The old ones say don't spit in the eye of your talent

"Maybe the world is not ready for the wisdom or learning; so what? Can they write? Can they conceive characters. Maybe writing it out is all you need to thrive. Maybe one or two readers as witness is enough. People spend thousands of dollars to learn to write stories and build characters and you go on and on.. like that!! And then you breathe your 'telling voice' into these stories " Pale heard her old friend the Gypsy Woman in the middle of this current dream she was sharing, that old friend's recent pep talk needled at her. "The old ones say don't spit in the eye of your talent."

Age. Old. Enough.  The feel for the ha'ina --that last verse? Pale Wawae was pretty sure she was in the middle or tail end of her ha'ina. Here on this flattened stone somewhere in Dream Pale listened to a storyteller whose voice could easily be her own. It had a similar timbre and the pauses, were, timed with much practice. She would pause where the teller was pausing. Knowing she and her companions were guests Pale remained quiet. Her Purple Bird form made it easy, she was in the presence of other birds and she fit-in. Only then did she think to notice how her friends had arrived.

Perched beside her were a hen and a rooster. Not like any she'd seen in her chicken yards, they were in spite of their feathers, a hen and a cock colored like the foam on top of large mugs of latte. "What a sense of humor is going into this tale," thinking was all that was necessary to communicate. "Dumpling, you've brought your stitchery!"  Stan who came with a fan of glistening tail feathers tipped his head, caught Pale's eye and together the two of them exchanged the feeling of familiarity ... talents traveled the bridge between. Just what had his Dumpling woman sewn together? Stan Costa had brought his talent for languages intact. The man gleaned, and heard the lessons of genealogy and prophesy. Dumpling listened to the storytelling, but was intent on noticing the condition of the sky, and in particular the patterns of stars above them.

But it was the Swallows who recognized the three visitors. Swooping and dancing above them, their songs did not query so much as leave room for each to fill in the blanks. INTRODUCTION. Rather than words, Dumpling unknotted the patchworked skirt she'd been stitching it fluttered on its own accord. "Like a magic carpet?" Dumpling's first guess, surprised as any of them to see her needlework.

Again, the Swallows realized it less a carpet and more like the kihei the cape used in defending against the Mo'o in the epic journey.  "Ancient mythic journeys playing out and over again. Oh how the layers of kaona piled one upon the other," the tail feathers of the cock bounced from Stan the rooster man. He was putting the lyrical translation together in this most amazing Dream. Big Dream.

"I am Shelela, and the one who tells this story is my sister Shenia. We are of the family Wood Crafter. You appear to be of another place. Is it our not-yet that you bring? Are you our future?" She was very concise, there were no bushes to beat around. No doubt we were in her forest, and we were visitors. Hi'iaka watched invisible to the Dreamers, if there were fears or insecurity residual in the Border Witch it was now a time to step away from them.

Pale in Purple was seeing her legacy, she was meeting her People. She spoke up, "I am Pale. A relation from your distant future. We ... she extended her purple feathers to include the chicken and the rooster ... have come in search of a young Human. A girl with a predisposition akin to those your sister tells of. This girl, does not 'hear' as Human hears. Instead it is her internal ears that listen between species. She is most connected to the ones we call Kohola. Whales. Some where in our oceans she floats for a time, holding onto what was once her stability. What she hears is what we--me and perhaps all Humans-- have forgotten. She hears the songs of Kohola in tact. Whole. Distraction does not interfere with her channel.

One in a hundred million, a small community living on an island in the middle of the Salish Sea became privy to her mode of being. We were retuned. Our strings were lowered an octave. But now, this girl is between choices. Does she let go of her Human connection and return to her ocean depth?" Pale stopped, practicing the pregnant pause ....

"I hope she will consider another alternative." Pale finally added.

Shelela understood the predicament. "You must need our uncle Kaimalama. His story will offer one alternative."

"Pale," Shelela addressed the purple bird eye to eye. "Have you the magic? The pin?"

"Yes."

"With your permission," this time Shelela circled the hen. "Pale will need your cape. It is her blood, her magic and her courage that will open the puka such a small opening. Pale, do you remember how to open the lid to the pipipi once it is steamed?"

"I do." The memory of small-kid times at the Tide Pools, an old tin can filled with saltwater over an open fire filled with the small limpets.

"It is well you kept those memories sharp. Your mother will be very proud, and your Aunty well she always knew you could tell a good story!" Shelela circled tight above the trio and dropped three black shells from her wing tip. "Open the pipipi." With that the Swallow and the scene were gone.