of the town? One only had to look down and see the harbor chocked with ships to know that disease and darkness set anchor there. Hawaii Waaole’s heart ached at the memory of sickness. Against the diseases of smallpox, measles, cholera, and pneumonia transported to the islands from exotic foreign ports, the Hawaiian people had been like children eaten by wild boars.
Wiwiokalani stopped to catch her breath. “You look like you have eaten a bitter root, my husband.”
Waaole changed his expression and told an untruth. “I was thinking of the heavy clothes I must wear to our son’s wedding.”
“No complaining. It is for respect.”
“I know, but it is a long ride to Wailuku.”
“And a long ride back.” The chiefess steadied herself and began her slow journey forward. “At least you are going.”
Waaole gently took her arm. “I know. I will go and be happy.”
“Good.”
“But, I will be more happy when I am back with you.”
“Only because you can change your clothes.”
They came to the lava rock wall that surrounded their kauhale, and a worker came to open the gate for them. One of the missionary wives had once shown Wiwiokalani a picture of a New England cottage with a white picket fence and a gate. As soon as she’d seen it, the chiefess insisted on having a gate made for her rock wall.