The Earth Woman Tree Woman Quartet

By Connie Pwll Walck Tyler and Stewart Katie

The Earth Woman Tree Woman Quartet is a near future fantasy set in the mystical world of Ninas Twei  and the real world country of Uhs. In Ninas Twei all of Earth’s species dance and sing together to ensure the continuance of life on Earth -- all, that is, except Homo sapiens. Greed and the lust for power has barred them from the danc

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deep Hum Productions
• Release date: Feb 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9780997278590

Connie Pwll Walck Tyler

Connie Pwll Walck Tyler, activist, teacher, writer, composer, and mystic, received her most important education working in the civil rights and peace movements in the sixties. This has been enhanced by constant "continuing education" in various progressive movements. She taught public school for twenty-one years working with pre-school through high school children from every different background imaginable. Pwll has danced, sung, and played music for her own personal enjoyment since she was a small child. Now she does improvisational dancing, singing and story-telling for recreation and personal growth with InterPlay. She agrees with the poet Rumi when he says, ‎"Dancing is not just getting up painlessly, like a leaf blown on the wind; dancing is when you tear your heart out and rise out of your body to hang suspended between the worlds." She earned an MA/MDiv in Theology and the Arts from the Pacific School of Religion where she did her field education in homeless shelters. She also has a BA (Denison University) and MA (University of California, Berkeley) in English. Pwll has set many of the songs in the Earth Woman Tree Woman Quartet to music which can be heard at www.earthwomantreewoman.com. She also has a blog at www.deephum.com. You can find her at "Connie Pwll Walck Tyler" and "The Earth Woman Tree Woman Quartet" on Facebook, and "Connie Tyler" on Twitter. Tyler teaches piano and music composition in Berkeley, California where she lives with her husband, Kenneth; two dogs, Netzakh and Hode; and her cat, Magic; and feeds Little Z, a feral kitty who belongs to herself.

Book preview

JOURNEY TO NINAS TWEI

Invocation

The Tree and the Woman are One

Seas crashing

like thunder rolling,

like drums beating,

a call to the brethren,

a cry to the wary,

the time has come!

Earth woman,

tree woman,

sea woman,

stands revealed.

Windblown, proud she faces the sun!

Wind howling,

grass bending,

pines whipping,

bringing the night,

singing the night,

the Tree and the woman are one!

Prologue: The Hunters and the Cat

Dark of Hunter’s Moon

It was midnight when the hunters tramped out of the forest and down the driveway to the Bidewell house, sitting shadowed and silent in the lee of the hill. Hey, Amundsen, one of the men called out. How old’s your granddaughter?

Amundsen kept walking, silent and stony-faced, his old 30-30 swinging at his side.

The deputy answered for him. Nine. And the missing boy’s the same age.

"Old enough for the little beaner to get into some mischief," the man muttered.

Some of the men beside him nodded. At least one frowned, but didn’t say anything.

The young man walking at the front of the group stopped abruptly, causing a startled halt in the line. What’s that? he yelled pointing at something standing out near the edge of the cliff.

The group spread out around him peering at the tall dark thing – something tree-like, and yet not a tree – inky black against the moonless midnight sky. The deputy frowned. Weird.

Shaking his head, he turned, leading them across the meadow toward the strange tree thing.

A small gray cat slipped out from back of the dark house and followed them across the trampled grasses to where the object stood facing west over the ocean, watching as the men circled the tall wooden thing.

What is it? they muttered. A sculpture of something. A tree… Or a woman? I think it’s a woman!

Amundsen’s eyes narrowed as he glared at the tree woman.

(Seas crashing, the earth breathed in his ear,

like thunder rolling,

like drums beating,

a call to the brethren,

a cry to the wary,

the time has come!)

Evil. It’s evil, he muttered, pulling his gun up in front of his chest.

The men heard him, exchanging uneasy glances.

(Earth woman, the wind whispered to him,

tree woman,

sea woman…)

Dickerson noticed the little cat who sat, tail curled around his toes, head cocked to one side looking at them. Hey, look at the way that cat’s looking at us!

