Half-blood

 WAIT. Don't spoil it for yourself by reading this post until you've read the story from the beginning.
The sidebar on the left will take you through the doses of story ... enjoy it for the magic!
xo Mokihana

 Hapa "of mixed blood"
-Hawaiian Dictionary, Pukui and Ebert

They were not so different from their friends. Minoaka was true to her name, a dimpled laugh punctuated her face and the hearts of everyone who met her. From the start our daughter wore her destiny on her face along with the long and curved nose of her father. Covered with soft dawny feathers of silver until she was steady on her two human feet this child was the patient and steady twin. Comfortable within the nest she waited to speak. Skeena was given the name to remind the twins of their Tsimshian lineage.* The boy was as fluid and quick as the swift and long flowing river for which he was named. "He will need someone who is agile with arrows, and nimble with his fingers." Raven saw into his son's future as clearly as he saw through the limbs of an acre of cedar. "When I have taught him all I know, he will want more."

I knew my mate looked at destiny with eyes different than mine, I asked, "Is it magic he will need?"

"Yes, but it is not so much that he will need magic. He wears those genes already." Those golden eyes caressed me with knowing. Raven saw into things and was facile with adaptation. "There are people, mortals that like you who criss-cross the borders and make sense of the many ways to be in human skin."

"Apprenticeship?" I questioned, knowing that was one way to put it. Raven and I home-schooled the twins during the first dozen years. It was easier to manage the nightly transformation from skin to feathers. Languages of bird and kanaka came naturally; family visits and neighbors' kept the windows and hinges to our doors in constant motion.  Stories and music, harvest times and planting seasons; play-filled and mischief-making all of these common remedies filled the bellies of our children. This fall approaching was a special time, I could sniff it even as the summer was not yet done with the squash fattening on the vines.

"I've seen a pair of brothers particularly good at juggling magic.Watching them season in season out, they feel a good match."

"Are they far from us? Will he need to leave us soon?" I was not ready to live without Skeena.

"Not far, but yes soon Skeena will leave us for awhile. You will like the brothers I have seen. That I promise." He cupped my round face with his silver-tipped wings. "They are menders and meddlers," he added.

"My favorite sort of magicians," I said. My tears rolled onto his vest and hid in his waistcoat pocket for safe keeping.

There's a new entry to the journal. Read it here. But, if you have come to read and be part of Our Audience, these New Segments are just starting to uncover things to come. I would love to hear what the original entries (ending here) have been like for you. Thanks so much for your participation!

*(The Tsimshian (/ˈsɪmʃiən/; Sm'algyax: Ts’msyan) are an indigenous people of the Pacific Northwest Coast. Tsimshian translates to Inside the Skeena River.^[1] Their communities are in British Columbia and Alaska, around Terrace and Prince Rupert and the southernmost corner of Alaska on Annette Island. There are approximately 10,000 Tsimshian. Their culture is matrilineal with a societal structure based on a clan system, properly referred to as a moiety. Early anthropologists and linguistics grouped Gitxsan and Nisga'a as Tsimshian because of linguistic affinities. Under this terminology they were referred to as Coast Tsimshian, even though some communities were not coastal. The three groups identify as separate nations. There are many other ways to spell the name, such as Tsimpshean, Tsimshean, Tsimpshian, and others, but this article will use the spelling "Tsimshian".)

Parenting

Raven chicks usually hatch and are raised within the nest for six weeks. Our chicks were far from usual. Once hatched their silver-hair lineage wore itself in a streak from beak top to tail feathers like the chemtrails in a normally blue sky. Switch that imagery! "Chemtrails are nothing to joke about, and to describe your children as wearing their lineage like toxic smoke... well, just think again, come up with something else." It was Fairy Lady peering over my shoulder as I write. That's the thing about being Border Witch there are limits to the way we use imagination and explanation. The Fairy wasn't having any of that kind of recipe. On the other hand, the larger picture and one that sometimes  tampers with what is good or evil has a voice like this: "You, and he, have without doubt tampered with the nature of usual. So, if the patterns of feather work appear like the things in the sky where they will spend half their lives perhaps that imagery will work. Like a Trojan Horse!" That voice would be the one I assign to Max.

Raven was unashamed to express his feelings when the streaks of silver threaded through the two children. "We will need to call for 'awa from your home islands. These are uncommon necessities even for me." That was a lot coming from my mate who was not long on human words. The ceremonial drink 'awa shared to clarify and relax humans would work with Raven when he took on human form. In his bird-form, his spirit soared beyond the complexities. Having half-spirit children challenged him. Loyalty to family runs deep in Raven clan. I would see that repeatedly in our lifetimes together. As new parents, any new parents that quality counts as commitment.

The silver bird was speaking across time to the essence of what he knew is Max. The two men understood their roles. I felt Max's reply in my fingertips. Tingling as sparks from a newly lit flame It was important for me to prepare the chant of asking, and call on the sources that would provide 'awa for this occasion.

I ka 'awa (in the drink) 2/9/2014

... this segment is being added after the first audience's reading. A suggestion was made, and with that suggestion the storyteller took it into the dreams. The 'Ole Moons came and neap tides happen during those cycles. No deep highs or lows, the tide did not bulge. But, there was something more to add once the moon absorbed a little more light. This is what came.

Raven's request for 'awa seemed fitting to me. Traditionally 'awa was kane: male. A male ritual involving male preparation and plants who are the embodiment of male. The Silver-haired bird needed to ask a favor of the Gods. He knew the protocol that crosses time and the culture of place. It was Max he called, but Max is not an akua, not a god. Max is however a very specific portal to the Gods who could answer the bird's request. With Max I might be softened of my reluctance to partake.

My kuleana, my soul's path-life of responsibility, had never included experience with 'awa. I remembered one night long, long ago when 'awa was being shared. My most trusted ancestor, a cousin who shared my life and my legacy was drinking the 'awa. She offered, but did not insist. Fear was still too thick an emotion in me and my knowledge of 'awa ill-informed. Still wound with whirls of 'shoulds' and 'don'ts'  I stayed clear. Perhaps fear can be a shawl, a pale, that one wears because somethings are not yet "to be" owned/experienced/eaten. I know there is a long road to understanding the meaning of names. Raven's request for Mauliola (good health and long life, or the state of well-being) put us, new parents, in the portal and more was to be revealed.

Now, I kept my distance from the drink though my most beloved prepared the ceremony. At his side, I said my prayers asking for what I needed to be shown. Max appeared, stood on my other side. From his tiny gourd that dangled across his chest, that same container from which he washed his hands as my midwife, Max pulled the stopper. Max's prayer over the 'awa was precise. He addressed the gods, including Hi'iaka, goddess of first growth. I noticed. He knew I would notice. Hi'iaka would is embodied in the first ohi'a, the tree that grows not from a dispersed seed. Hi'iaka who grows from primal root. that goddess. The specifics of 'awa were laid out seamlessly: variety, condition, location and reference to place, purification, petition or request, release of the kapu and the gods. A final closing. There was no holding back, no more excuses, it was time to drink. The tiny gourd contained salt water, the necessary step of purification needed for me (a female) to drink 'awa. Releasing any ill-intent or spirit of malevolence the 'awa was ready. Max, Raven and I drank.

