For Whom the Pueo Calls

I had never seen an owl up close before. When I lifted its lifeless body, I was struck first with how slight its weight was. The impressive wingspan, sharp claws designed to snatch small prey, and the owl's majesty in flight so contradicted this awareness now of the animal's fragility. The delicate bone structure, round face, small beak, and the light snuffed from its eyes demonstrated a universal truth – death pulls the curtain away on all of us to reveal our ultimate vulnerability. Cradling its body on my forearm, I stroked its light brown feathers speckled with black eye-shaped dots. Shifting it over, I patted the owl’s pillowy soft tufts of fine white feathers covering its underbelly and legs.

A cool wind flurried around us, plucking several of the owl’s short feathers, as though they were flower petals. I watched them swirl in the air. The chill morning blast on my face reminded me of my surroundings. Holding the owl protectively to my chest, I met the curious gaze of onlookers in passing vehicles. I gently placed the owl on the passenger seat of my car and searched for materials to wrap its body. Walking a short distance along the shoulder of the road, I found some ti leaves. In my culture, ti leaves are planted around the home to keep evil spirits away. The fat, glossy and somewhat waxy ti leaves were perfect for wrapping foodstuffs as well as ceremonial offerings called hoʻokupu. We’d bring hoʻokupu when visiting wahi kapu to honor the ancestral spirits whose wisdom and mana (power) resided in these sacred spaces. So it seemed appropriate for me to use the lāʻī (ti leaves) to encase the owl and aid its journey to Pō (eternity).

Grandma told us to be kind to all owls, whether the introduced, nocturnal barn owl, or our rarer, native pueo that flies in the light of day. Collectively, these different species of owl belong to the same family of birds that some of our exalted kūpuna (ancestors) who, in death, chose to incarnate into. This phenomenon facilitated the process of honored ancestors in transforming into deified and physically tangible ʻaumakua with the purpose of protecting and guiding successive generations of their moʻopuna (descendants). Thus, Grandma tended to treat barn owls as cousins to the pueo and extended kapu (sacred status) to them as well.

I thought it best to bury the owl in its territory. We were in Kawela, a place well-known in history as a puʻu honua where those who broke kapu, the laws and strictures of society, could seek refuge and eventually rejoin their community after a period of reflection and having made restitution for their offenses.

Kawela also was the staging ground for a massive invasion from the island of Maui. The aliʻi nui (high chief) of Maui coveted the fat lands of my island Molokaʻi, known for its rich fishery and agricultural bounty. It is told through oral history accounts that this chief brought so many canoes filled with his warriors, such that the face of the ocean could not be seen. Here in Kawela the enemy launched a bloody offense that decimated much of the population until powerful kahuna (priests) from various parts of Molokaʻi were able to assemble and concentrate their prayers to turn the tide of the battle in the island’s favor.

It is said that the prayers of these kahuna ripened at the moment of their utterance, causing every Maui warrior to fall dead at their feet. Only the aliʻi nui of Maui was allowed to survive. His frozen mouth, agape, told the kahuna enough of the horror he felt in witnessing the carnage before him. He could not forget his soldiers’ agonized screams as they pushed themselves with their last strength to scale the growing mountain of their fallen comrades. Wave after wave of them moved forward in a vain attempt to strike the priests down and silence their prayers. They were met instead with their own endless and eternal silence. Turning to the high chief, the kahuna bade him to leave Molokaʻi and to tell his people what he witnessed that day. The defeated chief obliged, warning his people to stay away from Molokaʻi Pule Oʻo, the island of the potent prayers.

The final act of the kahuna was to set aright the puʻu honua, desecrated by the violence waged against it. The dead were buried in mass graves. The kahuna assembled in a circle, inhaling the kaumaha into themselves, the grief and trauma that had laid waste upon the land and its surviving people. The kahuna transformed this kaumaha and released the life giving energy of aloha (love) with each exhale of breath. This act restored Kawela and is the reason it remains a sacred puʻu honua today.

It was a puʻu honua for me too, a refuge that consoled me in my grief. For a time, I had lived in a house fronting Kawela’s peaceful shores. It was here that my child Hiʻileiokalani was conceived and it was at the puʻu honua I returned to for comfort when I lost her in my womb. The puʻu honua brought me peace, an awareness of the cyclical nature of life, that in my loss there was also gain. My daughter was now in the realm of Pō, gifted to my deceased mother who could now hold her moʻopuna in her arms and delight in a new motherhood that was cut short by a car accident decades ago when my brother and I were still toddlers.

Reflecting on my daughter, the sorrow of my miscarriage, and my inability to bury her, I took my time wrapping the owl. With the tenderness I could not give my daughter, I placed the owl on a green, shiny bed of fresh lāʻī and added more leaves to cover the top of its body. I took the yellowed and brown ti leaves that were more pliable in my hands to weave a rope-like lei. With the lei, I fastened the fresh lāʻi together to entomb the owl’s body. I walked uphill to find a burial place. A small crevice in a huge boulder served as the perfect resting place. I secured the owl in the crevice with small stones surrounding its body. Saying a prayer, I saw the owl’s spirit rise from its body and soar in flight.