Ba-a-room!

A gun went off with a huge explosive noise and all the men jumped.

The cat leapt in the air as a bullet hit the ground next to it. It tore across the yard to the house as two more shots followed, managing to duck under the porch without being hit.

Amundsen lowered his gun.

Jees, muttered one of the hunters.

The deputy took a deep breath – Amundsen… – he shook his head. Amundsen, I don't think you needed to do that. It was just a cat.

(Yes, murmured the surf on the beach below,

Earth woman,

tree woman,

sea woman,

stands revealed.

The Tree and the woman are One.)

Chapter 1

Full Ripe Corn Moon

(Three moons earlier in the city of Bayomar on the west coast of the country called Uhs...)

Thump!

Startled, Giselle looked up from gathering the things on the seat beside her to see a small blue-gray cat peering at her from the hood of the car.

Where did you… She leaned over, pushing her hair back from her face as she tried to peer through the windshield at the cat.

The cat sat down facing her through the window, intense green eyes staring at her.

Giselle’s eyes were green, too. She’d gotten her black hair from her Chinese great-grandmother, but her skin, her eyes and her upbringing were all a kind of generic white.

The kitty wasn’t very old – not a baby, but not full grown either – and he had the same kind of impertinent stare as some of the teenagers she’d volunteered with a few years ago when she was in college.

He leaned down and licked a shoulder.

No collar. Was he abandoned? He was too in your face to be feral.

She gathered her things and opened the door quietly, trying not to startle the cat as she scrunched her legs out of the car seat, her arms full, her skirt twisting under her making it hard to stand.

One of her sandals fell off.

She rolled her eyes as she poked her bare toes back into the sandal (while trying to avoid stepping in an oil streak), stood up, and shook out her skirt. Her nose wrinkled as she took in the reek of accumulated exhaust fumes.

The cat was unfazed, moving to the edge of the hood and giving a demanding, Meow!

Turning in a circle she searched the dark, dank garage.

Her sister, Monica, wasn’t home yet, but Monica’s husband’s car was here so he’d already be up in their apartment. They owned the old building and lived on the top floor. The bottom floor was divided into two small one-bedroom apartments. Giselle rented one of them.

The cat jumped down next to her and flicked his tail. She headed towards the garage entrance, and the cat stepped along beside her. She laughed, shrugged her shoulders and kept on walking.

Once outside she took a deep breath of the cleaner air. Southwest winds. No fumes from the refineries today. The cat flicked his tail, and raised his eyes seeming to search for something.

An older man was leaning against the telephone pole on the other side of the garage entrance. The cat walked over to him, rubbing against his legs.

The man crouched down and caressed the cat.

Is this your cat? Giselle asked.

No, he smiled, his brown eyes glinting in his craggy black face. I think he’s yours, and straightening up, he walked away past the big tree on the corner before Giselle could comment.

A moment later Giselle and the cat were distracted by a shrill, Kee-ee-ar, as a large bird launched itself from the tree and spiraled up and up above them.

Kee-ee-ar. Kee-ee-ar, it cried before it gave one last circle and headed north.

The cat gave a satisfied meow, and turned back to Giselle.

Was that a hawk – a Red-tailed hawk? Giselle was incredulous. A hawk in the city?

She shrugged her shoulders and headed back down the sidewalk to the front entrance of her building.

As they passed the garbage bin, the cat stopped to sniff the belongings of the old woman who lived in the little cave created between the bin and the garage. If you stick around, you’ll meet her, she told the cat. That’s her home now. She was evicted from the public housing apartment she’d lived in for thirty years when the building was privatized, she added sadly. The woman had worked all her life but now she was living on the street – like so many others.

The cat looked up and gave a small mew.

Giselle nodded, and continued up the steps to the front door, the cat marching at her side.

A newspaper lay on the top step waiting to be picked up by the other downstairs tenant.

