About this ebook
With Niuhi sharks, even out of the water, you're not safe.
My dreams are nightmares. I don’t dare fall asleep.
Guro Hari’s teaching me Filipino knife fighting, but I’m too scared to come out of the bathroom. I’d rather learn Lua and train with Jay and Char Siu, but Uncle Kahana won’t let me. He says it’s for our safety, but I don’t believe him.
Uncle Kahana’s obsessed with Niuhi stories, Hawaiian myths about sharks in human form. If he’s right, even out of the water, no one’s safe.
I have a secret knife I call Shark Tooth. I may have to use it.
That thought excites me.
And that’s the scariest thing of all.
__________________
One Shark, No Swim is Book 2 in the Niuhi Shark Saga trilogy. Told from an indigenous perspective and set in a contemporary Hawaiian world where all the Hawaiian myths and legends are real, the series explores belonging, adoption, being different, bullying, defining family, and learning to turn weaknesses into strengths.
Through the series, Zader discovers he's not really a boy allergic to water; he's something much more special, dangerous, and powerful. His adoptive brother Jay discovers what happens when the golden surfing star falls from his pedestal and has to choose to make the long climb back from serious injury. It's the ties that bind and support the brothers that allow them to create their own destinies.
As typical local islanders, characters use common Hawaiian and Pidgin words and phrases. The meaning is usually clear from the context, but there is also a Hawaiian & Pidgin Glossary for additional support. Each chapter begins with a related island word or phrase and its definitions. A Discussion Guide for book club or classroom use is included. Free additional classroom support materials are available on www.NiuhiSharkSaga.com.
One Boy, No Water, Book 1 in the Niuhi Shark Saga, was a 2017 Nene Award Nominee. The Nene Award is Hawaii's Children's Choice Book Award recognizing outstanding literary works.
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One Shark, No Swim - Lehua Parker
1
Kalei Comes Ashore
Sashimi
A Japanese delicacy of very fresh and thinly sliced raw fish.
The night Kalei’s Niuhi shark head broke the surface of the large saltwater pool at Piko Point, his thoughts were consumed with sashimi.
Raw ‘ahi tuna glistening like rubies on a bed of green cabbage would definitely hit the spot. He smacked his lips, remembering the taste of shoyu and wasabi hot on his tongue and how the flavor of cheap wooden chopsticks lingered in the back of his throat long after he’d swallowed each morsel.
Can’t forget to chew, he thought. Humans chew.
For Kalei, eating fresh ‘ahi was no big deal, but having someone else catch, clean, and serve it on a platter was once in a blue moon special. When a sashimi craving hit, there was only one place to go: Hari’s in Lauele Town, Hawai‘i.
With the moon as his only witness, Kalei gracefully shifted from Niuhi shark to human form. Blinking salt from his newly human eyes, he pulled oxygen deep into his lungs.
The first human breath burns like smoke from a fire. Gills are so much better.
In the middle of spiting seawater’s tang, he paused.
Blood.
His nose twitched.
He opened his mouth and inhaled again, feeling microscopic flecks trickle past his teeth to coat the insides of his cheeks. There were three different kinds of blood in the air, all centered near Pohaku, and none of them very fresh.
The strongest is fish blood—a deep water fish, not something from the reef. Smells like the best belly part of the fish, not the rubbish head or tail. Not crab bait, then. There’s a hint of banana leaves, too. Someone’s lunch?
He sniffed again.
No whiff of spice or rice. Not even a trace of plastic wrapper. Now why would somebody place a prime slice of raw fish on a banana leaf in front of Pohaku? It’s like—
An offering?
Interesting.
Pohaku was a sacred round ‘aumakua stone that sat guarding the water’s edge at Piko Point. Roughly the size and shape of a basketball, Pohaku was often mistaken for an ancient Hawaiian fishing god leftover from the days when stone and wooden gods dotted beaches and hills, but the truth was much more intriguing. Most days, Pohaku was content to watch surfers on the Nalupuki-side of Piko Point or families splashing at Keikikai beach on the other.
Most days, but not all.
Kalei craned his neck—one of the few advantages to his human form—and searched for the blood’s source. His eyes confirmed what his nose told him: whatever smelled like a chunk of deep water fish on a banana leaf was long gone.
Who remembered you, Pohaku, but forgot you don’t like fish?
Pohaku didn’t answer—at least not in words. Pohaku spoke in mental images and emotions—when he condescended to communicate at all.