At the time, I did not know that day would mark the beginning of a long affinity and friendship with owls. I encountered owls periodically, burying others that were likely struck by drivers whose headlights temporarily blinded them mid-flight. I learned much from these beautiful creatures. Namely, they are indicators of imbalances in our relationships with each other and the environment. They warn of physical dangers ahead and sadly bring messages of impending loss of our loved ones.

I recall an instance when a friend of mine, Analū, paid me a visit from the bustling island of O’ahu to our more quiet shores of Molokaʻi. He picked me up in his rental car to take me out to dinner at the hotel. He was speeding at 60 miles per hour on the quiet country road with a maximum speed limit of 45 miles per hour. I saw an owl soar above us and suddenly I had a premonition that there would be an obstruction in the road ahead. We could not see very far in front of us as we were about to crest a hill. I told Analū to slow down, but he only let go of the gas pedal slightly and we were still barreling 10 miles above the speed limit. Then suddenly a herd of deer appeared before us and I screamed, “STOP!!!” Analū slammed the brakes in time for most of the herd to clear the road to the other side, except for the last deer in line. It quickly tucked its backside in and we missed it by a hairʻs length. Heart pounding, the owl plunged down from the sky and dipped several times before us as a kind of exclamation point, admonishing us to slow down the rest of the way to the hotel. Analū exclaimed, “Ah, thank you ʻaumakua! I am sorry, I am so sorry for not listening to you.” When we arrived at the hotel with a beautiful view of the ocean, the owl perched on a nearby kiawe (mesquite) tree watching us throughout the duration of the night.

Years later, an owl came to warn me again, swooping in front of me one night on the drive home. The owl dove down in three successive dips, nearly touching the hood of my car. A hōʻailona (sign) for sure that simultaneously arrested my heart and vehicle as I instinctively hit the brakes to avoid colliding with this messenger. An ominous dread made a foothold in my stomach. What was coming next?

The answer soon arrived the following week on a Sunday. We had just come home from church and heard the phone ringing on the way in. It was Uncle Teddy calling for Grandma. I heard her delight and laughter at hearing her son’s voice. A busy construction worker on Oʻahu, he rarely called home. Later that evening we received a more solemn call. Uncle had died of a heart attack, just hours after speaking to Grandma. Grandma treasured this call and often reminisced about how touched she was to have her son call her before his untimely passing.

We flew to Oʻahu to attend Uncle’s funeral. It was a small gathering and somewhat awkward. His daughter Kaylie was in attendance, a young teen mother holding her infant son. I did not know how to approach her, as she had visited the family on Molokaʻi the year before when I was away at college. She slept in my room during her stay and foraged through my jewelry box, taking the only keepsake I had of my mom. It was a sapphire ring shaped in the form of a lotus. My Aunty Cookie had saved the ring for me until I reached my twelfth birthday. I treasured that ring and did not want to risk losing it in my college dorm. So I tucked it into my jewelry box at home for safe-keeping. My cousin Kaylie took it and pawned it off. She also took Grandma’s wedding ring. Fortunately, Grandma realized the theft before Kaylie could pawn it off too. I learned that Uncle furiously tracked Kaylie down at the mall where she was hanging out with her friends. He saw Grandma’s ring on Kaylie’s finger. For the first and last time, he slapped Kaylie’s cheek, disappointed and ashamed at what his daughter had done.

My heart was sick when I heard the news of my mother's ring. I allowed myself to mourn for a day, then kneeled at my bedside praying and apologizing to my mother’s spirit. I told myself that in the end it was merely a possession and that it did not change the love between my mother and I.

Seeing Kaylie now at Uncle’s funeral, I realized she was like me too, without a parent. At the end of the funeral, our family invited our guests to join us at a reception. Tables were arranged before an outdoor stage where musicians played Hawaiian music while everyone ate. Some of Uncleʻs friends also came on stage to share happy memories of him. At the corner of my eye, I saw Kaylie sitting under the shade of a tree holding her sleeping child, sequestered away from everyone else. Perched on the tree was an owl, the true Hawaiian pueo that flies by day. Taking a deep breath, I knew what I had to do.

I made my way to Kaylie and sat next to her. We didn’t say a word. We passed the time in long silence. Then I heard the pueo’s wings flap overhead and it departed with a shriek. At that moment, Kaylie’s lips began to quiver and her body quaked silently, followed by warm healing tears that rained down her cheeks. I placed my arm around her shoulder, like the puʻu honua that gave me refuge in my grief. I kissed Kaylieʻs forehead and the little one in her arms too, “It's okay Cousin. Everything is going to be alright.”