“I wish to introduce myself. I’m Father Chong from Saint Agatha Lin’s church located downtown. I’m reaching out to the community, and would like to personally invite you and the others to attend our mass on Sundays.”
“Oh…” slipped off Haruto’s tongue before she caught herself, and tactfully responded, “I’m flattered you came all this way, but you see, I’m quite content with my path.”
“I do see, and your dedication is commendable, however, sometimes people are looking for…something else.”
Haruto was offended by his implication that her path was somehow inferior to his, but she chose to overlook it, saying, “I am familiar with Catholicism. I, like the others here, have studied many different religions and beliefs. It helps us to better understand those who come to us for spiritual guidance and healing, so I’m quite sure your religion is not for me.”
“Yes, I also am familiar with the Miko tradition,” countered Father Chong who, after glancing at her bulging stomach, mentioned, “but I wasn’t aware Mikos were allowed to marry.” His words were meant to demonstrate his knowledge of their traditions, not insult her.
Because Haruto believed the priest had inquired sincerely, she answered, “We are allowed to marry, but, if we do so, our status changes to that of priestess.”
“Oh…so you’re a priestess?”
“No, I’m not married.”
The priest was not sure how to respond.
To fill the awkward silence, Haruto said, “I have an upcoming appointment I need to prepare for. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Well, again, I welcome you, or any of the others here, to attend our mass, or visit, or call me personally if you have any questions regarding our faith.” He opened the cover to the Bible he carried. “If you change your mind, here’s our church address…” He pointed to the first interior page, then offered her the book. “Please take this. It’s my gift to you. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to return again, and perhaps catch you at a better time.”
Haruto graciously accepted the Bible. “Thank you.” She moved toward the entrance, encouraging him to walk beside her. As they passed by the table displaying the honey, she picked up a jar, handing it to him. “My gift to you.” This token offering allowed her to feel she had repaid Father Chong for the Bible, and thereby released herself from all obligations to meet with him again.
However, her action gave the priest a very different perception. He thought perhaps she was having a change of heart, and was pleased by the parting gift. “Thank you. Honey is one of my favorite treats.” He had touched on a topic they could both agree on.
She responded, “One of our Mikos loves taking care of the bees. And the taste is quite delicious, mostly because the pollen comes from our garden. There are roses and jasmine, cherry blossoms, lavender and honeysuckle.”
Father Chong salivated at the thought of eating the artisan honey later. “Nothing better than fine honey. Thank you, again, um…I don’t believe I got your name.”
“It’s Haruto.” She politely bowed.
Later that evening, dark storm clouds gathered in the sky. The wind howled through the trees, forcing the limbs to dance manically.
Haruto and Billy were having dinner inside the curator’s house. They sat at the small table next to the window whose handcrafted glass panes had been rippled by time. Candles lit the room.
She quietly chewed her food.
He wondered if she was still upset about their disagreement from earlier that morning. “Is something wrong?”
Haruto wiped her mouth. “I had a visitor today. A Catholic priest.”
A forlorn look came over Billy’s face. He set down his fork. “Really? What did he want?”
“To save me.” She stabbed at her food. “I know he meant well, but it was…umm…”
“Insulting?”
“Yes. Insulting.”
Billy solemnly said, “The white man came and killed our people, took our land, then took our children—beating them with one hand while holding a Bible in the other, trying to make them believe in his loving God. I have no taste for their medicine.”
“But he’s Japanese.”
Billy shrugged. “Same Bible.”
A gust of wind rattled the window. The candles on the table flickered.
Outside, the mounting storm tore leaves and twigs from their branches, hurling them through the air.
A barn owl crash-landed on the windowsill. Its golden-rufous breast thumped against the glass.
Haruto gasped, startled by the bird’s sudden appearance.
Unharmed, the owl righted itself, struggling to maintain its perch as the wind ruffled its plumage. The bird of prey focused its eyes on Haruto, who felt honored. Owls were considered bearers of good luck in Japan.
Billy did not have the same reaction. In his Native American culture, an owl was an omen of an impending death or tragedy. He felt a strong desire to stand between his lover and the night hunter’s line of sight, even as he knew he couldn’t save her from the harbinger’s premonition.
The downpour pelted the bird as it stared at Haruto through the rain-streaked window. Its strange unrelenting gaze caused an unexpected fear to arise within her.
Lightning ripped through the turbulent sky. Thunder exploded.
The barn owl screeched, then flew away, disappearing into the ominous darkness, leaving the man and woman with a sense of dread they couldn’t quite name.
Spider Webs
THE SUNSET GLOWED through the virgin forest surrounding the Bear Claw First Nation Reservation in Alberta, Canada. The tribe members lounged around a bonfire while the children entertained themselves by burning sticks. Some of the men stood outside the circle drinking beer and smoking cigarettes.
John, a spirited young man with long hair, carried an armload of logs to the fire. He shooed away the children before placing the wood on top of the burning embers. Sparks shot into the air. He used a stick to prod the logs until the flames grew bolder, dazzling the little ones who drew closer once more.