Too embarrassed to tell the story? Don’t worry. I know it’s not your fault. Humans are short-lived and stupid.
Kalei opened his mouth, letting the breeze tickle his tongue. Like a wine connoisseur, he concentrated on each bloods’ distinct note and ignored the flavors of jasmine, seaweed, and hot asphalt.
I know blood when I smell it, Pohaku. There’s fish and two other kinds of blood here. Why?
Silence.
Still not telling? Fine. I’ll figure it out for myself.
Kalei pulled himself completely out of the water and onto the lava flow. Holding his arms high above his head, he gently pulled on each wrist until the joints in his shoulders, elbows, and wrists popped. Giving his back a twist and bending his knees, he frowned at his missing right toe.
After all these years, I’m still not whole.
In the water, the missing tip of his tail never affected him, but in human form the lack of a big toe threw off his gait. Awkward and clumsy on land, he appeared the very opposite of Niuhi: sleek and lethal. Kalei wiggled his remaining toes and smiled.
Humans are fatally foolish. Even an octopus understands the benefits of camouflage.
Standing firm with both feet on the ground, he felt the lava rock buzz, buzz, buzzing like a beehive. Curious, he drew another lungful of air, hunting for a trace of the second kind of blood.
Human, older than the fish blood, and it splattered onto you, you naughty ‘aumakua. There are speckles along your side where the tide cannot wash it clean. Is some-wanna-be-chief making old-time human sacrifices? Has someone mistaken you for a war god? Don’t get a swelled head. People these days can’t tell their ‘okoles from their elbows.
Kalei sighed.
In his mind Kalei felt Pohaku’s slow indignation bubble to the surface as he sent the image of a husky boy falling, then cupping his bloody nose as he hurried to shore.
Just a clumsy boy with a bloody nose? How sad. Makes me yearn for a wanna-be-chief brave enough to beat his war drums and raise the old gods.
With the second blood scent fixed in his mind, Kalei inhaled to discover the source of the third.
There’s a trail of blood drops from where the boy with a bloody nose landed next to you that goes all the way to the beach. Near the pavilion, there’s a faint whiff of his pee that dribbles along the road. Odd. He’s too old for wetting his pants. Feeble-minded, perhaps?
He clucked his tongue.
Can you imagine, Pohaku? Humans are so disgusting now; in the old days we never had this problem. The soft-headed were given back to the gods. Everybody’s so sensitive nowadays, it gives me a rash.
Kalei spun, crushing pipihi and too-slow hermit crabs beneath his heel. From Piko Point, he looked across the dark lava flats towards the lights at Hari’s Grill and Convenience store.
Sashimi and TV soon. With luck, there’s a sumo match on.
But I can’t leave until I know what the blood and excitement bubbling along this lava flow is all about.
He scratched his arm, considering.
Nice try, Pohaku, but you know as well as I that a kid’s bloody nose from a trip and fall doesn’t leave behind this delicious caffeinated champagne buzz in the reef. This energy is too intense for something that simple. Something big happened here. There’s more to it than you’re telling.
Kalei opened his mouth and throat wider than a human could and gulped down great gasps of air.
I taste conflict—a fight? No—there’s real fear here. The boy feared for his life. Who hunts boys, Pohaku?
Silence.
I know you know, you old forgotten thing. There’s a third kind of blood here that’s as fresh as the fat boy’s. They’re connected. It’s the memory of the fat boy’s fear that’s pulsing through these rocks, the kind of fear that comes from a predator’s chase. You know I can’t allow that. Not here. Who dares hunt boys in Lauele, Pohaku? Who are you protecting?
Kalei crawled along the rocks, trying to identify the third blood.
It would be easier if you just told me, Pohaku. You know I’m going to find out.
He set his nose against the lava, inhaling bits of seaweed and crab shell, but it was useless; in his human form his senses were too blunted for this kind of delicate detective work.
I can’t believe you’re making me do this,
he said. You know how much I hate to change!
In two strides he dove back into the big saltwater pool. The water boiled, then parted to reveal the tip of a massive Niuhi shark snout. The shark floated over to Pohaku and daintily sniffed.
Kalei erupted out of the water, changing into human form mid-air. Landing, he swung his foot to kick at Pohaku.
Niuhi!
he yelled. A young male was hunting here—and he’s definitely male. It’s not Maka or Pua’s blood.
He wrinkled his nose and closed his eyes, all thoughts of sashimi banished. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his flesh.
Who dares to come around here, Pohaku? I know you know!
