SHORT STORY | HORROR | FOLK

Tomorrow the Feast

“The old ways were always the best.”

Photo by Mick Haupt on Unsplash

Kimo woke before dawn, as he always did. The old red alarm clock jumped on the nightstand, ringing just as hard as it had when Malia had bought it for him, so long ago. His gnarled fingers switched it off on the first ring. He stretched, feeling the joints in his shoulders and back pop and groan.

He looked out the open window into the California predawn, blackness just starting to ebb away. There was just enough moon left to make out the palm trees in the yard, fronds rustling in the gentle sea breeze. Kimo took a deep breath, letting the salty air fill his old smoker’s lungs. Today would be a good day.

He poured a cup of black coffee and sipped it, watching the first red rays of dawn climb over the horizon. Breakfast was a bowl of bran flakes with a sliced young banana — sweet, but still firm. His sisters had been on him for years about using full-fat milk, but he still did, every morning. By the time he finished, the first gulls were already beginning to call.

It had taken him most of yesterday evening to dig the imu in the backyard, working with a pick and shovel just like always. Keoni scolded him every year for not renting a Bobcat to do it, and every year he just nodded and then did it this way instead. The old ways were always the best. There was something about eating food you’d prepared with your own two hands, burying it in the earth and bringing it out prepared and ready. The new generation, with their gas grills and fancy spices, might never understand.

He layered wood in a lattice grid at the bottom of the pit, with just enough gaps to allow for airflow. Early tomorrow, they’d cover the wood with a layer of smooth stones, brought in specially for the feast. Then they’d light the pile and let it burn down for hours until the wood was fine white ash and the stones glowed red-hot.

He estimated he’d need a few hours today to dress the pig, maybe only two with Leilani helping. They’d leave it to hang in the root cellar overnight, draining quietly in the cool underground room, safe from flies. Tomorrow, they’d place it on a metal grate, wrap it in banana leaves that he’d cut himself, and lay the whole thing on the hot stones to cook and steam all afternoon. When the family arrived in the evening, the smell of roasting meat would be almost too good to resist.

He smiled. Say one thing for Papa Kimo, they’d still be talking about his kālua for years after he’d gone back to the earth.

The Makaleha cigar smelled like toasted wood with just a hint of tropical flowers. Kimo puffed it as he weeded the garden, one hand lifting the leathery pepper plant leaves, and the other plucking tender shoots of weeds from around the stems. These cigars were his only real vice. Most of the year, he smoked menthol Pall Malls, but special days needed special tobacco. Besides, Pall Malls weren’t real tobacco. “I’m smoking mint leaves, Kuʻu Ipo,” he’d said whenever Malia had scolded him for it. “How is it different from your oils? It just gets to my lungs faster.”

Most days, it was still hard for him to believe she was gone. Being married for forty years did that to a person, he supposed. He still woke up feeling her warmth next to him, reaching for her in the dark. Only a few more years, and I’ll see her again, he thought. What will that be like? Will she be there when I go, to guide me to the underworld? If I smoke in the presence of the ancestors, will she scold me? He smiled. Of course she will.

A plane droned lazily overhead, but he didn’t look up. Richardsons are out with the Cessna again, probably. Fred is never going to get me up in that, no matter how many classes he’s taken. He pulled the last weed and dropped it beside the row, flexing his fingers. His back cracked as he straightened, and he felt the familiar pain in his hips and knees. “You’re getting stiff, old man,” he muttered. “Stop rooting around in the dirt.” He wiped his hands on his faded jeans and headed for the garage.

A white postal truck passed by in the quiet street, and he waved to the driver. There weren’t many houses here — the family had owned the large property for generations — and he always felt a little sorry for Felix, driving all the way out to drop off junk mail. I almost wish I could invite him tomorrow. He chuckled, thinking of how the family would react to that.

The whetstone dripped with cool water, and the butcher knife made a quiet snikt sound as he slid it down. Ten years, and the knife was still as sharp as the day he’d brought it home. “Blade will be here longer than I will,” he said. The swirled Damascus steel had been a gift from Keoni, a set of the finest knives a kālua chef could hope for. Kimo guided the blade down the rough surface, watching silty liquid collect on it, a little more with every stroke. He felt along the edge with a finger, feeling for burrs in the metal.

