From the acclaimed author of Snow Mountain Passage comes this richly evocative novel that follows a half-Indian, half-Hawai'ian woman and her complex relationship with the last king of Hawai'i.When talk show host Sheridan Brody finds the journals of his great grandmother Nani Keala (aka Nancy Callahan), he uncovers a mythic, unknown tale. Nani, a shy girl from a remote Indian village, met the Hawai'ian king, David Kalakaua, on his grand progress by train across the United States in 1881, eventually returning with him to Honolulu. There, as his young ally and protégée, ever more assured and charming, she played an integral role in his attempt to revive the monarchy and spirit of his people and, eventually, witnessed the mysterious circumstances surrounding his downfall. Deeply engaging through its vivid portrayal of California and Hawai'i at the end of the nineteenth century, Bird of Another Heaven is a masterful portrait of an era long past. “Fascinating. . . . Houston has given us the story of a lifetime.” — The Washington Post Book World “Poignant. . . . [Houston's subjects] have never been written about with more insight.” — The Oregonian “[ Bird of Another Heaven ], filled with real historical figures, richly reconceives the demise of the Hawaiian monarchy.” — Entertainment Weekly “Sweeping….a panoramic saga that spans two centuries.” — Sacramento Bee James D. Houston is the author of seven novels, including Continental Drift, Love Life, The Last Paradise —honored with a 1999 American Book Award from the Before Columbus Foundation—and Snow Mountain Passage . His non-fiction works include Californians and Farewell to Manzanar , which he coauthored with his wife, Jeanne Wakatsuki Houston. A former Wallace Stegner Fellow at Stanford, he has received the Humanities Prize, an NEA writing grant, and a Rockefeller Foundation residency. He lives in Santa Cruz, CA. Born in a tribal village in the Sierra Nevada foothills, Nani Keala is the daughter of an Indian mother and Hawaiian father. In 1881, at age 17, she joins a local group of Hawaiians traveling to Sacramento to welcome David Kalakaua, the king of Hawaii, who is passing through California at the end of his round-the-world tour. The Words Came Though the last ones drank until after midnight, they were all up early for the final leg. In skiffs and launches they made a small fleet coasting south with the current, a couple of dozen Hawaiians and mixed-bloods, Indian wives, some children. They pulled into the wharf at Sacramento and from there walked three blocks to the Central Pacific depot. The king’s two railroad cars, which had arrived overnight from Denver, had been shunted off to a siding where a crowd had already gathered, curious townspeople for the most part, here to get their first glimpse of a ruling monarch. Nani stayed close to the Kinsman as he limped his way toward the side entrance of the first car. His nephew Makua, who went by “Mike,” had taken her arm, as if assigned as a personal escort. He was thickset and sure of himself, and lighter than Nani, with skin the shade of cocoa butter. He leaned down to murmur,“ This is a great day, you know. In Honolulu I have only seen the king from a great distance. They say he is a charming man.” More islanders stood waiting there, three or four dozen, some with families, called in from nearby ranches and foothill towns and river towns farther downstream. They waved greetings to the Kinsman and his followers, then fell silent as the car door opened. With no announcement or fanfare, a large Hawaiian stepped out onto the loading platform. He wore a black broadcloth morning coat, sharply creased trousers, a necktie around a high starched collar, but no hat atop his black and curly hair. He sported a moustache and muttonchops. At forty-four he looked ten years younger, a radiant and captivating man with unblemished olive-tinted skin, and his voice a melodious baritone. “ Aloha! ” he said, with arms raised high. “Aloha kanaka maoli o Kaleponi!” (Greetings to my people here in California!) While the white onlookers gazed in puzzled wonder, unsure what to make of this, the front ranks of islanders shouted out their loud reply. His voice itself was the sound of their distant homeland. “Aloha, Kalakaua! Aloha! Aloha!” In a burst of celebration they were waving, laughing and crying all at once, Nani among them, weeping for her father, who would have relished such a moment. This king was so much like him it was almost too much to bear–the same girth, the same eyes. Gifts had appeared, to be heaped before him on the platform, flowers, fresh vegetables, a sack of walnuts, a box of apples, a cooked fish on a wooden platter. The Kinsman, who had left Hawai’i thirty years ago and never returned, was wiping his eyes as he stepped forward to chant in Hawaiian an oli aloha, a long chant of welcome. As his last words dwindled, the celebrants waited for the king’s response, but the king too had to