But Pohaku sat still as stone.
2
Research
I ka nana no a ‘ike
By observing, one learns.
On TV, the shark jaws unhinged in slow motion, the rows of teeth gulp, gulp, gulping the half-frozen fish carcasses, slicing through the heavy rope strung through empty eye sockets, and untethering the rotting mass from the side of the dive boat.
Crikey!
said the narrator from the safety of the shark cage. That was close.
From my perch on the living room couch, I snorted into my guava juice, the straw almost going up my nose.
You call that close, I thought. Brah, try swimming outside the bars.
The great white shark cruised past the cage, its flat black eye watching the divers wave chunks of melting fish through bars wide enough for lenses and arms, but not heads or snouts. I paid close attention to the way the shark moved, watching to see if it would reveal its nature in ways Australian researchers never considered.
The shark’s after the bait. It couldn’t care less about the divers.
I rattled the ice in my glass, careful not to touch the condensation with bare skin.
Not Niuhi.
I took another sip as the dive team scrambled back into the boat.
Confunit! Now you, Alexander Kaonakai Westin?
Three names!
I jumped up from the couch, narrowly avoiding dumping ice and guava juice down my front.
Uncle Kahana!
That’s right, Zader. Drinking and eating in the living room. Busted. Spill your drink, and it’s a trip to the emergency room for sure. If the ice doesn’t blister you, your mother’s lickin’s will.
Uncle Kahana and his dog ‘Ilima stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. More than just my great-great-uncle, he was the person who found me abandoned on the reef at Piko Point when I was a newborn and brought me to my Westin ‘ohana, the family who adopted me and raised me as their own. He was the one who taught us about my water allergy, about how a single drop of water on my skin burns like acid, and how I can’t eat raw seafood or rare meat because they give me nightmares.
Uncle Kahana claims we’re all ‘ohana by blood as well as by adoption because his Aunty Lei had the same allergies, but he won’t tell me who my birth people are or where they live except to say Hohonukai-side, which isn’t on any map. It drives me crazy, but he keeps saying, Patience, Grasshopper,
like some gray-bearded kung fu sifu in a bad Chinese movie.
Uncle Kahana had his hands on his hips and his head cocked to the side.
Not a good sign.
I hui’d the house from the back, Zader, but you never answered,
he said.
Sorry, Uncle. I didn’t hear.
‘Ilima stood next to Uncle Kahana, panting a little and wagging howzit with her tail. I love ‘Ilima. She’s been Uncle Kahana’s shadow and part of the family from before I was born.
Wait, I frowned, thinking about it.
That would make her over 120 in people years.
I blinked.
No way, that can’t be right.
As I continued to look at her, she dropped her eyes and tail. She licked her lips and put her nose to the ground as if all she was thinking about was the next snack she could hoover from the carpet.
Uncle Kahana followed my eyes to ‘Ilima and her new obsession with the floor. Suddenly, her head lifted, and her eyes gleamed. Perking her ears, she made a beeline for my bag of jalapeno jerky on the coffee table.
Uncle Kahana dropped his hands from his hips and muttered, Yeah, I wanna see you take just one bite, titah.
‘Ilima sniffed the bag.
Go for it. I dare you. You’re gonna be scraping that carpet with your tongue, bumbai. Remember the Mexican buffet? Remember jalapenos? Remember fire-futs fo’days?
She got a little closer and inhaled. The spicy jalapenos went right up her nose. ‘Ilima snorted and backed away, blinking at me like I was some kind of monster who’d popped her favorite balloon.
Yeah, that’s what I thought, ‘Ilima,
Uncle Kahana said. Discretion is the better part of valor, no matter how delicious you think the jerky.
‘Ilima shook her whole body and flopped on the carpet, eyes watering.
Uncle Kahana turned his attention to the TV.
Why are you watching this crap, Zader? I thought Jay was the one fascinated by Shark Week shows.
Jay’s my hanai brother, my almost twin from different parents. Last fall Jay had a shark scare while surfing at Piko Point. For a long time all Jay would watch was Shark Week shows, but before eighth grade ended, Jay had gotten over his fear and was back surfing.
When I turned on the TV this morning, he sat with me for a minute or two, then wandered outside to wax his surfboard for the millionth time. This summer Jay was helping Nili-boy coach a junior surf camp, and I thought he was taking it all way too seriously.
I shrugged. Jay’s surfing again. He doesn’t care about shark shows now.
