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Category:
Science Fiction
Publisher: Human Being Publishing
ISBN-10: 0984002057
Type: Fiction
Pages: 198
Copyright: Aug 28, 2012
ISBN-13: 9780984002054
Price: $6.99 (eBook)
The second book in the Moa Book Series, "The Statue of Ku" follows Hillary and Moa as they jet to Egypt on the Prince’s private plane to reclaim Moa’s family heirloom, the inimitable statue of Ku. Their story intertwines with that of the real boy, Ku — his questions, his travails and, eventually, his triumph over his own fears.
A YA Sci Fi Fantasy Mystical Adventure Series (Book 2)
"Statue of Ku" follows Hillary and Moa as they jet to Egypt on the Prince's private plane to reclaim Moa's family heirloom, the inimitable statue of Ku. Once on the ground, however, they find that their search is less about retrieving a treasured family possession and more about tracing a healing path in their genetic lineage to its true beginning.
Their journey involves magic, sacrifice and discovering their unique healing gifts, which live within all of us. Their story intertwines with that of the real boy, Ku--his questions, his travails and, eventually, his triumph. In their continuing search for the Statue, Hillary and Moa find that the answer to every question they seek is where they least expect it and that healing gifts are not lost but merely forgotten.
Excerpt
Chapter I
Blank Slate
+
Ritual: Invocation of Ku Stone: Amethyst Blend: Gem Elixir
Create an altar outside. Use natural items when possible—a tree stump or a bed of moss makes an excellent altar, smooth stones to represent offerings to Ku. Spray gem elixir through ritual area and imagine it creating a protective light bubble around you and the altar. Before placing your stones on the altar, hold them in your palm and exhale your wishes and desires into each stone. Let each stone take on a specific wish or desire. Include as many as necessary. When finished, place offerings onto the altar.
Blessed Be.
+
“Where are we now? All I see are clouds!” Moa’s hands and face are pressed against the window of a luxurious private jet speeding toward Egypt. On one side of this ultra- sleek plane is an overstuffed banquette. Moa is seated on the opposite side in one of a long row of deep, plush, butter-soft leather captains’ chairs that swivel. The cabin’s fabric and wood colors are lush and verdant. Hand-hewn, richly stained wood lines the lower half of the plane’s interior, and the upper walls and ceiling are covered in a warm sand cloth the color of the pyramids or dunes at sunset.
“Fruit, miss?” A beautiful flight attendant with glossy, black hair knotted in a low bun leans above Moa with a gilded, hand-painted tray arrayed with luscious island fruits— mango, pineapple, star fruit, papaya, and guava.
Moa chases a wiggly piece of mango around on the tray until the attendant sets it down and offers help by using some tongs, which hang on the arm of the tray. Her smooth skin and curious dark-brown eyes and high cheekbones are accentuated as she smiles. Then she gracefully places four pieces of mango on a white china plate with gold edging.
“I still haven’t gotten over my recent transition to human form,” Moa explains loudly to the attendant over the jet engines.
The flight attendant pulls back with a wary look and moves quickly to the back of the plane toward a large, curving staircase which leads up to a well-appointed kitchen. In front of the staircase is a large, round mahogany conference table with flat-screen televisions visible above the windows on either side of the comfy leather seats.

Moa looks over at Hillary, her best friend. “Didn’t she understand what I meant?” She uses her fingers to capture the slippery mango then puts the entire dripping piece in her mouth.
Eighteen-year-old Hillary Hause is seated on the smooth, brown leather banquette opposite Moa’s seat. She sniffs as she digs through her large, green leather purse, looking for a tissue. In her search she unearths a variety of artifacts in its cavernous depths: a scuffed and worn diary, an opalescent stone found in Honolulu’s Thomas Square Park, a proprietary blend of essential oils and, finally, the elusive tissues. After blowing her nose, she opens the oil and anoints her forehead, chest, and wrists, tightly screws the cap back on, and throws the vial back in the purse. Then she chomps down on a tart slice of crisp, green apple she has plucked from the fruit tray.
“There aren’t a lot of people like you here on Earth, Moa. In fact, you’re the only person I know who was once an Ancient entity, lived on Earth for seven years in the mid- 1500s, became an Ancient Gatekeeper, and then rematerialized into human form.”