In the drink was calm.
In the 'awa all attachment to one outcome released.
In the drink the feather and flesh we are equal.
In the 'awa the present was in focus.
In the drink the all connected.

I ka 'awa mai ka no'eau 
In the drink he knew.
In the drink I knew.

What was in the drink for Raven was something he would share over time.

"No rush to unwrap the bundle so long hidden. Savor the gift," it was a female voice. Hi'iaka. A small red blossom popped open behind my left ear. 

Resource Note: This segment, though not exclusively so, is very much influenced by the work of Pualani Kanaka'ole Kanahele's, Ka Honua Ola. I acknowledge her translation of traditional practices and makawalu (unfurl) from her strong shoulders of wisdom, with much aloha I mahalo her. This segment of The Joy Weed Journal about 'awa reflects 'elieli kau mai ... dig deep and make it meaningful. This medicine story weaves that message like a strong and flexible nest.
 

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Brooding

In the end I settled into brooding the two eggs myself. The twenty days and nights were an incredible time.

The kihei of soft warm kapa that appeared in the small room above The Safety Pin Cafe those years past, covered me and the growing young creating soft folds beneath and around us I cradled the eggs against me. The kihei enveloped each egg, separating them only enough to be a membrane to keep them from premature cracks. Raven served us hot and cool teas, cinnamon toast and daily doses of healthy mounds of shredded meats and bowls of warm greens. Maha and The Fairy Lady supplied savory soups seasoned with herbs and tidbits of magic from the gardens and the Cafe. An ingenious contraption made with tackle and pulleys and a harness-like seat allowed me to climb in and out for stretches and toilet time. I was never away for more than a few minutes in truth it was more than enough time. I missed the contact of the smooth shells and my body craved the contact perhaps more than my soul. Pela. Paha.

The nest was large by any bird's standard and with little effort Raven perched on the edge his prominent beak well into the hallow. In his bird form the sounds that are as myriad and diverse as sun, wind and darkness filled time and space. The memory of the growing babies snapped at his uttering swallowing them whole to be used when they too have beaks that pronounce and preen. Imitating the creatures that share his world Raven was at once the donkey annoyed and braying when there was no attention or her favorite grains and Gravensteins tart and sassy; then the caws that are almost indistinguishable yet different from Crow. Clicking and clacking in language that I need interpretation, my silver-haired partner tell his children the stories of long ago; and the ones that will make for daily laughter. There are no birds who have as much fun as do Ravens. I sleep to his storytelling and drift to the border towns of dream.

Max and the Grandmothers come most nights. Sometimes it is Tutu who oils my hair and untangles the wet hair of my sacred baths, 'au'au kai. In the salty ocean I douse myself and swim in those turquoise oceans. 

"There will be times of bird and then there will be times of being human," the grandmother, Papa, came to me for the first time during the nights of brooding. Her large and substantial body was covered with a soft kapa the color of the last light of day. No introduction seemed necessary, she was simply there to tell me what I needed.

"So long in coming, these answers," Papa is my grandmother's mother a woman I call 'aumakua, guardian, a person goddess. I laughed in my sleep to consider what effort it took to uncover the stories of my genealogy. We are such secret-keepers. Her big hands working at my hair, I felt her stop occasionally, to squeeze my head massaging my scalp, relaxing tensions I denied.

"Your children will learn the language of birds and the movements of wind. Like breathing they will move between the worlds and have little resistance to their histories. It is a gift, this wedding between the 'Alala and you, the protected weed girl. We have kept you in the dark so you could blossom later." Her laughter was deep and unrestrained. "Late bloomers, like you, Pale, age in reverse. Which is good because these children will demand it of you!" There was a great seriousness in that last statement. It was the night of 'Ole Pau. What she was saying would have long term reverberations. I got that.

In the morning, my hair still wet with salt water and the oil of coconut, I felt the early signs of the cracks in the shells. Ready or not, here they come.


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Jealousy

I would be lying to say I never get jealous. "You two know each other?" I was repeating myself, an old habit used to cover up feeling confused or ill at ease. Thinking about Max helped me muster the courage to stay with the moment. Vulnerable but willing to test the limits of my fear. 

Raven answered, "Nance is Raven Clan. Her basketry is much respected and sought out at berry-picking time ..." Raven laughed at the small joke. Nance the Basket Weaver was a master weaver and teacher with ties to around the world. When we first met she was struggling to keep her head above water. Now, galleries bid for her work and her portfolio is thicker than sheep needing shearing. 

Raven continued. He never took his eyes off me."We met two years ago when my sisters gave her the name 'Nance of the Kelp' and welcomed her into our tribe at potlatch. My sisters gather with Nance's baskets when the berries come ripe." Raven beamed when he spoke of his twin sisters. Older by ten years they were more mother than sisters to the silver-haired bird man. Together the wizened pair of women raised Raven in a most eclectic world of magic, a world I was barely tapped into after two years. There was a legacy of traditions and transitions to appreciate. Walking into The Safety Pin Cafe that winter day. Border crossing. Now it seemed my initiation was moving to a new level.

"Oh," I said too brightly. I was still trying to convince my cautious heart to turn the juice down.

Raven felt the vibe and lifted a eyebrow at me. In his human shape this animal nature was no less keen. He took my hands, "Trust me, Miel. There is nothing to fear." Nance and Maha were right there. It's not as if they weren't part of my emotional dither. Get a grip, Border Witch. This is a person Max sought out, and arranged to be here. I had no reason nor experience with being let down by the big kahuna. Maybe it was the postpartum blitz of hormones turning on a too easily tapped habit. Old habit wears a deeply trod trail. I felt a chill run the back of my neck. Choose again. Okay.


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Weaving

We wove small apple twigs pruned from Maha's orchard in and out of the cedar bark skeleton.The gardener was not random in her selection of pruned branches. "Some of those apple buds will open while you sit," Maha was smiling as she worked." That ought to be a sweet surprise some morning Spring. We have plenty to wind around the whole nest at least twice." Like her beautifully tended gardens I would appreciate the art to this construction.

The Basket Weaver brought lengths of kelp--her trademark material-- with tubes, knobs and hold fasts still clinging to stones the size of small potatoes. Laughing her high-pitched giggle her nimble fingers twisted kelp into pockets. I thought of advent calendars I've always loved but haven't had in my life for years and imagined what could be tucked into the kelp for discovery once the babies had hatched. The hold fasts anchored on the inside on the nest in intervals. Fitting for a nest build above the ground.

Thin red alder branches are my favorite gatherings from the woods around my cottage. I have bundles of these long fingers that dry on the trunks as the limbs above reach for sun and life. Stored in empty tins or wrapped with ribbon and tied about the tipis we used to discourage eagles from hunting my hens and ducks, they are everywhere. Dozens of alder branches added to the nest for my eggs leaving soft tips poking out in random swatches. Finally, lengths of grape wines pruned off a week ago filled nicely into a strong wrap near the edge of the nest.

It was nearly dark before we finished layering and weaving apple twigs, alder sticks, kelp and grape vines into the giant nest. I heard his wings before I saw him as is usually the case. A Raven  in flight is an awesome sight and the displacement of wind with those wings is something to behold. The window beside the top of the bunk bed had been left open, Raven flew through with a bundle wrapped and secured with you guessed it, a safety pin.

