The Last of the Hopeful

High up, on the edge of the cliff, green wings strained, gathered the wind and held it. But the breeze-bloated device did not lift the girl who wore it aloft. Two men, one old, one young, stood on either side of her, held her, served as an anchor for her lithe, brown body. They were her father and brother.

"Will I fly like a bird, father?" the young girl asked. Her voice was weak with fear. The wind seemed to clutch the words from her mouth and toss them out over the glistening green land of Oahu.

"No," her father said, "you will not fly like a bird and you must not try. Do not flap the wings. Let the wind rule and take you where it wants you to go. Glide. Do you understand?"

"Yes, father," she said, "I understand."

"Good. Now tell me one more time what you know."

"I know all the songs of our people. I know all the hulas. I know where we lived and how it was when we lived our own way and were not controlled by others. I know all of this. I know of all the things before the coming of Kamehameha."

"You are the last of us, daughter. You are the last of our hope. I have long expected this day, dreamed once that we would be driven here and forced over the side, down to death on the rocks. But in the dream we did not scream, and we will not scream this day."

"And the bird, father," the young boy said.

"Yes, and there was a great bird in the sky, green and brown, and I came to understand what it meant. This day could not be avoided, but there was still hope for our people. That is why I built the wings and taught you all these things, some are things that women have never been taught before."

"But maybe," the young girl said, "it was only a bird in your dream—a real bird."

The old man shook his head. "No."

"Perhaps it was my brother?"

"No. You are the lightest, you are our hope. If the wings bear anyone, it is you, the daughter of the king."

"Maybe we will win this day and there will be no need."

The old man smiled grimly. "Then you will not fly and things will be as they were, but I do not expect that. The time of our people has come to an end, but you will carry our thoughts, our dreams, our hopes with you."

The young girl's long black hair whipped in the wind. "Oh father, let me die with you. I do not want to be the only one left, the only one of us still alive."

"While you live," her brother said softly, "while you hold all the old songs and stories to your heart, we all live and we will never die. Somehow, someway, you must pass these things on."

"But there are none left to pass them to," the young girl said.

"The war will end this day," her father said. "You must make a boat in the manner I have taught you, sail to one of the other islands and wait until the hate and fear have died. Then return. You will find a young man among them, one too young to know their hate, and he will give you children and you will teach them the ways of our people. Not so that these things will rule again, for that time is passed, but so that the memory of us will not die."

"Hold me," she said.

Brother and father pulled closer.

Down below, moving up toward the cliff, came the sound of battle, the cries of men, the smashing of clubs against clubs and clubs against flesh.

"These wings," the old man said, "they will make you a goddess in the sun. You will soar over the valley and turn with the wind toward the sea, and down there, far from them, you can hide."

"Yes, father." The wind strained at the wings, tried to lift the girl up.

"Lift the wings," her father said.

She did as he asked.

The sound of yelling warriors was very close.

From where they stood, the trio could see a fine line of brown warriors falling back, being forced toward the edge of the cliff.

"Soon," the old man said, "we go over the cliff with the others."

"But not before we fight," said the boy. He looked into the face of his sister. "You are the last of the hopeful. Carry our hope far and wide."

Tears were in her eyes. "I will."

The warriors were very close now. You could smell the sweat of battle, feel the heat of hate and anger.

"Ride the wind," the old man said.

She turned to look out over the beautiful green valley. She spread the wings. The wind billowed them.

"You must go now," her brother said.

"Our hopes go with you," her father said.

And they released her into the wind.

It was a powerful wind. It caught the great green wings and pulled her up and out over the valley. For a moment her father and brother watched, then, picking up their war clubs, they turned to join the last of the battle.

A moment later, along with the rest of the warriors, the old man, who was known to his people as King Kalanikupule, went over the cliff and down into the green valley without a scream.

And moving out over the valley, slave to the wind, went his daughter.

Kamehameha, the sweat and blood of war coating his body, watched her soar.

Clubs were tossed at her, but all fell short.

The wind whipped her up high again, and then seemed to let go.

She plummeted like a stone.

But only for a moment—an updraft caught her, took her up again, and even as the victorious forces of Kamehameha stood on the cliff's edge and watched in awe, the slim brown girl glided down and over the treetops, around their edge toward the shoreline, shining in the sun like a great green and brown bird before coasting behind tall trees and out of sight.

On the wind, for a brief instant, there floated the sound of her sweet, hopeful laughter.

"The Last of the Hopeful" was originally published in The Good, the Bad, and the Indifferent, a collection of Lansdale's short stories published by Subterranean Press. It was later included in Bumper Crop, a collection published by Golden Gryphon Press. "The Last of the Hopeful" © 1997 Joe R. Lansdale.

We'll be looking for you on Thursday, October 17, when we post another piece of Mojo fiction from Champion Joe R. Lansdale!