“Really? I thought there’d be at least one other.” She grins at Hillary.
Her seven-year-old body probably would throw the average human off. To look at Moa, you’d never know that she carries with her an ancient wisdom. One that, despite her transition to the human form, remains intact. Her smooth, straight, dark-brown hair hits the middle of her back and she wears a tan, kapa cloth dress, handwoven by her mother during her first time on Earth. She has no shoes. So far, she hasn’t needed them. She digs her toes into the soft, deep-pile, wool rug under her seat, pretending she is a Manx cat pawing at her pad. Mmmm. Comfy.
During her previous human state, Moa lived on the island of Honolulu, Hawaii with her mother, Lele—or as she called her, Maha — her father, Kapo, and two sisters, Amo and Re. A ship carrying strange men with long, dark beards and brown faces stormed the shores of their beautiful, peaceful village, first demanding food and drink, then grabbing anything of value from the family’s dwelling. Kapo stubbornly refused and was killed along with Lele, Amo, and Re. It happened so quickly, there was no time to cry. The marauders ransacked their house and stole a beautiful black coral carving of Ku, the god of prosperity and production. Lele had been given the carving as payment for her diligent work on a kapa for a wealthy chief. She was widely revered as an expert weaver for her creations of elaborate ceremonial, gorgeous, uniquely printed kapa bark cloths from the wauke bush.
Each morning the family had said a prayer to Ku, a delicate six-inch-tall statue inlaid with precious pink coral. Moa’s blood boiled, imagining her treasure in the filthy hands of such brutish men.
She had fled for her life into the brush and hid among the thorny gorse bush spines. Crying and weakened from grief and terror, she prayed the Huna prayer, asking for protection and salvation from her terrifying predicament. She began to breathe and to gather Mana—vital life energy—and send it to her highest self as she’d been taught to do by her Popo—grandmother—years before. The practice created a powerful bond with Popo, and when she passed—a mere month before the terrible invasion by the bearded men —Moa would feel Popo’s spirit around her during her daily practice. Oh, how she missed her! As she sat amidst thorns and breathed the Mana, something extraordinary occurred—Grandmother’s spirit came to her and lit up a small glowing hole in the earth, just large enough for Moa to enter. She did so in great haste and was enveloped in a
protective, warming white light.
Popo said that Moa had entered the world of the Ancients and was safe. However, to
continue to remain protected by the universal force, she had to agree to guide pre-selected humans through the portal to the Ancient world. Their own guides would meet them and take them to their destination of truth. Thus, she began her work as Gatekeeper for the Ancient Portal.
During her tenure as an Ancient Portal Gatekeeper, Moa had transitioned many souls from their bodies through the portal—generations, in fact. Her gift was to live between the worlds. And since her body did not die, but merely “transformed,” she had existed in a vibration accessible only to those humans who chose to believe in and acknowledge her presence.
Moa’s true home was in the Ancient world. She loved performing the essential duty of escorting souls from bodies to ensure their safe return to their destined spiritual repository. And her task was essential to the survival of the Hawaiian Islands because, although humans die, their souls must be transferred to the appropriate location. If not, and too many souls remain within the islands’ energetic constructs, the Earth’s energy will become unbalanced, causing natural disasters like volcanic eruptions and earthquakes. It is the human soul, which, upon transitioning to another state, balances and stabilizes the island energy.
The previous adventure with Hillary had culminated in a series of powerful events, which allowed Moa—with Hillary’s help, of course—to restore balance to the Hawaiian Islands. However, the cost for saving the Islands had resulted in Moa becoming human, a state to which she was still adjusting.
The sleek private jet shoots past fluffy cumulous clouds and on toward Egypt. Moa settles back into her seat, puts her cheek against the soft leather, and closes her eyes.
***
I marvel at the smoothness of the sky, the warm light emanating from within the aircraft as it gently bounces along the crisp pockets of air. I remain just outside, beyond the small window near Moa’s sweet face, where I savor the unique space between the outer world and Earth and prepare to approach the child.
