Kindle Edition
Download to your Nook (eBook)
Download from Smashwords (eBook)
Moa
Smashwords
CreateSpace
Category:
Young Adult/Teen
Publisher: Human Being Publishing
ISBN-10: 0984002014
Type: Fiction
Pages: 157
Copyright: October 5, 2011
ISBN-13: 9780984002016
Price: $6.99 (eBook)
A Young Adult Sci-Fi Fantasy Mystical Adventure Series (Book 1)
For almost 200 years, Moa, an ancient Hawaiian spirit, has tried to solve the mystery surrounding her parent's senseless murder and she's running out of time. She and her entire lineage will perish if they do not find human aid.
An energetic eighteen-year-old, Hillary Hause, has no idea that she holds the key to this centuries-old secret. With the help of her older sister, Molly and Heidi her seven-year-old niece, Hillary embarks on a journey determined to save herself, her family, Moa and the Hawaiian Islands. Will they all learn to accept themselves and their newly discovered spiritual gifts or cease to exist, never knowing Moa's truth?
Hillary Hause is not a witch. But, everyone in her conservative small town thinks so. When she is given a trip to Hawaii for graduation, this energetic eighteen-year-old anticipates adventure but gets more than she bargained for when Moa, an ancient Hawaiian spirit, pays her an unexpected visit.
With the help of her older sister, Molly and her seven-year-old niece, Heidi, Hillary embarks on a journey in which she not only saves herself, her family and Moa, but also the Hawaiian Islands. In the end, she learns to accept herself and her spiritual gifts warts and all.
Excerpt
Chapter I
The First Word
+
Ritual: Protection
Oil: Base of Almond Oil - Frankincense, Ginger, Juniper Berry Incense: Dried Sage
Incantation: “I am at ease.”
Find a place where you will not be interrupted. Light the sage and allow the smoke to drift into all the corners of the room. Place a small amount of oil on your finger and anoint your forehead, chest, and base of your spine. This will ground you during your incantation.
Close your eyes and imagine a ring of fire surrounding you. No one may cross without your permission. Picture a person, entity, or situation for which you desire protection. See them approaching you within your circle of fire. Notice the feelings that arise. Express those feelings in any way necessary: scream, howl, yell, or cry. Now, watch as the issue from which you desire protection attempts to enter the circle of fire. When they touch the fire, they are burned and can come no further. Watch as they try again and again, and finally, watch as they stop, move away, and depart.
You are safe! Breathe in the safety and peace of this moment and know that you are surrounded by protection.
+
Eighteen-year-old Hillary Hause’s left thumb searches frantically to turn on the “I’m Okay to Fly” hypnotherapy recording. Her nerves on edge, fuchsia fingernails press into the blue pleather armrests of her airplane seat.
“No spells can help you now,” she whispers to herself under her breath—then checks to see if anyone notices. Nope, they don’t.
The plane lifts through the early morning, gray fog of California, “June Gloom” giving way to the azure sky, and Hillary covers her curly brown head and retreats beneath the questionably clean plane blanket cranking the volume to drown out the drone of the engines.
“Outer shell close to breaking.” This time she doesn’t care if anyone hears.
I hover just beyond her “outer shell”—a movement in the periphery, a faintly familiar scent, a fond memory just beyond recognition, a non-human observer. Before the week is up, Hillary will save my life, as I will hers. But, for now, more about Hillary.
The drink cart rolls past the blanket, which has by now become a moist steamy cave. “Hey, freak. I hope your plane crashes.” The memory reverberates through her brain
despite her attempts to distract herself with the hypnotherapy recording. She increases the volume, but the ugly conversation, which occurred just before school ended, still haunts her mind.
“I guess the only people they check on those flights are the suspicious ones,” Krystal Sykes, a bully from her home room, leans in as Hillary hastens to grab books for her next class. Krystal, also a senior, has hounded Hillary since the first day of freshman year and this is the final day during the final hour at this tiny high school of 376 students —where everyone knows everyone else’s business.
