Bump

It was possible to live in a town for years and not bump into a cronie. I've always loved the sound of that word. Old Crow. Old Crone. Cronie. Places change, and sometimes people change. To see a face over fifty or sixty years the contours shift, landscapes fall off, teeth too. But then this is the twenty-first century. Overheard while in line Pale listened to the local editor of all things advert, "Yeah, he's got one amazing practice. Up the island in Oiland. His computer zooms into the top of her tooth and a program designs a crown using graphic design. A perfect fit, and no fiddlin' around in her mouth." She held her tongue which wanted to say 'And, it'll only cost you $5,000 dollars or the promise of her first born grandchildren.'

Both the local editor and the local border witch were known to each other. He was one of the first people Pale had met back in those early days. He was beginning his climb to fame and Pale was still Joy Weed to most then. Over the top of her face mask Pale couldn't resist, "You are just one harbinger of news." Without skipping a beat the editor countered, "Who is that Masked Woman? Harbinger... I have never heard a masked woman say harbinger."

"Oh the mysteries and gold mine of words we masked women store!"

"Maybe I oughta get one of those." The editor was still quick on his feet, and facile with his tongue. These are old humans we're talking about here. But old and involved, the People keep on.

"The mask or the woman?" It was stretching the hedge of civility, Pale knew. But she left it with out waiting for an answer, chuckling behind the honeycomb filter. The editor was back to the teller adding up his checks. "How much did you get there?"

The skies were filled with the ash of First Growth Forests burning. It helped to wear the mask. "Just don't over do it. Even with the mask you're breathing in ash." It was Maha who kept her eye on Pale. "Peach leaf tea with ginger and Buckwheat honey. At least three cups every day." The errands into town were short and even then Pale was short of breath by the time she got back into the car.

Exhaling deeply, she thought just one more stop. A pleasure stop. One scone. The Pin didn't make scones but Molinas' did. It had been more than a week since she'd had one. The bakery and popular music spot had reopened after the sudden death of its owner Linda Molinas. Then the disappearance of her daughter. Tragedy strikes like lightening, sometimes no accounting for who and where it hits.

Something itched at Pale's left ear. A tug. A whisper. "Hmmm. Long time, Hi'iaka." It had been many years since this Ancestor had shown up. The old woman had stopped questioning timing, closed the car door behind her and started it up. "Come along you'll like this place, and perhaps you came for just this little ride. Being so comfortable at making new land."

Bump went the Goddess, nudging Pale in the rib. It was good to be in the passenger seat for a change.