It’s funny that our journey would begin at the same place as did Hillary’s and Moa’s. So high up in the air, close to the thin veils that divide the ether from the real world. My reasons for being drawn to this plane are clear: I must go home. However, I cannot do so without the help of humans—and not just any humans, but specific ones with high-level spiritual skills and a unique knowledge of themselves and humanity. I need Moa and Hillary, and believe me, I am not used to needing anyone or anything. But more about me later.
To understand why Moa’s and Hillary’s help is so important to my journey home, you must understand their journeys here on Earth, and what has brought them to the present. Just one week ago, after completing high school, Hillary jetted off to Hawaii— her hypnotherapy “I’m Okay to Fly” recording was the only thing keeping her from climbing the walls of the fuselage, but much to her surprise, she made it just fine. The visit to see her sister, Molly, and her niece, seven-year-old Heidi, was beyond expectation, too. Her post-graduation gift vacation turned into an incredible adventure
during which she and Moa met and became devoted friends.
Hillary expected to relax and enjoy her summer, lying on the beach and reconnecting with Molly and Heidi. Little did she know that she had agreed to help me save the Hawaiian Islands, which included battling Anuenue—pronounced Ah-Nooey-Nooey— who, although fully human, possess the remarkable gift of communicating with the Ancients. For all the incredible gifts the Anuenue possess, they are also formidable rivals.
Now that balance has been restored to the Ancient portal, and Moa is in human form, free to pursue her own desires, the first order of business is to find her mother’s Statue of Ku. Balance is a tricky word. In Moa’s case, balance included relinquishing her energetic body—and all the Ancient gifts that came with her energetic form—and to return to Earth to become fully mortal. Although all is not lost, she doesn’t know it yet, but she will discover the wondrous gifts she can potentially embody here on Earth.
Molly, whose husband had died in a surfing accident a little more than a year ago, was skeptical as she watched Hillary develop rituals and practice her own version of energetic protection. Molly’s motto was: “If I can’t see it or touch it, it doesn’t exist.” However, she got a firsthand experience at just how powerful Hillary’s work was when Moa showed up. Moa helped Molly understand there are some things that exist, even if we can’t see them. And when Moa willingly and joyfully made the choice to take human form, Molly asked Moa to live with her and Heidi.
Despite her youth, Heidi exhibited much intuition and bravery on the first leg of her journey with Moa, and since they share the deep sorrow of what it is like to lose a parent, they both feel lucky to have each other. Hillary experienced Heidi’s ability to connect with otherworldly entities when Heidi delivered her first message from Moa. During a trip to Thomas Square Park, Hillary swiped a shiny stone from the base of one of the parks’ many majestic banyan trees and slipped it into her purse. Heidi passed on the message that anything she removed from the Hawaiian Islands could cause her harm. Heidi even managed to deliver the news that one of the two boys who stole the artifacts from the Hawaiian Museum was indeed an Anuenue. A special pair of sunglasses had been surreptitiously delivered to Hillary by a thorny but helpful drugstore clerk and had proven to be invaluable at visually detecting Anuenue.
The rush of the plane’s engines lulls Moa into a calm, sleepy state and she nestles down into the soft seat. Just as she drifts off, she feels the flight attendant gently place a blanket over her body.
“Thank you,” she manages to mumble.
In her dream state, she stands in the brush near her island home and hears the familiar sound of her mother humming as she weaves. Lele doesn’t see Moa at first, but she calls to her mother, “Maha!” and a rush of love courses through Moa’s body as her mother, Lele, looks up and they run to embrace.
“My keiki.” Lele softly breathes into Moa’s hair, crystalline tears falling. “You must find the Statue of Ku.”
“I will.” Moa exhales a hiccup. “I miss you, Maha.”
“Listen carefully. You must activate the statue in order to save Ku’s soul.”
“But, Maha, what do you mean by ‘activate’? Also, he’s a god. I thought gods existed
at a higher frequency and therefore have moved beyond the soul level.” Moa attempts to
visually capture her mother’s essence by memorizing the curve of her arm and the lines around her mouth. Who knows when she will see her again?
