Muddy water

"There are thousands of mo'o on O'ahu alone."

 - Lilikala Kame'elehiwa 
(Click on Likikala's name to view videos of her lecture on Mo'o)

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But who among the families in the Valley talked of them, remembering their names, recounting their talents? When Sophie returned to bury her mother, the stories so long buried or hidden with dust in dead-ends meant to dilute the truth. Might just as well remain so. 

"What good now, why dig up the past?" Her mother did her crying in the shower. Did she know the small girl knew how she hid in the water? 

The past now had full access to Sophie Lei Maku'e's memory. 

~*~

The truck started up without hesitation. Lei'ohu was propped up in the chair seat on the passenger side. From her rear position she asked, "Which beach, Tutu? Do you know which one?"

"Oh yeh. I know which one The Old Man loves. He will take your sister to the tides."

Kikepa sipped her hot cocoa, and watched the swift movement of clouds in the early morning. It was a very short drive, and before Sophie knew it her thoughts of the Valley had sped like the clouds. The steep hill leading to the water's edge left puddles from a very late night cloud burst. The Toyota King Cab entered the rain, and spread water like wings.

Jacob heard the words from the edge of the wharf, the chanting swelled through him, straightening his backbone stretching him to his full size. These were the offerings that came so infrequently. The Mo'o dove deeper into the muddy depths siphoning the rich waters for food to go with this unexpected company.

It was sadly too infrequent an occasion to hear the harmonics of a grandchild and her living ancestor here at the Muliwai. In his human form the Gatekeeper watched the comings and goings of artificial barrier-making. He could not prevent or interfere with will, but, his magic in his water form was different. Modern castles were erected along every foot of shore. Public Accesses were the exception to the desire for ownership and privacy. He sniffed and spewed mud and air from the deep center of the brackish lake, cleansing his system of lingering malevolence. Jacob swam closer.

The Scotsman had come. 

Only a handful of people knew The Old Man as The Scotsman. So little hair clustered The Old Man's head, and what was there was no longer the red of decades long gone. Any trace of the oldness in language was replaced with the sound of Southern Canada. But fire blazed in the tot's wind blowing locks. She was part of him no doubt, and the Native Fern had already planted seeds of Ancestry. The Mo'o drew the prayers into him, and swallowed.



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