The family had always done the butchering at home, from the days when their ancestors lived on the islands. Back then, this had been a solemn ritual — the sharing of meat with the whole clan. None of them knew which ancestor had started it, and Kimo didn’t suppose it mattered. Malia’s recipe had been passed down to her from centuries past, from before the first white men came to the islands, with hardly any changes. Nothing broken, nothing to fix, she’d always said. Of course she’d cheated a little — all cooks did, he supposed. The ancestors wouldn’t have had the rich minerals of the Baja Peninsula for their salt, or the deep red wines of Napa Valley to wash it all down. Their pigs would’ve been wild breeds, tough and hardy, used to running and stress. The pigs here were raised in luxury, never worrying about their next meal or fleeing from hunters. Fat and lazy, he thought. Not a bad life when you got down to it.

The cheery ding-dong of the doorbell brought him back. Kimo glanced at the clock and grinned. Trust Leilani to be right on time. Say what you wanted about his son, but his granddaughter was alright. He rinsed his hands in the sink and ran a towel over them, tossing it on the counter on his way to the door.

Leilani was carrying two grocery bags (canvas, never plastic), weighed down with spices. She was smiling, radiant in a blue flowered top and shorts. Her black hair was tied back, prepared for the work ahead, but it still reached almost to her waist.

“Got the sea salt, Papa K.”

“Good, good! No salt, no kālua.” She hugged him tight and kissed his cheek, and he hugged her back. He took the bags from her, grimacing a little at the weight and hoping she didn’t notice. His hands were really getting stiffer every day. Maybe next year Keoni will have to take over the dressing, and where will we be then? He hefted the bags onto the kitchen counter, setting out two bags of the good sea salt in a neat row. Baja Gold, just like I asked. Malia really did train her well.

He rinsed the knives and dried them carefully. When the time came to use them, he couldn’t afford a slip.

“How big is he this year?”

“One hundred and eight pounds. That should do for everyone, plus a bit more for the freezer.”

Leilani whistled. “Nice! He’ll be well-marbled — lots of flavor. He really must’ve been spoiled.”

Kimo grunted. “For a fat one, he was a lot of trouble to catch. Nearly got away from me!”

“I hope you checked the lock on the shed door. Remember last year?”

“How could I forget? Your poor father! He chased that pig all over the yard, barely catching him. We almost had to skip kālua that year!” They both laughed, remembering how funny Keoni had looked, tripping over himself in the sprawling backyard.

“Will Dad take over when you…retire?”

“Retire?” Kimo scoffed. “Keiki, I’m going to live to be a hundred. Someday I’ll teach your grandkids the recipe.” Leilani’s smile was as warm as the noonday sun that lit up the kitchen.

The stunner felt right in Kimo’s hand, the worn plastic grips pleasant against his calloused palm. He’d oiled it the night before, and the stainless steel barrel flashed in the light. He slid a long CO₂ cartridge into the stock, twisting the screw at the bottom to lock it in. The gun always reminded him of the old Flash Gordon specials he’d watched as a boy — like a child’s version of a handgun.

“Do you think he slept last night?” Leilani asked. She held the long knife by the blade, covered in a plastic sheath.

“Probably not. They rarely do.”

Leilani sighed. “Poor pig.”

“Yes,” said Kimo, “Malia always felt for them too. She hated to hear them cry.” He paused for a second, looking off at nothing. Then he shrugged. “Well, he had a good life. And he won’t even know what’s happening until it’s over.”

He took a small brass key from his pocket, fumbling with the rusty padlock on the shed door. There was a keening sound from inside the shed, and a muffled thump as something bumped into the shed wall. Leilani stood on her tiptoes to peek through the shed’s small, dusty window. “Oh Papa! He’s bruised himself!”

Kimo sighed. “There’s only so much I can do, Keiki. They’re always a little scared, no matter what I try.”

He clicked open the padlock and put a hand on the door. “Be ready, Lani. I don’t think he’ll run, but you never know.” Leilani nodded, drawing the knife from its sheath. Kimo took a breath and opened the door. The keening sound quieted, and the small figure inside the shed scrambled back. It looked up from where it had fallen on the dirt floor, and held out a hand.

“Please.”

Leilani’s smile faltered, but only for a moment. She put a hand on Kimo’s shoulder, and he patted it with his free hand. “Good job with this one,” she said. “Grandma Malia would be proud.”