“It’s true, however, that some gods were human at one time. Ku was one of them. When his physical life came to an end on Earth, his galactic family appealed to the Source Tribunal—the highest Light Collective in existence—to allow him to transcend to god status without his soul. The Source Tribunal allowed his status to continue on one condition: If his soul was not returned to his Earth connection—the statue—upon the death of his final blood descendant, he would relinquish his god status, and therefore Ku’s descendants’ life contracts would be deemed null and void. Anyone with a trace of Ku’s DNA will instantly perish. Because I am a descendant, I was given the task of locating the soul and placing it into the statue.”
“What does the ‘soul’ look like?” Moa says, exasperated and desperate with the task that her mother has laid out for her.
“I searched my entire Earth life for Ku’s soul, but the only clue I found is that it is said to sparkle like water, but is not of the sea. You must succeed at retrieving the Statue of Ku, dear one. If you fail, not only will Ku and his sole blood descendant perish, but Ku’s distant descendants—and we are among them—will cease to exist.”
A tear runs down Moa’s cheek and her mother squeezes her lovely child in tighter. Moa inhales Lele’s light, her memory, her spirit.
Lele holds Moa close but her energy begins to fade. Moa does her best to snuggle into the embrace, but feels the softness of her mother’s form dissolve around her trembling arms.
“You are such a clever child. I know you will succeed.” Moa’s hands can no longer feel Lele’s misty but energetic body. Her mother is now a filmy memory.
Up to this point, Moa had always thought she knew where her family was. They had gone into the Light. So she asks, “Maha, where are you? Where is everyone else?”
Lele’s last words before she completely disappears are, “Your sisters and father went into the Light, but I stayed behind to retrieve the statue. I am stuck in another dimensional universe—light years from here—and am here now because you are so close to retrieving the Statue of Ku. When you do so, you will free me and I will join the rest of our family in the Light.”
“Wait...Maha.” Moa calls after, but Lele is gone.
Moa awakens to the smooth white noise of the plane’s engines. The suede beneath her face is moist with tears, as are her cheeks and chin. She makes herself get up and walk around. The man called the Guardian dozes peacefully. Moa is finally able to get a good look at him and can find no trace of his gruff demeanor as he gently snores. His thick, black hair is carefully smoothed back with gel, his clean, brown skin shows only a few wrinkles around his eyes, and his mouth is relaxed.
This man is the Guardian of two teenaged boys who, although not related to Emel Shanheer, the blood descendant of King Tutankhamen, remain loyal to the king’s wishes. The young boys call themselves the Rindodala Sect, a group who consider themselves Egyptian Robin Hoods. They were arrested in Honolulu in connection with the thefts of three priceless museum pieces taken from the Honolulu Museum of Art. One of these pieces was Moa’s mother’s Statue of Ku. After accepting full responsibility for the thefts, the Guardian claimed diplomatic immunity for the teens, so Hawaiian officials had no
choice but to permit them to take the items back to Cairo. The Guardian and the teens insisted that the items were all part of the royal family’s collection.
Moa had dragged Hillary with her as she jumped into the Guardian’s limousine departing for the airport, and the Guardian agreed to allow her and Hillary to come along on the trip and stay and dine at the palace on one condition: Moa must prove that the Statue of Ku belonged to Moa’s mother. Otherwise, not only would Moa and Hillary owe a lot of money, they could be imprisoned for slander. If that wasn’t frustrating enough, the Guardian allowed the teens in his charge to leave on a separate aircraft, taking her mother’s statue with them! Moa’s plane is about two hours behind the teens’ aircraft, which carries the Statue of Ku, but she is determined to locate it despite the increased lag time.
Even though her telepathic gifts are gone, Moa understands intuitively that the Guardian is doing a job and that his protective nature and sharp exterior are not all there is to him. Still, his name and true intentions remain a mystery.
Hillary is asleep, snuggled on the banquette with her knees curled close to her body. She shifts her feet under her soft cotton blanket covering. Moa contemplates squeezing herself next to Hillary, but decides against it. Both of them have had very little sleep during the last week and she doesn’t have the heart to wake her friend. The flight attendant is reading, and judging by her wary response earlier in the flight, is not open to conversation.
Moa crawls back into her seat, faces the window, and wishes herself home— wherever that is. Her eyes again begin to leak tiny tears, which, because she is lying on one side, run across the bridge of her nose and down her right cheek.
“Would you like a treat?” Moa feels a hand on her shoulder and turns to see the Guardian warmly smiling down at her.