A boy, Hoki, stepped away from the blaze, going over to Tom Running Deer, a headstrong man in his mid-thirties who sat beside his equally headstrong wife, Cecile Two Feathers. The boy tugged on Tom’s t-shirt, which had the words “The Original Founding Fathers” printed above an illustration of four Native American chiefs.
The man set down his beer. “Yes?”
“Uncle, tell us a story,” Hoki requested, his big brown eyes hopeful.
Tom shook his head. “No, not me. Grandmother Hausis is the storyteller.”
An old woman stopped chatting with the woman beside her, and called out, “What!? Did I hear my name?”
Tom explained, talking louder than normal, “Grandmother! Hoki wants a story! Would you do it!?”
When the other children heard the request, they aptly followed the conversation. They loved to listen to the stories.
“What does he want to hear?” she asked.
Hoki pointed at the sky. “Tell me about those.”
Everyone gazed up at the hazy opalescent plane trails that marred the darkening sky, tinged with orange as the sun left for the day.
“Those things?” The old woman shook her head. She knew the tribe had no ancient stories of this modern-day phenomenon. “Nay, why don’t you do it, Tommy?”
Hoki and the other kids refocused their eager energy on to Tom.
Cecile patted her husband on the back, smiling. “Yeah, let’s hear it, big guy.”
He cleared his throat while racking his brain. “Ah…give me a minute.”
The children settled in the dirt in front of him.
Tom tried to remain optimistic for the young ones, but, deep inside, he was somber. He had done his best to ignore the plane trails all day long because their presence meant the Earth Sentinels’ agreement with the world’s governments had been violated, and that knowledge was too bitter of a pill to swallow after five years of good medicine.
The fire si
zzled and snapped. Everyone grew quiet, waiting for the story to begin.
Tom cleared his throat. “There are prophecies from another tribe that speak of the end of days. One says, ‘near the Time of Purification, there will be spider webs spun in the sky.’”
The children’s eyes grew big.
A girl pointed at the misty plane trails, asking with a slight lisp because her front baby teeth were missing, “But…how’d they get there?”
Tom was at a loss for words. He didn’t want to ruin the mood of the gathering by explaining, in the past, the government had sprayed chemicals into the atmosphere for unverified reasons. Geo-engineering, such as cloud seeding, was one possibility. He had also read the sprays might contain particles that reflect the sun to counteract global warming. However, because of the secrecy, he suspected something more sinister was afoot. Not wanting to disappoint them, he improvised, “Once upon a time, there was a giant spider that spun webs to keep the stars from floating away.”
His opening line captivated the children. Some of the adults chuckled because they knew he was crafting the tale from scratch.
“Whenever a strand was weak, the spider would climb up to fix it, keeping every star in place. And, because of her efforts, everything was good and balanced. But one night, the spider slept too long, and one of the strings broke, letting a star hurl through space.” Tom pretended to fling a star.
The children envisioned it flying away, lost in the cosmos.
“The hole needed to be filled, so the Giant Spider went after it, hoping to catch the star and bring it back.” Tom moved his fingers like a spider scurrying through space. “But while she was gone, another spider snuck in through the hole.
“Now this new spider was not like the other one. It thought only of itself, and weaved a web across the hole to keep the Giant Spider from returning. And that—” Tom pointed at the plane trails in the sky, “is the Sneaky Spider’s web.”
Hoki asked, “How will the Giant Spider get back?”
“When she returns with the missing star, its heat will burn up the Sneaky Spider and its sticky web. And after the star is in place, the world will become balanced once more.”
“Is the Giant Spider coming back soon?”
“I hope so.”
A steady downpour hit the roof of the shack where Tom and Cecile slept. The clock on the nightstand read 7:04 a.m. The dreamcatcher hanging on the wall above the bed served as the headboard. The sound of rain prodded Cecile awake. She immediately noticed the aches in her body and throbbing head. She wondered how a sickness could come on so quickly. She looked over at her husband. His face was flushed. Concerned, she touched his forehead with the back of her hand. Feverish.
Tom opened his bloodshot eyes.
Cecile gasped. “Tom! Your eyes—” She didn’t finish her sentence. A sudden urge to vomit came over her.
She tossed the covers off herself, rushing out of the bedroom, past the frayed green chair in the living room sitting under the rain-spattered window. By the time she made it to the bathroom threshold, she was lightheaded and forced to hold onto the doorframe to steady herself. What is wrong with me? She reached for the sink counter, making her way to the toilet. She sunk to her knees, placing her head over the bowl, throwing up.
Tom unsteadily entered the bathroom to check on her. “You okay?”
She shook her head.
“Me, neither. Damn, I feel—” He unexpectedly gagged. He motioned for Cecile to move out of the way. She sat back as Tom kneeled over the bowl, every muscle in his body contracting as he retched. Dizzy, he fell to the vinyl floor, lying face down and moaning.
“Tom!” She pulled on his shoulder, attempting to turn him over, but his moans echoed through her mind.
The room spun.
Cecile became disoriented.
Everything went black.
The makeshift infirmary in the tribe’s community center was divided in half by a waist-high barrier created out of blankets and sheets draped over chairs spaced evenly apart. The temporary wall offered a slice of privacy for the sick people lying on the floor. Men were on one side and women on the other of the unlit room. Most of them slept. A few moaned because of their aches and pain. All had blotches that resembled bruises covering their bodies.