“Look, Krystal.” Hillary turns her eyes toward the sneering blonde. “It’s the last day of school, we’ll never see each other again. Can you give it a rest?” These are the most words the two young women have exchanged in the entire four years of high school.
A look of shock replaces Krystal’s smug grin, “Oh, so now you talk.” She leans in, so close that her spray tan becomes a patchy Impressionist painting. Her pores are blotched with cakey, two shades too dark powder, her unblended cream eyeshadow creases across the center of her lid and her tropical breeze flavored breath threatens to strangle the words right out of Hillary. “I know all about your witchcraft practices and have made a few spells of my own. Trust me. You’ll never make it to your sister’s house in Hawaii.” Krystal’s backpack jingles and Hillary watches her spin around and skip down the hall.
Hillary is not a witch. She has, however, carefully crafted a “shell” to protect herself from bullies like Krystal—who, as far as Hillary can tell, is not a witch either. She has watched Krystal throughout elementary, middle and high school and has not been able to discern whether or not she practices witchcraft. No matter what Krystal’s background, her intent is to harm. And there is nothing worse than a spell with an aim to hurt. Hillary has had no choice but to remain in a constant state of defensiveness.
The twenty-minute recording ends and Hillary falls into a troubled sleep—feeling every bump and hearing every creak of the plane.
With about an hour left in the flight, Hillary awakens with a “turtle headache.” Hillary’s older sister Molly taught her this term which means a headache caused by sleeping too long underneath the covers of one’s bed.
Sadly, Molly lost her husband, Steve, last year in an unfortunate surfing accident. The throbbing pain in Hillary’s left temple could be the result of remaining submerged beneath an airplane blanket and wedged between the window and armrest, or it could be from worry about how Molly and her niece, Heidi, are dealing with their devastating loss.
Disoriented, Hillary pokes her head out just in time to glimpse puffy clouds and sparkling sea below. A flood of excitement and sheer wonder flows through Hillary in the form of a tingle from her head to her toes. And then, a lovely thought: “...And for an Everlasting Roof, The Gambrels of the Sky...” She will enjoy this plane ride, thanks in part to Emily Dickinson.
It is then, that Hillary sees the shirt. From a certain angle, head leaning against the window, she can see between the window seats all the way to the first row. The shirt is bright orange with purple and green stripes and quarter-sized smiley faces running down the sleeve. Suddenly, the smiley faces animate. One frowns, another’s mouth turns wavy. Mesmerized, Hillary watches as the stripes blink bright orange, purple and green. Then, she jumps as one smiley face stretches over the back of the arm, its dotted eyes growing large and an outlined tongue darts out of its mouth. Did that smiley face just stick its
tongue out at her? Covering her eyes with the blanket, Hillary slowly peeks one eye out of her self-made cover. Much to her relief, the shirt is no longer animated.
She needs some rest! Settling again, she tries to breathe deeply, imagining herself on a sunlit beach. But her attention is again drawn to the shirt. Who would wear such a shirt? And, more importantly, does it mean anything? Hillary cranes her neck over the seats, but cannot get up to go the bathroom because the plane’s “Fasten Seatbelt” sign is lit. The only clue to the wearer’s identity is his arm and his large hand with hairy knuckles. Maybe, she reasons, her temporary “experience” of seeing this animated shirt is a symptom of her tremendous fear of flying. Or, perhaps, this is a sign that she’ll be okay.
For the time being, she chooses to interpret her reaction to the shirt as a good omen. Perhaps Krystal’s misguided and potentially dangerous attempt at using witchcraft has failed. Also, her left elbow itches, another sign that good will prevail over evil...at least for today.
