Excerpt from Daughter of Moloka'i by Alan Brennert, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Chapter 1

1919

The sky above Diamond Head was a spray of gold as the sun seemed to rise up out of the crater itself. From atop its windy hill in Kalihiuka—"inland Kalihi"—Kapi'olani Home took in the sweeping view, from the grassy caldera of Diamond Head to the concrete craters of the new dry docks at Pearl Harbor. On a clear day, even the neighbor islands of Lana'i and Moloka'i could be seen straddling the horizon. The big, two-story plantation-style house on thirteen acres of trim lawn stood alongside the sisters' convent and chapel. The Kalihi Valley was largely agricultural, and the Home was surrounded by acres of sprawling cow pastures, hog breeders, and backyard poultry farms whose hens nested in old orange crates and whose roosters announced Morning Mass as well as any church bell. On the other side of Kamehameha IV Road there were groves of big-leafed banana plants, tall and thick as trees, prodigal with hanging clusters of green and yellow fruit; taro patches filled with heart-shaped leaves like fields of valentines; and terraced rice paddies glistening in the morning sun.

As in most Catholic orphanages and schools, the Sisters of St. Francis required that the corridors remain quiet, orderly—places of silent contemplation, not to be desecrated with idle conversation. Other than this, there were only three major rules at Kapi'olani Home:

1. After breakfast no standing around talking but do your work quickly and well.

2. Do not throw your clothes on the floor nor rubbish in the yard.

3. Line up and march orderly.

Morning call sent the girls springing out of bed, into washrooms to scrub faces and comb hair, then dress. Filing quietly down corridors and into the dining hall, they went to their tables—ten girls at each one—and stood behind their chairs, joining with Sister Bonaventure in reciting the blessing:

Thank you for the world so sweet,

Thank you for the food we eat.

Thank you for the birds that sing,

Thank you, God, for everything. Amen.

This was followed by the scraping of sixty chairs on the floor as the girls seated themselves and ate a breakfast of poi, rice, eggs, and sausages. It was near the end of breakfast that a three-year-old girl—standing on tiptoes and peering out the dining room windows—made an exciting announcement:

"Cow!"

As she ran delightedly out of the dining room, the other girls flocked to the windows. Yet another of Mr. Mendonca's cows, having decided that the grass was, in fact, greener on the other side the fence, was grazing contentedly on their front lawn.

"Wow, look at the size of its whatzit!" said one girl.

"I believe she needs to be milked," Sister Bonaventure noted calmly. "Now, girls, let's all get back to our—"

Too late. What moments before had been a docile group of girls eating breakfast became a stampede out of the dining hall.

On the second floor, Sister Louisa, hearing the drumbeat of footfalls below, raced down the staircase to find a raging river of girls surging past her.

And far ahead of them all was a three-year-old with amber skin and almond eyes, crying out, "Cow! Cow! Big brown cow!" at the top of her voice.

"Ruth!" Louisa immediately broke into a run herself. "Come back!"

Ruth burst out the front door, down the porch steps, and went straight to the grazing heifer, which was completely oblivious to the fuss it had stirred up.

"Hi, cow!" Ruth welcomed it. "Hi!"

Ruth stood about three feet tall; the cow, perhaps a foot taller. Ruth reached up and gently stroked the side of its neck as it chewed. "Good cow," she said, smiling. "You're a good cow."

As Sister Louisa rushed outside, she saw the child she had promised to protect petting an eight-hundred-pound Guernsey, whose right hoof, with one step, could have easily crushed the girl's small foot.

Excerpted from Daughter of Moloka'i by Alan Brennert. Copyright © 2019 by Alan Brennert. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.