“Um, sure.” She sniffs and wipes the tears with the back of her hand as he gives her a beautiful, fabric-covered box. Inside is a shimmering marzipan scarab.
“Please, call me Paul.”
“Thank you, Paul.” Moa picks the greenish opalescent beetle up and holds it in the light. Its vermillion wings sparkle.
“Legend says that if one eats the scarab, luck and good fortune will surely come.” “The Statue of Ku is my mother’s,” she says quietly.
“I hope that is true.” Paul says solemnly, “Remember our deal?”
Moa nods, thinking of all the money she might owe—how could she possibly pay off
such a debt? Worse, what would the inside of an Egyptian jail cell be like? One last hiccup escapes from her tiny throat with a quiet sound. Eep.
“For now,” Paul says kindly, “eat the scarab. And may luck be on your side. Also, on your inside.” He lets out a huge, warm laugh.
Chapter II
Ku
+
Ritual: Heart of Ku
Stone: Rose Quartz Blend: Full Moon Elixir
The morning of the full moon, find a smooth, medium-sized stone and bathe it in sea salt and water. Dry it thoroughly, set it onto a patch of earth, and let it to sit for the day. As the full moon rises that same evening, place your hands on the stone—which is now filled with the beautifully grounding Earth energy, and ask to release all fears, worries, and blocks contained within your body, mind, and spirit into the stone. Feel the heaviness leave your body and allow it to be drawn into the stone. Now, ask to be filled with the grounding, centering energy of Ku.
Know that it is so. Blessed Be.
+
Hillary’s thoughts are filled with her sister, Molly. When she was six years old, Molly, sixteen, was in charge of teaching Hillary the proper way to do household chores. Molly would stand and watch as Hillary tried to carefully wash the dishes without chipping a plate. If Hillary so much as clinked a plate against the sink, Molly would wince, which set Hillary on edge. In Hillary’s opinion, Molly made everything a chore— did she prepare the water? Don’t use too much soap and God forbid if she slipped and dropped a glass into the soapy water. “Watch out” should be Molly’s middle name. After all, she and Moa had left Hawaii on a whim—something that Molly’s structured, concrete mind has a hard time embracing. Hillary smiles as she pictures Molly’s likely reaction. Moa and Hillary’s rash decision—Hillary is sure—has gotten under Molly’s skin. And for some reason there is something deliciously thrilling about getting under Molly’s skin.
As she and Moa sped toward the airport, Hillary attempted to explain the situation to her sister on her cell phone, but didn’t get far before Molly started in with a barrage of questions.
Always the self-appointed voice of reason, Molly was wildly unhappy about their departure. “You don’t have much money. Where will you stay? How will you eat? For heaven’s sake, she doesn’t even have shoes!”
“It’s okay, Mol.” Hillary tried to keep her tone even. “They’ve assured us that we will have a place to stay when we land.” Of course, she left out the fact that the Guardian’s

agreement is conditional, and that if Hillary and Moa fail they will owe the royal family the price of a round-trip private jet trip, lodging, meals, and whatever else comes their way.
Hillary knew Molly could not afford to come to Egypt, so when the call was cut off— by accident, of course—Hillary opted not to call back. For all her annoying, nitpicking ways, though, Molly had made several good points. Hillary and Moa had no money, no lodging, and, aside from getting on a plane to Egypt, no solid plan.
The plane jolts, then shudders as it hits the dry desert runway. A colorful flock of Safi Egyptian Swift pigeons scatter, and the jet taxis up to a large cinder-block private airport. Five armed, uniformed royal police wait in the dry, shimmering heat as plainly clothed servants wheel a gold-carpeted rolling staircase up to the plane and lock it in place.
“What’s happening?” Hillary asks quickly.
“Don’t worry.” The Guardian stretches and pulls a freshly laundered coat out of the back closet. “It’s just the royal police. They check identification upon entering our country. A simple driver’s license, birth certificate, or passport is sufficient for private visitors and guests of the royal family.”
Moa has no birth certificate!How could she have missed this incredibly obvious detail? Hillary nervously watches the Guardian as he busies himself with gathering his belongings. Grabbing her purse, she scoots into the seat beside her beloved and quirky travel companion.