"What timing, and you come bearing gifts," I was happy to see him and excited to introduce Raven to my old friend. Raven left the bundle on the bunk along with his feathered silver winged self. Transforming from bird to man he climbed the short ladder. We embraced. He kissed me and called me, "Miele. How are you?"

I stroked my belly and walked slowly to the couch where Max's bowler held the two silver eggs. "Amazed would say it all Silver-one." We sat on either side of the hat and took a moment to recognize this time. "We have a brood. Sure to keep us busy for at least ... the foreseeable future." Now that we were together the enormity of the journey threatened to overwhelm me. 

Instead I asked,"What have you in that bundle."

Raven replied, "Soft down and things to line the nest. Feathers. Scraps of wool. Pieces of this. Pieces of that." Raven climbed the short ladder to the bunk and returned with his treasure. Unwrapping the pin, he pulled at the downy contents until all of it heaped into a glorious muddle. His joy was contagious and that was a good thing.

Maha and The Basket Weaver watched us over the tops of steaming mugs of tea. Maha, known to many as The Gypsy Woman is Raven's old friend. When she is not tending her gardens or playing her harp Maha has a regular place at her round table at The Safety Pin Cafe. My Silver-haired Raven and she have a long and interesting history together. Rather than speak Maha walked to the harp that had been strangely silent in her case. I had forgotten about it until I saw the worn leather case. "Battered from trips into and through many dark forests," is how Maha often describes the weathered condition.

Raven looked up and nodded to Maha as she opened the case. And to The Basket Weaver, who I was about to introduce he said, "Nance of the Kelp. I should have know it was you Max would call."

"You know each other?" I was surprised and a little jealous of the familiar way Raven looked at the beautiful weaver. She is an old friend, but still ...

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When less is more

My naps: more than mildly invaded upon. Recollections and visitations from my past piled themselves into a dense line-up. Ma and her cooking, old friends with their oddities unveiled, careers that ended persist in the dreamworld. My history challenges me to yet another dual of priorities: now or then? There are things I'm good at: I care for people with precision if not obsession; my apple pie is legendary and like my mother before me I can make a dollar out of fifteen cents. Well, that's no exactly it; money hasn't been my magic. But what I can do is turn any place I'm at, into a place of comfort and home. That's my special brand of magic though some would just say I'm good at decorating. To get good at anything including magic, you have to practice. I have been in many places and practiced my brand of magic everywhere I've been: remodeled the nest of origin until we couldn't take it anymore; then there was the shared condo in town where we rented the Master Bedroom, turned it into an amazing studio looking out over Paradise while the young stoner, over-medicated nurse, and working girl shared a refrigerator with me. Border magic ...my unique version of it includes seeing the weed as vital. I can make something from nothing;use weeds or discards to fashion beauty. Planted into my name was the essential capacity to remain childlike in my vision. Innocent by choice. Thing is, what I have trouble with is how to weed a garden of history when it's more space that's necessary, not more weeds.

Is there room for old attitudes and wet blankets of regret masquerading as nostalgia when there are eggs to hatch, and a present to nurture? Max had come with his long view of life showing how his third set of teeth were erupting in his pink-brown gums. If a leopard does not change his spots Max's third set of teeth? Perhaps this: even Kahuna grow.


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All hands on deck

The Basket Maker arrived late in the afternoon with a huge woven basket made of cedar bark strips. It was loosely woven, "Strong but flexible," she said. "From the story I was told strong and flexible is what this is all about!" Maha and The Basket Maker had the cedar frame laid out on the living room floor. The big blue tarp from Maha's truck filled with the pile of sticks was in the living room, too. Still blurry from sleep I looked at the nesting material and felt oddly secure. This is what's happening now, and what a way to harness the energy of a moon full in Scorpio. The moon would be full by the time we finished building this whale of a nest.

"Hi!" The Basket Weaver's high bird-like voice squealed. "Long time in between." We hugged and then looked each other in the eye. We were still the same height, she wears her hair short now, I have her beat on the inventory of gray hair and we both wear glasses. She was as beautiful as ever, her eyes sloped more at the corners where time has etched slim lines, but her skin still radiated that glow of light and fairy which had attracted me when first we met.

"Still weaving magic I see," the cedar framed basket was expertly crafted to allow filling in with whatever material came from the forest surrounding us. "Thanks so much for coming. I had no idea how I was going to do this, but Max.... What'd you think of him when you got the call?" I sat on the floor with my back against the lower bunk of the bed, Maha handed me a hot cup of almond milk. I squeezed her hand, "My favorite," and sipped sweet cinnamon sprinkled milk.

"He showed up at my studio door a week ago. Remember that freaky day of rain and almost hail, that day? I'd just finished teaching ... a class of five students. I was clearing the tables of reeds and heard the knock. A huge brown man with a hat filled the small window in the studio door. I was almost afraid ... but, catching his eyes under the bowler I could feel the calm of him. I opened the door. He said, "Are you Joy Weed's friend The Basket Maker?" "I haven't heard your name in what, twenty years, but said "Yes, I am The Basket Maker and Joy Weed, I haven't seen her for a very long time but Joy is my friend." Rain was dripping off his hat, I asked him in. "He introduced himself, 'Justin Maxwell, but 'Max' to friends.' He said he was here to ask a favor. A favor for you, Joy."

So there it was: I had my answer. Max was way out front with knowing my son was to be born from an egg. Did he realize there'd be two eggs? It wasn't my job to anticipate the moves of a Kahuna. My job as a Border Witch kept me plenty busy. Learning what that job meant only got easier from living on Earth. The way I had it explained Earth was new for me, only once before had I experienced this planet, and I was a man last time. I was going to need a lot of practice being human and this was the first time at being woman. So I wasn't supposed to know how things worked. I would have to learn to ask for help, and learn to trust. Thing is, I didn't get this information about being a new soul on Earth until I was sixty. There was lots of confusion to unravel. I'd made mistakes. "Not so many that you'd be cursed for being anything other than human!" Max was listening in. He did that. I could hear his thoughts when I was tripping over myself.

It wasn't Max that brought me the news about being a young soul. He's been coming since I was a girl still climbing mango trees. No, Max comes with very specific next steps for me, and doesn't come without a very specific purpose. He was here now to help with the birthing of magic, a birth from an egg. My assignment as Border Witch came from another woman. More about that later. For now, there were three pairs of women's hands with a nest to be built. Maha had a plan, "We'll start with filling in and strengthening the nest down here on the floor. I've brought some rope and a pulley to rig up over that rafter. She pointed to the open beams. When the nest is finished we lash it and raise it to the top bunk."

I had done research of my own in case,"We need to make the nest deep enough to create a well. The eggs will nestle in there cushioned so I can sit. 'To brood' what a misinterpretation of a bird's time for bringing in their young."

"So you will do the sitting?" Maha asked.

"That's what Raven pairs do. Traditionally the female sits on the eggs for 20 days and is fed by the male. The eggs need to be constantly kept warm. I don't know that these eggs, our eggs, should be treated any differently ... I'm not taking any chances. They're already untended." I thought of the magic Max had cast to keep the eggs protected, wondering how long the spell would last.

"Maybe Raven and I can alternate sitting? We'll need some soft material ... fleece, wool to line the well and the nest." There was plenty of filling and fitting to do before the well was made. We started there.