I looked down at my glass wrapped in a dish towel and inched my big toe deep into the carpet. I didn’t like talking about sharks or surfing. I pretended I didn’t care about things like going to the beach or playing soccer without worrying about sprinklers coming on or having to carry a stupid umbrella and wear shoes everywhere I go. But the truth was I hated being different in ways that made me special.
Special is way overrated.
Last summer, Uncle Kahana helped me figure out a way I can be out on the lava flow near the action and not stuck at the pavilion. I look like a space alien freak in all my gear—long rubber hip waders, a jacket with a hood, a deep-sea diver’s helmet, and vinyl gloves—but at least I can sit at Piko Point and feel like I’m part of the surfers lined up for the next wave.
Since I can’t surf, I spend a lot of my time drawing what I see in the tide pools at Piko Point. Some people think I’m a good artist; it’s how I got into Ridgemont Academy for ninth grade. My painting of a ti leaf lei on the bottom of Jay’s surfboard even helped him get back in the water after his shark scare. But I’d trade all my sketchbooks and pens for surfing in a heartbeat.
Back when Jay was afraid of sharks, he watched Discovery Channel Shark Week reruns twenty-four seven. Mom hated it then and doesn’t like it now that I’m watching them. I’m not afraid of sharks, exactly. I watch for a different reason, one I haven’t told anyone.
If Mom knew, she’d approve even less. She’d probably throw the TV in the trash and send me to counseling.
Uncle Kahana said, If Jay’s surfing again, why are you still filling your head with all this shark shibai?
Is that why Uncle Kahana and ‘Ilima are here? Did Mom send him to talk to me?
Before I could answer, ‘Ilima sneezed more jalapeno dust, rocking her whole head back and forth.
You sure you don’t want a bite? Just a little taste, ‘Ilima,
Uncle Kahana teased.
‘Ilima gave Uncle Kahana stink-eye and sneezed a third time, but turned her head so no doggy germs got on my snack. She’s polite that way.
Seriously, Zader, what’s with all the shark shows?
Uncle Kahana wasn’t giving up.
Research,
I hedged.
3
Analysis
Kahuna Niuhi
An expert in the ways of the Niuhi; a human who speaks with Niuhi.
Uncle Kahana said, Research? For what? School’s over. It was pau last week.
On TV, the dive crew was back in the boat, heading toward shore. The narrator was talking about the long strings of buoys that held nets stretched along the mouth of the bay, pointing out how they keep swimmers and tourist dollars safe.
Good, a diversion.
You think they work?
I asked, lifting my chin to the TV.
Uncle Kahana glanced at the screen. No,
he said, they don’t. If anything, they attract more sharks to the area.
He sank into a chair next to the couch. ‘Ilima curled near his feet.
Why?
I asked.
What do you mean, why? It’s obvious.
I pointed at the TV. Earlier in the show, that guy in the green shirt said stringing fishing nets between the deep ocean and the beach is necessary to keep sharks away from people. He said if all the sharks that got caught in the nets made it to the beach, tons of people would get bit.
Uncle Kahana rolled his eyes, but before he could speak, I held up a hand so I could keep talking.
He gave ‘Ilima side-eye and turned to the TV.
Mmmrph,
he said.
Now according to the other expert, the one in the blue shirt, the nets don’t work because they attract sharks.
Uncle Kahana started nodding.
The sharks come because they’re curious about the nets.
Uncle Kahana stopped nodding and started to frown.
He says the nets disrupt the electromagnetic forces in the ocean, confusing the sharks.
Uncle Kahana shook his head from side to side, reminding me of a great white sawing through frozen fish heads.
You listening, ‘Ilima? That’s their expert opinion. Codeesh!
he said.
He rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose.
That’s it, ‘Ilima. We’re making our own documentary, except ours is going to be about first aid for shark bites. We’ll put ‘em on the internet right next to the videos of the all baboozes who like to hand-feed sharks. Think of all the lives we’ll save.
‘Ilima chuffed and flopped on her side.
Uncle Kahana pointed at the screen. Use your eyes, Zader. What do you see?
The images were horrifying. All kinds of fish, sharks, turtles, and even dolphins were tangled in the nets. Lurking in the distance on the deep-sea side, I saw bullet shapes of sharks, cruising. They were waiting for the camera crew to move on so they could move in, I was sure.
The sharks aren’t confused. They come to the nets because of all the dead and dying. It’s snack time,
I said.
‘Ae, Zader. That’s right. Something has to clean that mess up.
Niuhi?
He narrowed his eyes at me,