Adeelah, a junior in the reservation’s high school, walked around the room to see who needed her assistance while holding a pitcher of water in one hand and a few empty mugs in the other. The girl looked much healthier than her older “patients”. The blotches on her skin were almost indiscernible.
She noticed Cecile was awake for the first time, and sidestepped the others to check on her. She kneeled beside Cecile, setting her pitcher down to check her forehead, saying, “You’re better, but you should drink something.” Adeelah poured water into a mug, holding it against the woman’s dry lips, telling her, “Just so you know, Tom’s here and he’s doing fine. He’s on the other side.”
Cecile pulled her mouth away from the mug. “Can I see him?” She tried to get up, but became woozy.
Adeelah helped her to lie back down. “You should rest. Okay? Don’t worry, you’ll both be fine.”
With her bloodshot eyes, Cecile examined Adeelah’s face, trying to detect if the temporary nurse was lying, but she found it too hard to focus. She was simply too tired and weak. Her eyelids drooped.
Adeelah set the half-empty mug next to the sick woman’s pillow. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she said, then walked away. There were others that needed her help.
Left alone, Cecile groggily noticed the teenagers were the only ones taking care of the others. She wondered, Where’s Grandmother Hausis? The elders? The children? But she didn’t have the strength to ask, and maybe didn’t want to know.
Cecile fell asleep, dreaming she was walking down a red road. The sides were lined with arching trees dotted with pink blossoms. Crows flew overhead. The fiery ball in the sky was touching the horizon. Each of her footsteps became heavier than the last, and just when she thought she couldn’t go any farther, a stag stepped out from behind the trees, standing in the middle of the road. The sunset silhouetted its strong form and magnificent set of antlers.
The totem animal had a message for her. “This will be your most difficult lesson, but you will find the strength, wisdom and courage to do that which must be done.”
The stag became waves of light, swirling around Cecile, joining with her spirit before the woman drifted deeper into her dreams.
The Amazon Bruja
THE AFTERNOON STORM had come and gone. Rain dripped off the tropical leaves. Puddles pooled throughout the lifeless village, one trickling inside a hut, making its way under the palm-leaf mats where Zachary, his infant son and four-year-old daughter, Eva, lay with their eyes closed, their bodies covered with black-and-blue blotches.
It had been two days since the virus first struck, and the little girl had fought hard against the disease, but her tender body just wasn’t strong enough to win the battle. Eva gasped for air. Her chest rattled. She released her last breath.
Eva’s spirit rose out of her body, but before leaving this place, she floated over to her father, reaching down to gently pat his cheek with her small ethereal hand. Goodbye, Daddy. At that moment, the hut disappeared from her sight, revealing the vibrant soul of the jungle outside the walls. Strands of light connected everything. Nature spirits hovered above their botanical hosts—joyful to be discovered by the little girl. Eva heard the angelic choir reverberating throughout the universe, its song carried on waves of golden light, pulsing through her, engulfing her in the divine connection that had been hidden from her physical senses only moments before.
The ethereal rainforest converged. Its trees and foliage spun together to create a living tunnel with animals and birds peering out from behind the leaves, all kindly regarding her. A bright light at the end beckoned Eva, but before she took her first step, her grandfather appeared in front of her, blocking her way.
Surro
unded by a golden aura, Pahtia told her, “It is not time yet, little one. You have much to do. Lie down and rest.”
A celestial butterfly settled on Eva’s hand. She admired its transcendental wings sparkling with colors she had never seen before. The world had become a magical place, prompting her to plead like she was trying to avoid bedtime, “I want to go with you, Papa.”
“With me?” The old man laughed gleefully. “But I am shapeshifting. Becoming a caiman. Look for me on the shore. Now go back. Go.”
The little girl pouted.
“Eva, one day, we will meet again. On this, you must trust me.”
Although Eva didn’t like her grandfather’s message, she obeyed him. Her spirit returned to the hut and entered her limp body. She took a deep breath, filling her vacant lungs. Her heart beat once more. Eva’s hazel eyes, the whites tinged with red, opened. She looked around. Gone were the beautiful colors and golden light. The pain that had previously haunted her frail frame returned.
Moments later, Eva’s distraught mother appeared in the doorway. The woman’s hair was disheveled, and her skin was covered with the telltale signs of the disease. Conchita had come from her dead father’s hut and weakly hobbled through the village where so many of her tribe members had also succumbed to the sickness. Cries of despair filled the air.
With her heart pounding, dreading what she might discover, Conchita examined the occupants of her own hut, relieved when Eva looked up at her and Zachary turned in his sleep. However, her son lay motionless. She hesitantly stepped across the dirt floor, reaching over her husband’s body to touch her baby’s blemished skin.
He was cold.
“No!” Conchita scooped up the dead infant, holding him tightly, overcome with grief.
Her sobs roused Zachary, who could barely open his eyes. With a raspy voice, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
Overcome with pain, she cried out, “You should have saved him!”
Earth Sentinels Collection Page 18