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Nest-builders

Max is not a small man; his body is large and so is his head. The bowler hat for a large Hawaiian man is more like a medium size salad bowl. I looked at the hat filled with the two silver eggs. We are going to need one large nest. The eggs were streaked with the look of a watercolor; muted shades of green and soft glowing yellow circled the shell. The glow pulsed; life within made itself known. It was a short walk back to my cottage even if I took the longer path that avoided the downed cedar. I pulled my paisley wood shawl off my shoulders and used it to wrap the hat and eggs into a snug bundle. I imagined Raven, remembered him the first time we met at The Cafe. The laugh lines in his face, the single glove, and the napkin pouch used to transport mugs of tea and platters of heavenly shaped cinnamon toast. I wondered where he was now and laughed at the thought of seeing him transporting the bowler hat ... the image fit like a stork. That was a bit of silliness, Pale. Silly Witch! As soon as I said 'Silly Witch' I felt his gloved hand on my elbow, heard his low deep croak. "I am with you dear Miel though at the moment I am delivering mugs of tea and cinnamon toast. Before sunset I will join you, silly witch." I was glad to know Raven was aware of the birth, and glad too that he was coming ... later. For a while I needed the company of women to surround me in this newest venture with magic.

Maha's little blue Toyota pickup was parked in my driveway. The bed of the truck was heaped with long slender sticks and trimmings from last season's grape vines.  The door to my cottage was open. I heard the song of her harp before I heard her and smelled the brew of tea.

A grin and a lovely greeting
We commend to mother dear
A grin and a lovely greeting
We send to the boy within
A grin and a lovely greeting
Come from a heart that's true
A grin and a lovely greeting
Me harp and me voice 
Sing true ...

Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby ... 

Maha has a beautiful voice and a talent for making up melody for the moment. Her hands love the work of gardening, and the whim of the harp's strings. Seeing my friend and hearing her and the harp sent me to tears. I set the bowler hat carefully into the soft folds of Mama Sing's yellow quilt on my couch and sat to let the sounds of celebration fill me.

"Lovely lullaby friend a slight correction. There are ..." I sat on the couch and undid the loose knot. "There are two eggs. Two boys or one boy and a girl?" The mystery of birth is just that, always. Additionally though, this was a birth that would reveal more when the silver eggs broke from the inside.


"Well done, mother dear." Maha joined me on the couch making sure the bundled eggs were secure in the hat. She said, "We've got backup. She'll be here anytime now. The Basket Maker is on the ferry. I'm a gardener, and the Harp is great support but what you need is an expert."

"Of course! It's been years."

"She was thrilled to get the call, and available. Which is lucky for us since I know the woman by reputation. She's an international celebrity these days."

I thought of the last time we were together and remembered the experimental kelp and citrus forms she was creating. Like nothing else before or since. I sure hope she'd be up for making a nest for brooding children of magic. But how did Maha know to get hold of The Basket Maker?

"Max!" I said without another thought.

"It was Max that made the call," Maha confirmed. "Max knows everyone. And if they don't know Max they do before long ..." Max had a way of becoming familiar without effort. He had many lifetimes of practice and was now facile with relationships; to see him in action was one of my greatest joy. I missed the large Hawaiian man already. I wondered when Max had called The Basket Maker but then ... time was the kahuna's instrument. He manipulated without bending too many rules as I understood his way. If I remembered I'd ask The Basket Maker when Max called her.

I needed a nap. Hatching eggs was going to be a lot of work. "Take the naps when you can, Mother Dear." Maha was already out the door unloading a blue plastic tarp to sort through the sticks and twigs in the truck. "I'll wake you when The Basket Maker gets here. Sweet dreams." She shut the door behind her and I headed for the quilts on my bed. I was asleep before my head touched the pillow.

 Continue reading here ... 

Birthing Magic

I had carried my son for forty days, but wasn't sure how the child would arrive; would I lay an egg or birth a child as most mammals birth a fully formed version of herself? Max was my mid-wife, literally a baby catcher, he crouched beside me on the trail and received the egg. The egg filled one large brown hand. The egg slid easily from the birth canal but I felt more pressure and the urge to push again. Two eggs. I was birthing twins. Now the kahuna spoke, "How amazing was that?" Max's long wool coat was on the ground behind me, I lay back and Max handed me two silver colored eggs. I was not exactly in shock, but the feeling was uncommon; wasn't Max supposed to know these things? Not one child but two.


Max pulled a small gourd off of a woven strap across his chest. Opening the small tight lid he poured water into his hands and washed. He massaged my uterus to bring any afterbirth fully through. There was none at first, but he continued to massage my belly as I made sounds and utterances mothers have made through time. The dreams were quick and brilliant. A large nest made from forest sticks hung off the ground anchored to the top of the spare bunk bed in the corner of my cozy cottage. Large enough to support my weight and that of Raven, the nest would become our brooding place for the next moon cycle, give or take a day or night. The eggs were large and both Raven and I would need to warm them. The bed would need to be moved to the other end of the big open room up against the window that opened. "You and Raven will share the sitting privileges. There are stories to be told, songs to be sung, and memories to be memorized during the brooding time. Not only will these stories fill your children; in the telling you and Raven will learn what is missing each from your legacies. Give birth to magic, and the common magic will ..."

"The common magic will what?" I asked.

"An incomplete message is it." Max was tuned to the dream and my question. He wasn't asking.

"Isn't it just like life to be an incomplete message," I was keenly aware of what I could do and at my age able to accept that it was enough. My friend the farmer loved to say, "All you have to do now honey is wash your face."

I lay back with the mountain of understanding. Overwhelmed. Elated. Oddly clear. Max motioned for me to rest. The afterbirth needed to be buried. I knew where. "With the la'i, Uncle. We'll bury the afterbirth with them." A layer of soft moss served as a temporary basket to contain the envelopes that held the eggs within in. Max said the prayers of thanks and wrapped the afterbirth and moss in a clean length of kapa he pulled from his coat pocket. When I felt ready to stand Max took the eggs from me. Watching to see me steady on my feet, the kahuna smiled and took his wool bowler hat from his head and slipped the eggs into it.

"This will do for a temporary nest, while you gather the makings for a proper brooding place. No more than two days and nights though. Maha will have sticks and other fine material for a nest for the four of you and she's bringing help. She's waiting at your cottage." With the bowler hat and silver eggs securely in my two hands, Max was gone.

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A third set of teeth

Raven did not stay long. His dance, my participation and introducing Max was enough for everyone. I heard the loud deep caws above me and watched as the silver-wings of Raven's feathered cape soared after an eagle hungry for my neighbor's favorite duck. The even louder ruckus of Maha's crowing hens was an alert. Spring is Eagle Season ... they are hungry and there aren't many fish. Maha's small birds were stalked as soon as it was light. Max was more in tune and accepting of Nature. I would need a lifetime to learn the lesson; my North Node is in Taurus.

"Where is your North Node, Uncle?" I think the question surprised the usually unflappable Max who is rarely speechless though always thoughtful in his responses. Saturn's messenger knows about time and this was an opportunity to mine. I sat on the bench along the path between Maha's place and mine. Max joined me.