The officers noiselessly board the plane. Four of them stand stiffly at the front, their AK45s hung by straps across their broad shoulders. A beautiful Monarch butterfly follows them in and flits around their heads before wending its way through the cabin, the kitchen, the cockpit, and eventually toward Hillary and Moa. None of the officers notice it, but Moa keeps her eyes fixed on the butterfly’s orange and black wings. It’s as if the creature is doing a thorough inspection of the vessel.
“I’ve got a driver’s license,” Hillary whispers intensely, “But, Moa, you don’t have any identification. No passport. Nothing at all!”
A particularly intense-looking officer approaches the Guardian.
“Don’t worry.” Moa leans back and smiles. “It’s under control. The Monarch butterfly means everything will be okay.”
“Moa, I don’t think you understand. People here on Earth don’t take kindly to people who skirt the system. Those guns are real!”
The Guardian and the officers noiselessly acknowledge each other officially by bowing and nodding. Then an unusually scruffy-looking officer turns his gaze toward Hillary and Moa. His black hair has been combed and gelled, but four unruly cowlicks send tufts of hair springing outward. His beard is carefully trimmed, but the color is patchy with splotches of red and gold within the black hair.
“How can someone who tries so hard to look neat and tidy look so messy?” Moa whispers and nudges Hillary in the ribs.
“Moa!” Hillary’s body stiffens as the unkempt officer approaches.
“Remember, you can see me but they can’t.” Moa gently pats Hillary’s arm and says confidently. “It’s okay.”
Hillary rolls her eyes, emits an exasperated sigh, and looks out the window.
The tallest of the officers pushes by the unkempt one, gives a wink to the flight attendant as he moves past, and addresses Hillary. “Identification please.”
His haughty air unnerves Hillary. Suddenly, this whim of a trip seems more ill– advised—with every second she must bear the officer’s unsettling focus. Her stomach tightens as she carefully digs through her messy, green, leather hobo bag to produce her driver’s license.
“Here you go.” Then she quickly adds, “I know...bad picture...”
Moa’s energy work is almost as natural as breathing. A thought becomes an intention, which makes it reality. She calmly invokes an energetic cloak—as she’s done thousands of times before—and smiles as the snarky officer hands Hillary’s license back. It’s so fun toying with mortals.
“And what have we here?” The snarling royal police officer adjusts his large gun and takes two steps in Moa’s direction. “Identification please.” He spits the “p.”
Moa remains motionless, then slowly turns her head to look behind her. Surely there is another person he is addressing.
The officer leans down toward Moa until his face is inches from hers, “I do not like to repeat myself.” The smile fades and is replaced by a gritty snarl.
“Hello, sir. There is no need to get upset. I merely was attempting to use a cloaking field which failed because I am now human.” Gulp.
Hillary jumps to Moa’s rescue. “After all,” she lets out a nervous laugh, “To err is human.”
“Yes, yes.” Moa gives a genuine smile. “And to forgive is divine.”
The officer’s visage morphs into a disinterested stare as he turns to the three men behind him. “Take them away.” He doesn’t even look back as he turns on his heel, steps down the aisle, and descends the stairs.
“But, the butterfly!” Moa looks incredulous as an officer wraps his thickly calloused hands around her slim bicep and lifts her out of her seat. “I was sure it meant we were safe.”
Hillary barely has time to sling her purse over her shoulder as another man handcuffs both her wrists in front of her body, “Moa. Sometimes a butterfly is just a butterfly.”
Now, on to my story...
***
In my family, healing abilities skip a generation, and since I was the last male born to my parents and none of my brothers was the lucky recipient of these ancient gifts, my parents held their breath after I was born. Would I carry this preternatural gene? Or would I be doomed to walk this Earth as a mere mortal?
When I was six months old, the village Shaman held a ritual that had been passed down for more generations than could be counted. He asked the gods to facilitate a demonstration of my healing abilities, in the form of healing the sick. The Shaman brought his prized pet lynx, which had been injured by a hyena protecting the Shaman when he was on walkabout. All in attendance held their breath to see if I would be worthy of being called “Healer.”