For the duration of the ride, Hillary occupies herself with figuring out who would wear such a ridiculously awesome shirt. Her fascination with anyone who dares to be different began during her first year in high school. Instead of buckling from social pressure, or changing into a homogenized clone, she chose to seek out other students who were relegated to the land of misfits. That land felt more like home to her than the fake smiles and fashion-obsessed antics of Krystal and her purposefully mean friends. Hillary found comfort in the sideways glances during lunch period or a knowing nod from a downtrodden classmate at her locker. They all stuck together even in their separateness. The land of misfits made her understand that being different doesn’t have to be painful all the time.
The pilot announces the flight’s end and Hillary turns her thoughts to the visit ahead. The gorgeous Hawaiian Islands are spread out like moss covered jewels in a magical, glittering sea. It isn’t until the plane lands that she realizes she didn’t have to use her hypnotherapy recording a second time.
When the gentleman with the unusual shirt rises to get his bags, there is nothing about him to distinguish him from a thousand other men. Medium build, stocky limbs and, well...that crazy shirt.
Then it happens again. The smiley face’s tongue juts out, little drawn dots of spittle spraying from its lined mouth. There is no mistaking the shirt’s animation this time. Hillary looks around to see if anyone else sees it too, but no one gives any indication that they’ve seen anything out of the ordinary. A second glance reveals the plain shirt, normal bright yellow happy faces in a smiley row. Hillary catches the man’s eye and gives him a friendly nod. He returns her courtesy with a sour look of distain. Not at all the look she imagined the garment’s owner would have had.
Perplexed at her mistaken interpretation of a “sign,”—she was sure that itchy elbow meant a friendly adventure was near—she is thrilled to be on solid ground. Hillary disembarks and immediately feels at peace. Although she is not a well-seasoned traveler—she has only been to Paris for a month during a student exchange—Hawaii is her favorite place to visit. And despite her distaste for flying, this place is absolute heaven—and therefore, worth the trip. Hillary has been visiting Honolulu since she was twelve years old, and even though her last visit was four years ago, the airport looks exactly like it did during her first visit.
There are thatch-roofed kiosks selling plastic tiki statues peppering the baggage claim area. Bored muumuu clad women read romance novels next to racks of deep brown kukui leis and stacked boxes containing cans of roasted macadamia nuts. She meanders past the long narrow row of shops carrying everything from travel-sized mouthwash to mini chocolate Buddhas—leaving her in a religious etiquette quandary: to eat an awakened one or admire it from afar. The antiquated airport even smells like a vacation—fresh sea air mixes with jet fuel, auto exhaust and body odor—a whiff of freedom in a paradoxical cultural clichéd time warp.
Ukulele music escorts Hillary to a nearby glass display case with the words, “The History of Hawaii” sewn on a beautiful, dingy quilt. In front of the sign are two green- haired troll dolls dressed in grass skirts and coconut bras. The dolls are surrounded by tourist booty—boxes of chocolate caramel turtles, cans of macadamia nuts coated in everything from chocolate to garlic, and flavored kona coffee.
There is no turnstile for baggage. Luggage is simply placed on the floor in lines reminiscent of a life-sized domino game. She identifies her borrowed blue suitcase and exits.
The moist mid-afternoon heat clings to her shirt as she pulls her bags to the curb and waits for her sister Molly. Flurries of luggage-laden travelers scoot in and out of the sliding doors. Her sister’s impeccably maintained tan four door SUV slips into an open space right in front of Hillary, and Molly hops out to help with the bags and give her younger sister a bear hug.
With much effort, the two heave Hillary’s large suitcase into the hatch. Hillary throws her carry on in the passenger’s seat, and scoots in the back seat next to her cherubic seven-year-old niece, Heidi.
“Welcome to Hawaii, Auntie Hillary!” Heidi is nestled in her booster seat and leans toward her for a kiss on the cheek and squeeze.
“Thanks, Heidi.” Hillary takes in her niece’s unusual and beautiful ensemble—bright green leggings and one of Molly’s purple, pink and yellow flowered silk wrap skirts fashioned into a unique child’s sarong. Heidi’s hair is pulled back into a high bun that is wrapped in a sequined snood, and Hillary’s heart is flooded with a rush of love. She hugs Heidi again, and asks, ”How is school?”