"Gemini. My lessons have been about learning to painstakingly listen to what people are really saying. Not an easy lesson, I tell you that." 

"Amazing. You seem so comfortable with listening, and make me comfortable asking even though I was kinda surprised at myself for ask. North Node stuff is deep destiny. You're all about Saturn, and I'm learning to live with long term lessons. Hina messages are different more watery, feminine I guess. It's taken me almost sixty years to understand what the North Node offers me." This was an unexpected opportunity. But, maybe not so unexpected. I remembered these were the 'Ole Moons. Good time to review the long and the short. I stopped talking and breathed. Waited.

"Hmmm ... Pale Wawae I've been around for many, many, Earth years. Few people alive today know that humans are capable of living long enough to have a third set of teeth," Max stopped and with softened eyes drew his mouth into that famous toothless smile. "I am just starting that third set. Nihohuna. Hidden teeth, or if you like the other definition, 'teeth of the kahuna.' This story will wind through time Pale, so are you comfortable here?" The baby was growing quickly already my lower back was pressed by the weight of the boy. The bench was hard, but the air fresh and yes, I was comfortable. I nodded and closed my eyes to hear the rest of the story.

"I was born during the times of the high kapu when the world was governed by rules and protocol that kept a precious balance between water, land, air, and kanaka. No separations, each affected and still does affect the other. My family and my personal kuleana was far from that of being kahuna. But, closer than others I was born into family with chiefly lineage. We were responsible to the farmers, the fisherpeople, the maka'ainana. To be moi, meant you are father to all who lived on the land. You cared for them, they planted food, fished, maintained the kapus and everyone lived in pono. You know this about our Hawaii."

My eyes opened when I heard Max pause. His large hands held his jaw then cupped his lips as he breathed into them. "Part of the kapu system required the building of heiau, places for worship and places to observe time-space-distance. Kahuna tracked the turning of the heavens and the positions of the heavenly bodies. The records were kept here," Max pointed to his head, "and remembered here." Max pointed to his heart and his gut (his gut first). "When the kapu was enforced sacrifices were made, human sacrifice, when the heiau were built. In addition, it was common for moi or ali'i to sacrifice an eye or mash out their teeth to add to the mana of the ceremony. There was no hesitating and no questioning."

I knew where Max's story had taken me, and felt the weight of the lesson being shared with me. "Seasons over time, Pale Wawae. The Kapu System preserved a season of time for our people at the time. We can look back with memory, and uncover the hidden meanings as more and more children and growing adults learn and know the language. New story. My work, my job over time has been to remain embodied ... don't you love language. I love that word. I live in the stories of those like you who search for meaning and embody what you find in art. You dare to cross borders and tell about them in many ways. Pale, you are hapai at 65!"

"Yes, and I must get up and walk or you'll have to carry me down to Maha's place." We both stood, Max offering his strong arms to pull me upright. "I record stories, and wrestle with that South Node that wants to be famous and admired by all and others ... and it is never enough. But I'm adjusting and finding comfort in the stories I tell for myself. Slowly. Hearing you today Uncle I see the relative space time embodies. I don't know that I want to be in this body long enough to have a third set of teeth, but maybe that's as long it takes to learn some lessons." I was laughing now, a rolling belly laugh. Then, I felt water pooling at my ankles.

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Raven dance

"Dance?" Raven looked at Max straight across and eye to eye. They were similarly tall though I had never considered just how tall Raven was. Answering the kahuna Raven stretched his wings out from his shoulder blades and bobbed his head calling to me to join him. The laugh lines drew into his face as I stepped to clutch his wing-tip. Silver feathers glowed as I held them and within moments the silver changed to fingers long and strong the color of red cedar smoothed to polish. Swirling and bobbing we did his Raven Dance circling and bending my knees I followed him imitating his movements laughing as I lost myself to the dance and the clapping from the edges.

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Max and Raven

Raven was not surprised to see us as he looked from the jagged trunk. "What bit of silliness pleases you? I remember a girl who loved to dance to music in a friend's garage. You had a pal with bright red hair - not this sort of red," he pulled at his beard feathers and continued with the memory of a freckle-faced neighbor. It seemed so long ago to tickle a bit of silliness that made me feel light and very much an unaltered me. But, he was right. "I do love to do little dances to songs, now old, like me. "Moonlight Bay." Oh my who remembers those songs today?

"Makes no nevermind, Miel," Raven chimed in from his perch. "I've seen you dancing merrily by yourself in sensible black boots and with tiny toes bared while you cook. It pleases you." Raven and Max were yet to meet, and Raven who was big on protocol flew within inches of us, landed firmly and tucked his bill with a gesture of respect. "I am Raven, though you have known my family and we are also called 'Alala. My ancestors have lived in the forests near your steaming craters when our voices were thick and many. The Silver Band of Ravens made the Salish their home. So my blood is Earth knowing and my wings, like you, love and know the Winds."

Max was delighted to hear the genealogy of my mate and stepped forward to greet Raven with his forehead. Exchanging breath the kahuna said, "I am Max to my friends and in other places I am called Saturn's Messenger. I am very aware of time and space and have spent my cycles with both. It is a pleasure to meet one of the Silver Band of Ravens and ancestor to 'Alala." Not to distract too long from the subject of silliness, Max asked impishly, "The real question is do you dance? With a tag like yours "The Silver Band of Ravens" you must dance!

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Salmonberries

Criss-crossing the edge of thoughts, the walk back to my cottage let the emotions seep making room for what was present. Maha's kindness, and friendship was good medicine. Max stood outside my front door, I exhaled and stood beside him."Walk with me," he said reaching for my hands his were warm and pulsating.

"I'm lost when it comes to letting go of old memories. It's an old habit that makes me crazy." Max listened silently but kept his eyes on me as I stretched to climb over the fallen cedar. The rain was constant but not so heavy that it stopped us from our walk. "Mostly I like to complain," admissions weren't easy for me but Max never let on that it mattered one way or the other.

"These blossoms are beautiful such a contrast to everything around them." Max was noticing the salmon berries. The first berries of spring, the flowers would drop their petals and the plump flesh that followed promised me the taste of guavas.

"Salmon berries," I said as I sloshed into a puddle hiding under the moldy compost of alder leaves. It wasn't necessary to talk with Max; thoughts played equally with words in his world. But saying, naming things so my eyes heard from the outside in was fun.

"How hospitable of them." Max was laughing as he lifted the face of a bright fushia salmon berry blossom. Combining his facility to hear my words and thoughts I enjoyed the forest walks and practiced.

......

The kahuna's unexpected visit stretched from one night of a shared bowl of succulent noodles in chicken-rich broth to a month. There were things I needed to know about giving birth to magic. Max had answers, but mostly Max had stories. "Your son will ride a wave of three complements. His speech will be radical, could it be anything but ... The son of magic with the genes of the 'Alala mixes with your own. 'Alala is extinct in the natural spaces, but humans are raising them by hand. You, Pale who is as vulnerable as any species threatened by extinction need not be afraid to teach your son about the craziness. As it happens, it is your experience with what happens when you are crazy that will give your son the edge he needs to fly in the face of adversity. Pardon the cliche. It just fits so perfectly. Your vulnerability is the necessary second complement. Being able, and willing ... that part, the willing to cross borders is the lesson of living that opens windows and landscapes." Max stopped and turned to me. That wool bowler hat as dry as if there were only blue skies empty of rain, sat easily over his broad forehead. "Never be afraid of your way Pale Wawae. Think of it as magic in the making. Your son will surely appreciate it that way ..."