My father placed me in a ceremonial cradle made of woven green twigs and lined with soft grass. Then he sat close to the cradle, lest anything happen. One can never be too careful with a hurt animal, even if it was tame. The lynx had to be carried, by the Shaman, to a mat in the middle of the sacred circle. Its limp body shuddered with labored breathing and the Shaman removed a clump of healing ponoka leaves to reveal an infected wound on the suffering cat’s hind leg.
The Shaman incanted the ancient words to bring protection and miracles and silently
knelt beside his beloved lynx, which was immobile with pain. A hush fell as the group waited for the healing to occur, but instead the cat jerked forward, extending its front sinewy leg with claws shooting toward my tiny body. Quick as a flash, my father snatched me from harm and the Shaman leapt to retrieve the lynx by the neck.
The cat had sliced my soft baby flesh with his razor-like claws and the group let out an audible gasp as the wound sparkled with light and was instantly healed, leaving a scar bearing the mark of the cat’s claws—three parallel lines on my right hip. In the same instant, the lynx’s infection was cleared and the skin around its wound became pink and newly healed.
As the group cheered and clamored to catch a glimpse of their new star, the Shaman took me in his arms, held me up as in offering to the blazing noonday sun and declared, “Blessed Light. He is ‘the Healer.’”
My parents proudly joined my side as he proclaimed, “This child will forevermore be called ‘Ku Re,’ the divine luminous Light from within, and will bring wealth and healing to all he encounters. Subsequent generations will bear the mark of the chosen one. I anoint you the Prince of Light, Lord of Healing, Blessed god, Ku.”
I became simply, “Ku.”
At the time of my birth, the land around my people was changing rapidly. Our once verdant, lush forests were drying up. This lack of water caused desperation among animals as well as people. Our village was once known for its goat’s milk. People would walk for miles to buy a pail to nourish their family. However, as the climate changed and our village’s resources diminished, the people of our village focused on survival.
At a very young age, I used my healing abilities to restore health to people and animals. It seemed that, at least for a while, I brought hope back to the village. Before the age of five, I revived three goats, a male tribe elder, and a baby who had accidentally fallen, hit her head on a rock, and stopped breathing.
People began to show up and ask my parents for help, offering food and water in exchange for my healing touch. Not only were my gifts a source of pride with my family, they became a source of sustenance. My siblings were jealous and argued about why they had to work hard when I was perfectly capable of doing chores; however, my parents told them that I needed time to cultivate my gifts. Although I couldn’t change the plight of the continually changing climate, I could help my family stay alive.
Since my healing abilities had always been with me, accessing them came naturally. I would sit on a rock facing the morning sun as it rose over the purple and orange rock formations and breathe in the beautiful dawn. As I did so, I would close my eyes and meditate deeply. During these meditations, I would often go on “journeys,” during which I would meet all manner of guides and angels who would teach me more about my gifts. What joy my healing abilities brought me!
One particularly warm morning when I was seven years old, I hadn’t slept well, having dreamt that someone needed my help. I was wakened by the sound of a woman calling out. My investigation led me to the meditation rock but no one was there. I could have sworn I heard a woman’s voice calling, “Help me...”
I was at my normal meditation spot and it was dawn, so I decided to go through my morning ritual. As the sun began to light up the sky, I descended deeper and deeper into my meditation, and I found myself somewhere new—standing in front of a large stone temple with a pointed, tiered roof and carved statues on the outside. I’d never seen such a magnificent structure, and I decided to explore the interior.
Then I heard it again, a woman crying out, “I need help!”
Cautiously, I walked between two large columns and entered the cool, shady entry hall. Frescos covered the walls and I marveled at the intricately carved and painted staircase leading downward. Then I heard the voice again.
“Oh, please I need help.” It sounded like it was coming from the base of the stairs.
As I got to the bottom, my eyes adjusted to the dimly lit corridor in front of me. Torches flickered on a long, stone-paved and walled hallway. I could just make out a glowing light, which shone from underneath a door at the end of the corridor. No one said my name, no one told me, but I knew this was where I was supposed to go. When I got to the door, I heard a rustling and faint murmuring. A jolt of fear made me stop for just a moment. Did I really need to help this woman? I could easily end my meditation and allow her to find her own way through her troubles. But, as quickly as the fear came it departed, and I pushed the thick, heavy, ancient door open.
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