What was, what is, and could've beens Part III

Mabelle the bass was now a permanent resident. She was comfortable in what was now Stan and Dumpling's cottage in town. There was no wedding, but, between them the commitment and consolidation of their goodness fit the sense of things. From their home they contributed 'rent' amounting to several thousands of dollars to the landowners. Such was the condition of economy, at least for the next little while. What was more important was the growth of Three Sisters gardening Stan Costa had established up and down the neighbor community entwining white picket fences with the songs of Corn, Bean and Squash. They-- the neighbors--only knew the tip of the iceberg, but, that was quite enough. Change was slow, and it was coming.

The Dream came mid-morning. Stan was back from the Fire Station Garden. He'd forgotten a part to the water metering gauge nearly installed. Dumpling was finishing a complicated design of stitches on a many times patched skirt. "You're back early," she said when Stan's tall shape and bright red Advice from a Lady Bug hat stepped through the front door.

"Forgot something," he said. Dumpling puckered for her kisses.
"Yes. You were still sleeping when I left this morning."
"Want some tea? Wild Forest Black is in the pot." Wendy's tea cozy of bright hand-spun wools sat in the middle of the table. When Stan reached for a mug and drew a chair, Dumpling set her handwork down, lifted the cozy and checked the pot. "I'll make some fresh. This has sat too long." Old tea never went to waste, this strong black tea was wonderful for cleaning the wooden floors of their cottage. A canning jar under the sink would keep this lot.

That was Hi'iaka's opening. Without physical form she waited for the kettle water to boil, Dumpling turned off the burner, opened two packets of Wild Forest Black sniffing the paper packet and let out a signature hum. A small vile of nectar of place poured from the goddess's palm. Before the two dears had finished their freshly poured tea they too were in dreamtime with arms and hands folded in the kindergarten position. It was Dumpling who recognized the smell of Dreamtime. She looked around for Spirit her Familiar and was rewarded. The small black cat purred loudly, and rubbed against the woman's leg. "You will like this," Spirit sent message directly to Dumpling's storytelling mind. "And, we have company in this dream. Your favorite man is just ... there! The big story is already in the telling. Pale the Border Witch is already here, you'll know her by her purple."

Spirit indicated with a sort of blinking with her cat green eyes. A purple feathered Bird perched on a flattened boulder. "There's room beside her, listen ..."

Cosmic islands existed in the stories of Wood Crafters for as long as wind was given air to breath. Spread across the skies the islands rode the winds in the southern hemisphere and in particular the Wood Crafters favored the air near the constellation of The Seven Sisters. 

 My father’s covey fished the waters of The Seven Sisters for generations and was valued for their lore of tidal richness and sacred prayers. Unlike my mother’s branch of Crafters Freeilll Noa of the Islands was bred to a tradition of listening and except for the unproductive nights of the moon … when fishing waited and utterances of mending and maintenance filled their breaths, his was a silent covey. The Crafters of the Islands could hear a fish rise from the still evening pond a constellation away. Fish were not caught for sport, only for life. Prayers were exchanged at the moment of capture. Death and life replaced the other and no death went uncelebrated as life grew from the loss.  The keenly tuned sense of hearing tended well in a world that was gentle of sounds; on star dust a language of modulation matched the sounding bones within the ear of Island Crafters. 

 Rarely did an Islander wander or be given need to travel to Woods where the song-tellers voices filled the skyways, and if such occasion arose there was always preparation for the assault. A lifetime of communication on star dust alone could be debilitating to a Novice who chanced upon Song or Story out loud. My father was no Novice when he heard the sound of his own name called across the archipelago on what felt to him like a tidal wave. It was an unusual time and a wave of volcanic proportion had been predicted by Honu the sea turtle with memories of time before silence. 

As my father sat on a stump he reserved for mending his nets and sharpening his bill, Honu surfaced in the shallows. “The day is malia for a day of rest. Unusual for the cycle would you say?” Honu conned his thoughts in my father’s direction. Freeilll had noticed the differences in the tides in recent cycles and nodded to Honu, “I have noticed this old friend. The winds are very gentle and seem almost to be asleep else where. Perhaps an anomaly … ought we be concerned?” The sea turtle had lived through many, many transformations in these cosmos and knew my father would not question if there were no need for concern. “Things are changing Freeilll, I notice how much warmer the oceans are for the season. Hatchings are early and the fry are small but have extremely large eyes and no protrusions for ears. I have felt the swell of a wave volcanic in size. Prepare the covey for the wave. Be ready for the calling. Listen for your name.”With that Honu dug into the sand with her flippers and turned to submerge her mountainous self into the deep.

http://www.vardofortwo.blogspot.com/2009/07/why-i-write-fairy-tales-when-real-is.html