Somewhere nearby the deep donkey voice of the Raven echoed above.


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Mermaid

Venus Neptune will avoid you. They will go into hiding, or they may escape into drink or drugs, all to get away from the other for reasons they may not even be able to define. It is not uncommon to see a normally hearty person, all of the sudden damned near disabled. It’s because the tide went out, that’s why. This is disturbing as hell on both sides of the equation. - My astrologer

"I am close to being tired of bursting into tears." There I said it, then burst into tears again whimpering, shoulders heaving. She sat, put her hand on my hand and pat.

"Not yet done. I know, the tide's out and this water is too cold to dive into. The mermaid has no place to go to renew." I let very few people see me like this, not even Raven gets to see the heaving shoulders very often. It's hard on him for all this magical ability, mortal fragility is mysterious to the silver-haired magician. Maha was one of the few who would not take my disappearing act seriously. Well, no that's not it at all is it. She takes it seriously and allows me to disappear without expecting me to cheer up before its time.

"It wasn't always that way," she'd told me back at The Cafe months earlier. "I was made to fix things," she explained when I saw my first Faceless Woman. "Being faceless myself over and over with a strong Taurus signature I don't mind messing in the mud. Coming up with new possibilities and plastering over the leaks. When I was agile and filled with energy that seemed endless I forged ahead with fixing myself and everyone in my domain. Aging made its play for my fixing habit when I could no longer reach for the tools that matters to me most: seeing and hearing." Then the woman who sat quietly tapping my hand as I cried without stopping was the Gypsy woman, nameless though titled I was seeing Maha through the veil of generality. Luckily for me, age was playing with the deck of Tarot when first I met this Gypsy. She recognized a mermaid out of water, a witch in need of her stick.

So today I cried myself into exhaustion while Maha sat and pat, sat and pat.


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Metal: the time of Autumn

I needed to go to the out house before Max began his story. Built just a few steps from the main house which was small--an open big room for the kitchen and eating place and living room. Two smaller rooms were built under the hips of the peaked cottage. Well-insulated with south-facing windows and a thick stone wall to collect the heat from the sun, electricity heated my home efficiently. Burning wood? No, I no longer did this. A shame really, since I lived on an island where Cedar, Alder, Hemlock and Fir grew thick and seemed to be proud of their ability to serve in so many ways. My cobbled and cross-stitched life had included wood when I was a very young woman, but now? Now, I lived surrounded with metal walls and roof the hard, shiny element. I lived with the reminders of Autumn, the season of The Father. Letting go has not been an easy process, so at least for now, or for as long as it takes, the metal feeds me regularly.

......

How little most people knew about witches ... oh well, that's a story for another time. Max is patient I thought. Used to the nature and cycles of humans. Relieved of the pressure on my bladder, I sprinkled a hand-full of peat moss over my leavings, covered the toilet and opened the outhouse curtain to walk the short distance to the cottage. Walking back the emotions swelled. They hide most of the time because my Capricorn Moon loves to hoard feelings. I let few people see me wet with emotions. The Gardener found ways to my hoarding moon; she was used to roots that swelled and traveled deep.


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Legacy

The stew sat well, warming me and the child growing inside. I patted my belly, rubbed loving circles as I cooed a message, a promise. "Plenty more to come," I said. Max insisted on washing his bowl, rinsed it and mine as well. There were leftovers; the stew cooled enough to be put into a smaller pan along with the tender noodles.

"Tea?" I asked, as I watched the large Kanaka move gracefully to the cushions on my sofa. A sofa which looked like a child's furniture under his near seven foot frame. Time had been gentle on my godfather, leaving his face a bronze work of art with few wrinkles. His eyes golden with green waves like limu clinging to tide pool rocks remained bright, inviting. An ocean man with endless stories to tell and only a fingertip's worth did he share even after his long history. Max knew I was looking at him though his back was toward me as he sat and knew too that it was the dreaming awake stories that entranced me most. The stories he would tell because no limits bound his imagination.

"I would love tea, whatever you have sweetheart. It makes no nevermind," he used that signature "nevermind" turned to look over his shoulder at me, and blazed me with his toothless smile.

Sometimes questions were asked outright, especially in the Nowadays community. But, the old ways wore themselves in my bones and when I was around family I was a girl again, waiting for story rather than answers.

"Do you know the 'AlaLA, Pale Wawae?" Max asked as he took the mug of strong Oolong tea from me.

"I do not," I said. Though even when I said the word it seemed familiar. I sat in the rocking chair facing Max and sipped. Too hot. Cautious of the baby, I set the tea on the glass-topped wicker table and let it cool.

"And, Alala?" Shifting the emphasis on the vowels, the word was different and right away I knew it.

"Sure, Alala is the name of the road where Bunny and Chucky live. In Lanikai back on O'ahu." My first cousin "Chucky" was Charles Kaulana Wawae and his wife Bunny, was Bunny Roberts. Flashbacks to Alala Place. Scenes I rarely allowed while awake. A time when it was I who was the Faceless Woman lit up scenes behind my eyeballs.  Now was not the time for remembering. I willed the memory away and listened to Max's voice.

"It is the same word, but in the Nowadays pronunciation is lax. The word is 'AlaLA with the accent on the final syllable. It is the word, the name, of the Hawaiian Crow. A crow, a bird that is now extinct in the native places." Max paused and looked to me for any connections newly made on my part. None yet. I cocked my head, and the kahuna began his story.

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One bowl of food

I was glad my kitchen included the large saimin bowls I'd found, and kept since Max and No'e were children. The sturdy restaurant ware held up with all the packing and unpacking of a lifetime with only minor chips. Like wrinkles I could account for every one of the nicks; a hasty washing, an angry morning of cold cereal and hot words. There were six bowls in all, I found two with no old wounds and set them on the drainboard. The egg noodles were nearly ready, just a second cup of cold water to cool them. I covered the old porcelain pot and dug in the frig for green onions.

"Can I help?" Max asked.

"Sure." I washed the tender onions and handed them to Max, noticing his incredibly large hands and thick fingernails. Not for the first time. He found a knife in the crockery pot where I stuck the cutlery and felt the edge.

"The sharpening stone," I pointed to the drawer. With long sure strokes Max honed an edge to that knife and all the others in the pot.

"Thank you," I kissed his cheek, and then added, "I have scissors that need it, too!"

"Don't do scissors." We laughed and Max finished trimming and chopping a cup of green onions in time to sprinkle over the now-drained noodles.

I served up a portion of noodles and green onions into our bowls, then ladled chunks of chicken, carrots, celery, and rosemary sprigs over the top. The aroma and the color of the stew warmed us and hid the rich noodles until we dug into them with chopsticks. Neither of us added additional seasoning though I had roasted sesame seed oil and a batch of freshly mixed Coleman's mustard. Max said a prayer of thanks, simple and quick. We ate mostly in appreciate silence, slurping the succulent stew until the last noodle slid slowly past our lips.

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Pregnant

I have been pregnant twice before. Max my oldest was near forty-five with a great love for adventure and travel. Thinking of his namesake I chuckled, and without wishing the old kahuna for whom my son was named appeared.

