Hungry Ghosts

By S. E. Grace

Neither fiction or non-fiction, yet both. Neither art or science, yet both. For every answer, there is a question.
"MacGregor-Ganj returned to the bothy to find Naois missing. She found Alki Macha, in Macha's study. The older woman nodded unsurprised, at hearing the news. She explained the circumstance to her foster daughter.
But its not safe out there- He comes and goes, as he pleases.
Mac walked away without a word."
sometimes i need a quiet scream sunshine streaming thru my locks sunshine streaming thru my dreads

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491865903

S. E. Grace

The author attended Fairhaven College with a concentration in Stories As Medicine. She is well read in the anthropology, archaeology and folklore of Ireland and the highlands and islands of Scotland. She is a student of Gàidhlig (Scottish Gaelic), as well as life - particularly as lived in the Salish Sea region.

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© 2014 S. E. Grace. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/17/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4918-6589-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-6590-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014902995

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Rhythms

Telling Time

Lalah Skookum

Faaji Wren

Earth Quaich

Idiom Savant

C.A.V.E. Painting

Going DEAP

Calling Thunder

Red

White

Theory in Chaos

Ghost in the Machine

Hungry Grass

Sirius Grounds

Blue

Epilogue: Particles & Waves

Author’s Biography

for Ricky,

my love,

my friend,

my fellow traveller

Rhythms.jpg

Rhythms

Mas i d’ àth-s’ i, bàth i; bàthadh mis’ i mas i m’ àth-s’ i.

¹Mac was always working on tongue twisters to improve her blàs.

Just as MacGregor-Ganj held open the door to the bothy and called out, the pack of unruly hounds streamed through, save one. Mac straddled the threshold and waited.

The lilt of morning birdsong rose along with the light. As the morning streamed over the lip of the world, the air all around took on a luscious salmon glow. Beautiful. However, the blatancy of dawn made Mac feel uncomfortable. Vulnerable. She might be seen. Mac closed the door.

Light streamed through the stained glass made of pantone swatches. The plaid pattern of a giant’s genome played up and down the stairs. Alki Macha was truly skilled at her art.

A sudden bang came at the door. Mac recognized the sound and opened up. As he came charging through, Naois pivoted rose up on his hind legs and planted his giant paws square on Mac’s shoulders.

Then, the ritual obligatory exchange of oblatory greetings followed. The great hound grunted and and dewed Mac’s face with his tongue, big, sloppy wet as a beaver’s tail just out of the river. Mac laughed, as she only laughed for Naois. She wrapped him in a big bear hug, which he allowed, as he only allowed from Mac.

Greetings and salivations!

Proper greetings exchanged Mac headed off to bed.

She arose at sunset. Like the amber essence of the fir rising from the root of the tree, Mac felt the sap rising up from the base of her spine. She went down to the cladach, the rocky shore.

Mac basked in the moment, in the fiery spectacle of the mountains’ snowy reaches rising up to embrace the last vestiges of the day. When they met the horizon exploded into purple and gold. Always the same. Always different.

For a still, glassy, slate gray moment, the world was between moments. Then, darkness, memory’s uninterrupted whisper, fell across the Salish Sea like a mantle. And Mac listened.

Telling%20Time.jpg

Telling Time

Alki Macha recited a portion of the story of Diedire and the Children of Uisne², as she had done every evening throughout the season.

Bha Deirdire agus a muime altruim a’ tàmh anns a’ bhothan am measg nam beann, gun fios, gun fàth aig duine beò mu ‘n dhéighinn no mu dhéighinn sian a thachair, gus an robh Deirdire ceithir-bliadhna—diag a dh’ aois… .³

MacGregor-Ganj could understood much more than she could say. Frustrating. She imagined the hills and the little bothy in which dwelled the child Deirdire and her foster mother safe and away from the world.

"Bha a boirionnach a bha na bun a’ toirt a h-uile fiosrachaidh agus eòlais do Dheirdire air an robh fos agus eòlas aice fhén. Cha robh fiar a’ fàs a friamh, no eun a’ seinn a coill, no reul a’ soillse