“Great! I’m going to be in second grade!” They hold hands for the rest of the ride. Hillary loves spending time with Heidi. The feeling is mutual. Hillary is only eleven years older than Heidi—almost the same age difference as she and Molly.
There is a surprising amount of traffic for noon on a weekday. Hillary gazes out the window then says absently, “How you doing, Mol?
Molly yawns, “We had a tough night last night.”
No doubt, both she and Heidi have had quite a few sleepless nights since they lost Steve. Hillary can only imagine how difficult it has been for them.
The car rounds the corner to her sister’s house, a gorgeous Victorian mansion. The front of the house has a portico of Corinthian columns through which is the entrance to the expansive ground floor. An enormous veranda filled with wicker rockers and love seats beckons to Hillary. As she walks in the front door, she imagines long ago times with men in linen suits and women in filmy dresses contentedly sipping iced tea. Steve’s family has owned this house for more than 100 years. His paternal great-great- grandfather was a diplomatic advisor to King Kamehameha III, the third king of Hawaii
who was famously known for the length of his reign: 29 years and 192 days—the longest in Hawaiian history—and his incredibly long name Keaweawe ́ula Kiwala ́o Kauikeaouli Kaleiopapa Kalani Waiakua Kalanikau Iokikilo Kiwala ́o i ke kapu Kamehameha.
Heidi links arms with Hillary and the two skip up the concrete steps to the lovely open porch. This type of house is coveted on the island for its large plot of land and gorgeous lanai.
Heidi runs ahead of Hillary, up the wide oak staircase and yells, “You’re staying up here, next to me, Aunt Hillary. Come on!”
If only she could bottle that energy! When Hillary finally reaches her cozy and bright room she keels over on the hand-sewn Hawaiian quilt. The decor, blue and green hues, creates a homey feel and is instantly comforting.
After a half hour rest, Hillary rises, and unpacks. Then, she changes into a long verdant patterned muumuu, smoothes on some coconut lip gloss—it makes her feel a part of the island—and peeks into Molly’s room. Both she and Heidi are sacked out on Molly’s four-poster mahogany bed. Hillary glides down into the enormous plantation kitchen. Steve’s surf shop had done especially well and he and Molly had splurged on a kitchen redo.
She runs her hand over the old butcher-block, which has been sanded and refinished, as have the cabinets. This, along with the new stainless steel appliances, gives the entire kitchen a fresh updated look.
Pictures of Steve and the family still hang in a breakfast nook flanked by windows. One picture catches Hillary’s eye. The family poses in front of Steve’s surfboard. A four- year-old Heidi holds his hand on one side and Molly leans in with her head on his shoulder. Below this picture is one of Heidi’s framed portraits of Steve. She’s written the words “I love you, daddy.” The warmth of this moment breaks Hillary’s heart.
As much as she tries to push it away, a memory seeps into Hillary’s brain. Steve’s funeral was on the beach. The nearly one hundred people in attendance took turns sharing memories of their beloved friend, son, uncle, husband and father. When it was Heidi’s

turn, she looked intensely into the group and said, “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
To break the sadness, Hillary steps out onto the lanai. Steve had told her that fifty
plus years ago, this estate was surrounded by a quiet neighborhood. Now, streets and sidewalks abut the home. People and cars move quickly to important destinations, punctuating frustrations with a honk or two. At the end of the block, Hillary sees a park. Her memory slips again, this time to her final encounter with Steve. Molly, Heidi, Hillary and Steve had walked to Thomas Square Park, and he played tour guide to the family as they meandered around this beautiful state treasure.
Without another thought, Hillary runs back into the kitchen, grabs her purse and scurries to the park. It feels as if Steve is on her heels, about to explain the extreme mystical power the park holds, including the enormous and mysterious banyan trees.
|