"Ageless Ehu-hair," I said, unsure of his permanence I simply enjoyed the wavy view of the man who has been protector, translator and so much more. The steam from the pot of chicken stew bubbled coating the winds with a blurry vapor.

"It's the smell of the rosemary, gets me every time!" Max lifted the lid and drew in an appreciative swallow of the aroma. "Nearly pau?" With the question, the tall red-haired traveler set more solidly. The wool bowler hat. Its familiar designs of sea urchins and curling waves. Skin as deep as mahogany, and hair the color of fresh lava fell in a braid down the middle of his back. Re-positioning the lid, my godfather faced me with his hands outstretched to hold my face. Greeting in the old way, we welcomed each other.

"And," when we finally released one another, I laughed in answer to the question about the food, "the stew is good enough to eat." His smile as big as bowls dissolved any of my discomfort.Word travels quickly. It was not yet a full ten risings of the moon. It comforted me to know family was interested in my pregnancy. Max's visits always came with purpose. "It is not that we worry about you, Pale Wawae," Max considered my long-standing reputation for being independent. He weighed his words, admitting it had been almost twenty years since his last visit. Evolution was a slow process, and he knew my predispositions. Still ... he was on my side and continued this way:

"You are hapai with a child of magic and a third pregnancy will..." Max chose his remaining words carefully as he sat in the wooden chair facing me across from the small glass-topped table. "A third pregnancy will build quite a bridge." To draw a picture, the kahuna used his ten long fingers to make a grid, lacing them like a woven mat.

"Over, under, over, under," his deep voice chanted simply.
"Nothing different, nothing new"
"Over, under, over, under." Max flipped his hands over and tugged them apart.. They separated easily.

"Now let's do this together," he said and reached for my hand. I offered him the right, "No, the other one," asking for the left hand.

My fingers are slender and tapered, but not nearly three-quarters are long as Max's. Like teaching a child, Max inter-twined our fingers. The thumbs barely involved, but essential. Reading my thoughts he said, "Oh yes, the thumbs are always involved. It's they that make all the difference," Awkward though the lattice was when we were done the spaces and the lacing created a beautiful mat.

"Pull apart," he instructed. I did as told. Nothing. I caught his gaze, aware that the lesson was being cooked into me. I relaxed and our fingers fell naturally apart.

"There is room for the unpredictable. Gene pools broaden now just as they have since the voyaging canoes crossed oceans in search of new land. It is not uncommon for the Magic Ones to mate with common, or uncommon mortals." I was not quite 'common' though the label was something I had yearned for at different times through my life. Max continued, "Try as they did, the mothers' mysteries eventually trickle down to us. Some secrets were uncovered in spite of their best efforts to conceal. Now, you, Pale Wawae, are to bear a child of Raven. What is necessary to know?" Over bowls of chicken soup and egg noodles my godfather answered.


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Names

Between harp song and The Apple Gardener's long-practice with her art, the stump was positioned into the ancient wheel barrel and moved to the heap of trimmings -- evidence of culling. She sought no help from me though I was good at the smaller tasks. The harp was nearly silent, humming like a maiden aunt tending a soup simmering over a low fire. When I first met The Apple Gardener she walked with a stick and a decided limp; I assumed the limp was permanent. Now healed the ankle and knee were mended, "Repaired like all old trees, I'm as good as any of them," The Apple Gardener included herself as one of the trees and took the naming seriously. "A fruit bearer, that's me." That was several months ago now. Near enough to spring we worked in the gardens.

"I am considering the name of the child, the one not sought, yet found because it was looking," I leaned on a shovel as I spoke.

"It will be a male child," The Apple Gardener said, not stopping she pointed to my  shovel. With two shovels cold soil like pastry, we cut the clods into small bits. Her muscles were strong from a lifetime of digging, pruning and hauling the parts of gardens that were in need of amputation. I had heard her describe the destruction of her work with a sad resignation. Acceptance. So when she told me of her knowing, I accepted her statement as truth, and nodded to her reply.

The seasons were early this year, not so much odd as in step with things as they knew far better than most human weather gauges. The circular bed was scattered with perennials The Apple Gardner wished to be left in place. "Leave those where they be." The names of some I once knew, I queried her about and hoped my memory was hearty enough to maintain somewhere inside the bank. "We'll need to cover with leaf mulch, still too early to leave the tender ones without cover." Once the bed was loosened of hard lumps we walked to and fro the pile of wet and rotting leaves from which we made a quilt thick and comfortable.

"The name, Mothan, sits easily as his name," I said when the work was done. My arms tingled from the light workout. Aches after such minimal exertion. How easily I became lazy, preferring mind work over the physical. In contrast my friend delighted in her work, prodding the repositioned stump into the far corner of the garden.

"That is a name that comes with time Pale," she answered. "The creeping plant is different in its native state. Its wildness is potent when it is not sought, yes. A cultivated version will have some recognition of all its power; but not so much. Have you spoken with Raven about the name?"

"No, you are the first to hear it." I could feel my certainty wane, my clinging loosen, and my jaw slacken. This was a good sign; evidence of a softening nature, but then The Apple Gardener was expert at softening nature.

"Help me with this, please." The stump was reluctant to roll into place. The harp must have drifted into sleep, or was simply cooperating as instructed. There was room for me to push one side of the huge old tree with my right boot.

"Into the corner post," the gardener directed. "Lean it up. There's enough life left in her to send shoots by Spring. We'll train them into stretching arms. Beautiful enough to attract many birds."

We smiled. The harp woke. The wind sang.


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Mothan

"Yes, the tradition for picking sacred plants was "gun sireadh, gun iarraidh," without searching, without seeking.  In other words, it needs to choose you!"

-The Apple Gardener

My children are mostly grown into themselves now, no longer near-by and confident on their paths they inspire me to be child-like. I feel more sure they are being who they were meant to be when I read their notes and electronic mail that say, "Good for you," upon receipt of my latest adventures. The wounds of loss have healed into scars and bumps that make the contours of the flesh interesting ground; the breakage of bones slowing me down for times, though even bone heals ... eventually.

"I wonder what they will say when they learn of my pregnancy?" The words spill from my lips and out into the damp fog who is eager to carry news. Across the forest and in the orchard just below my friend is bent over a hole. The fog makes it difficult to make out her intent. Too cold for transplanting. Ridding the old stump perhaps. By the time I make my way to her she is ready with an answer and I see she has help lifting the rotted stump too heavy to be moved alone. 

"I knew you were in the woods," she said without lifting her hands from the shovel she used to leverage a large chunk of apple root.  The sound of the harp was muffled but very much present. Too damp to be with The Apple Gardener I knew that for sure. But up the gentle climb to the cottage through the window overlooking the deep porch, the curve of wood and strings were visible.

"The fog is such a gossip!" I said this with mild malignancy. This was not my favorite guise for weather, and The Apple Gardener knew my feelings. One day, all right it passes. One week and I have been know to call weather nasty names. Her snickering was soft but not soft so I could not hear her. 

"Do you really care what your children think about being pregnant with the child of a bird?" she asked. The question came accompanied by a heightened strand of harp song. I didn't answer right away, choosing instead to watch how she moved with the notes to pivot and swivel root and shovel. Watching the dance with admiration and silence the question waited.

