Keeping the faith, reading the signs, connecting threads

The story 'Resident Magicians' began here.

Then, continued here.

And now you are here.👇

The green Plant was nearly as tall as 'Iliahi. At seventeen he stood six feet, slim through the hips with shoulders and chest well-muscled from diving. His fingers were long, fine and agile, strong as vices when they needed to be and delicate in his precision with mending needles when patching old silk. 

'Iliahi chanted his mele of permission before gathering the waxy leaves. The cool thick leaves would draw the heat from Pua's body. To himself, and the guardian plants he wondered aloud, "Kini a ke akua, I been hearing voices. Well, actually I been hearing one voice. Nice one. Deep wahine voice. Kinda like Aunty's voice. She sings. Old time songs." 

'Iliahi chose four generous leaves including the long stems which would wrap gentling behind Pua's forehead as the leaves themselves drew the fever from her.

A breeze wound his way through the stand of La'i making a soft clattering. 'Iliahi listened absorbing the green waxy voice, nodding in appreciation with a quirky smile.

"Mahalo nui," he said aloud. The young man gently ran his free hand over and through the green arms of Plant. They must know the singer he thought. He took it as approval. A good sign.

'Iliahi's aunty was propped up in bed sipping on something from the small white ceramic mug on her bedside table. It would help to brush and braid the nest of silver hair before wrapping the leaves around her head. A beautiful wooden dressing table with round mirror was just across the large bedroom. 'Iliahi left the leaves with his aunty and found the comb and brush as they always were. Neat and regular. Order was something Pua Sing enjoyed. She knew it wasn't permanent, "Everything is temporary" being one of her favorite lines.  

From a place not far, but different a piece of story slipped into this one. It began awhile ago, and yearns to knot itself here.... Let us see how the two combine.

I miss the myth."
"Where did it go?"
"Somewhere other than where I am."
"Slip through a crack, ride a current. See that star, watch those clouds. So much to do when and if you are allowing the one dimensional human form to be in charge. With so little time, really, a human lifetime is a blink. Why do you get stuck to the one and the only mode?"
"Let's blame capitalism."
"Let's."

Nene was used to the spells the Woman too often stepped into when the smells and the opinions swamped her boat. It was such a small boat of a body and the work of Hinging was just beginning to take hold. Nene was patient, and remembered the times just before her own extinction when every smell and opinion weighed heavy.

To be a goose, a mythic goose, was a privileged state of being. Being a hinge goose was extra special and for that Nene could not have been more grateful. She was part of a grand and flowing story that was endless and it was practical; she was a Virgo goose with lots of Taurus as a bonus.

As you might guess this story is a slip into myth because the one dimensional-ness of humanity was beginning to cinch the joy out of the Woman. It's one of those illusions --the cinch belt, that needs a good slapping around, and a nice hot bowl of freshly cooked oatmeal with lots of butter and maple syrup to set things right again. The great thing about The Safety Pin Cafe is that I have the key to the back door, and the folks here? They are always so glad to see a new medicine story in the making. Some faceless or masked being is forever showing up in line with a duck, or raven, or goose.

Never know exactly where the story will go but it makes no never mind. Myth has a very wide pair of hips. For birthing.