Continue the story here ...

Joy Weed

"Give the ones you love wings to fly, 

roots to come back

and reasons to stay."

- The Dalai Lama

The screams pierced the dark. Three of them, so uncommon for me. Eventually I took the knotted cord and measured, first around anapuni and then, anapu'u noting the bulge that was different.

"Definitely growing into yourself," He was beside me. Ordinarily that would comfort me, but not tonight. He spoke without doubt, "You are with child." That old language. A smile with a glint from his golden bird eyes meant to melt my worry. Though no light was cast, I could see him. I was way past the age for conception, but then those years and measurements would apply to a purely human experience. What grew now was more than human and in the world our child would occupy, magic would measure the boundaries.

I sat for several breathes on the edge of my raised bed, feet cold upon the tiles.

"You were without sufficient oxygen," he said. "The windows were shut, you could not breathe." He must have felt me gasping for breath and in the dreams all experiences of suffocation manifest in torture. That I could, and did, scream was a sign of growth. Difficult, but a sign of growing nonetheless.  It was too soon to talk about the dream, the torture, but it was time to be with the weeds, the plants, the prayers.

"I'm going out." I needed the comfort of the firs, the promise of the place-holder red alder.  


"Can I do something for you?" he asked. 

"No, not yet," I stood, opened the door chasing the images of the putrid nightmare beyond me, away long enough to take myself outside. The air was wet but not cold. Warm clouds have changed things in the night. Once inside the curve of the kitchen hut I reached for the lamp and sat down. The green waxy leaves of la'i were cool in my palms. I asked whether I needed to carry the leaves with me, weave a lei, but then remembered: no lei while I am pregnant. The answer was, "No, but speak the words." Caressing the long leaves I began to chant. Softly at first and then more. Girl Cat woke from her nest in the corner, her head erect and green eyes upon me.  

"Yes," I said to her. "I'm in trouble." I continued to chant. She watched, climbed onto my lap, listening. Then purred.

......

This place has come to suit me well. A small band of friends, and suitable isolation for those occasions of oddity many might judge more than peculiar. In town most call me Joy Weed, but a few call me Pale, pronouncing it as if English at first until I laugh and say, "That would be just about right. What with not much sun in Salish, but it's a Hawaiian name ... pah-lay." Four, or more times in a month someone will say, "Sweet name. Funny. Did you change your name when you got to the island? Lots of folks do." I laugh with every one of the queries and tell them all, "That is my real and given name. We are a common breed," I add, and wait to see whether the punch line is lost or found in conversation. Curiosity will often lead people to ask what Pale means. To add a bit of mischief I tell them, "Slipper, pale means slipper." Which it does, but more to the point it means 'covering.' Getting to know people, as with getting to know the meaning of words takes time, if you have patience for it or both. The islanders in this part of the Salish Sea are creative types lending a mostly open-mind to being whatever pleases. The kaona the many meanings come with time if there's room for it.

Native wood fairy families are mostly transparent, but I feel them and catch them from the corner of my eye when I am outdoors. They keep their distance, I leave them gifts and am ever surprised at what they choose to take as their own. The Fairy Lady keeps herself busy at The Safety Pin Cafe in town keen to sniff for those teetering on the borders especially those dressed in sensible boots.

A border witch tends a broad hedge of mixed plantings taking from one experience, a second place, a third option and always leaving room for the weed discovered-- the one not looked for. Tonight's screams were night magic the sort that strips aside the daytime skin.  Pretense rarely makes it through a night determined to have its way. As I finished the chants and felt the space of  anapuni new within I looked for talismans to hold me temporarily. A curve of coral from O'ahu tide pools fit in my palms. I held it rubbing its grainy surface to remind me of my past. Pinned to my thin lavender cotton robe the safety pin for luck ... I rubbed it too. Time slipped. How long ago had it been since I found the cafe?

It was a day only a duck could love. Dressed for the season I wore my long skirt, paisley wool shawl and tea cozy hat. At the very last minute I pinned a bright red felt hibiscus into the hat above my left ear. I liked being reminded of the best of times back home. The red hibiscus did that for me. My feet splashed in puddles. The sensible black leather lace-ups answered the silly duck talk that came from the edges. Twirling as I walked the silliness grew.

"It makes no never-mind to me, " I said to the ducks who waddled in the puddles with me. "I have no oily feathers to shed the rain, but my sensible shoes are always game." Most of the other walkers were tucked tight against the insides of their big black umbrellas. I had left my umbrella at home. From under my red hibiscus I thought I caught the glimmer of blue. Pale and translucent fairy wing blue.

"They don't usually come out in downpours." My nose sniffed, my eyes scanned the pavement. Sometimes you can smell a fairy before seeing one. The wind sly and quick blew sharp as I lifted my nose. I held tight my shawl, tucked instinctively like a turtle and wished I'd remembered my umbrella. The tea cozy hat was now much soaked through with rain. No fairies. But, a large pin about the size of a butterfly dropped from the cherry red awning above me and landed on my right shoe.

A safety pin. My Ma. She was famous for carrying a flashlight, but it was the safety pin, more often two that was her signature. Just in case. Talisman of security hardwired into my bones like knowing how to make something from nothing. How did she make a dollar outta fifteen cents? Common sense! There was that about her. Bags of other people's ironing, sprinkled with water and rolled into pillow cases leaned against the small bedroom door when we were kids. Week in, week out a starched and ironed shirt. Sharp creased down trouser legs. Piece-work. The long-handled mirror, a magnifying glass from Alexander & Baldwin, slipper barely worn but tossed out. She brought them home, made throwaways new to us with no shame. I felt the distance compress. Her voice clear, "There. Here." Fluid.

A waterfall drained itself off the red awning. I side-stepped the cascade, picked up the pin, opened it long enough to run it through the edge of my shawl and secured it. Twinkle lights brightened the windows under the awning. Seated inside a woman smiled from behind blue eyes. She was small, barely rising above the top of the table. Hair that looked the color of taupe bunnies framed a tiny face and skimmed the golden scarf around her neck. She pointed to the sign over the windows. In letters like liquid copper I read The Safety Pin Cafe. Ravens black and shiny as if dipped in wet ink sat on the strings of lights.

"Against the seasonal darkness, the trick is to tickle the light from its hiding places." That was coming from the woman with the pale blue eyes. The voice was sure and clear as chimes. Smiling I realized a fairy was throwing her voice at me. I reached for the crystal door knob and pushed the front door open. The smell of warm cinnamon toast and hot milk filled my nostrils.

The fresh forest air and the protocol ... remembering to ask for help made room for Grace. A small light illuminated in the sleeping room when I returned. "I have never screamed in my dreams," I said. It was another revelation. Raven was preparing to leave, his waistcoat buttons were secured and though his glasses remained on the simple bed table I knew he was readying himself. The cafe re-opens at dawn. The Lady rarely left the establishment, but Raven was a sort of free-agent assigned to dispensing remedies in his fashion. I chuckled at the thought and then heard Raven say, "Those were the screams of a real voice, dear Miel."

"Miel?"

"Yes, m.i.e.l. It's Spanish, and has many meanings. When I call you it means 'sweet, soothing, delicious honey."


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