The cat stopped and looked at it, then up at her. Ten Story Garment Factory in Kanidu Collapses Killing Hundreds, screamed the headline.

Giselle sighed. Last week the explosion of the refinery in Port Blas had destroyed everything for blocks around it. A list of other major industrial accidents passed through her thoughts, and she shook her head.

The cat flicked his tail.

It almost seemed as if the cat…

Giselle laughed at herself. Of course not. She opened the door.

Head and tail high, the cat stepped past her into the tiny lobby – the Visiting Dignitary. Giselle rolled her eyes, laughing. The dogs whimpered on the other side of her door anticipating her arrival home. I don’t know what the dogs are going to think of you – or you of the dogs!

He just marched up to her door and sat while she fumbled with her keys.

What would the dogs do? Maybe she should pick him up. She put her things down on the floor and reached for him.

He side-stepped away and meowed loudly. The dogs abruptly stopped their whimpering, listening.

She opened the door a crack.

The cat stuck its nose in and pushed it wider, strolling in past the two sitting, tail thumping dogs, and the potted ferns that lined the entranceway.

Giselle shook her head grinning, Weird. She picked up her things and followed the cat in.

The dogs trailed the cat as he surveyed the apartment, sticking his nose into the ferns, batting the strands of spider plant that swept downward from hanging pots in the windows, peeking into the bedroom and tiny kitchen, and finally settling in for a wash on the old trunk Giselle used as a coffee table.

Giselle dumped her things on the old oak table in the dining alcove, greeted the dogs, kicked off her sandals, and settled too, sitting on the couch with her feet up on the trunk, next to the cat.

It wasn’t long before Monica knocked twice, and then used her key to walk into Giselle’s apartment. She was a trim, carefully dressed woman in her late twenties with the same straight dark hair as Giselle, but cut short in a no-nonsense style. A briefcase swung on a strap over her shoulder.

When she saw the cat sitting on the trunk giving himself a bath, she freaked. Where did that cat come from?

He was in the garage. Jumped on my car and followed me in. Giselle grinned, scratching the head of a dog. I think he’s decided he lives here.

You can’t keep that cat, Giselle. Monica leaned forward and her briefcase slipped off her shoulder. Giving an annoyed huff, she pushed it back. You don’t have to give a free ride to every stray animal that comes along.

She paused waiting for a response from Giselle who just shrugged. You can’t keep it, she repeated. Take it to the pound. I’m your landlord. I forbid it.

Giselle didn’t answer. It always seemed easier just to let her sister rave than to try to argue. The words, ‘You’re not the boss of me,’ popped into her head, just as they had when as children, after their mother died, Monica really was the boss. She smiled, thinking the childish phrase again. You’re not. You’re not the boss of me.

What are you laughing at? Monica’s voice hit a higher pitch. It’s not a laughing matter. You act like you’re living on a farm instead of an apartment in a city! You can hardly walk in here with all these stupid plants.

Giselle rolled her eyes. Then she remembered the newspaper. Monica. She sat up and looked at her sister, the smile gone. Did you see another garment factory collapsed in Kanidu?

Oh, for heaven’s sake, Giselle. You get too emotionally involved in these things. It’s a million miles away from here and there’s nothing you can do about it. She pointed at the cat. That cat is here. You need to do something about the cat instead of worrying about people on the other side of the world.

Giselle glared. She could feel the anger simmering in her chest. Deep breaths, she thought. Deep breaths. Well, maybe you need to think about whose clothes they’re making at slave wages and obviously really dangerous conditions.

Monica had the grace to look a little ashamed. I try to buy fair trade clothes. It’s just hard to find them. She looked away and muttered. I don’t like shopping at GoodButUsed.

Giselle smoothed down her GoodButUsed skirt and took another deep breath. Monica, I have to finish my summer school report cards. Rod’s home. I saw his car. Don’t you have report cards to finish, too?

Monica threw her arms up in the air, yelling, Get rid of that cat, as she left, slamming the door and heading upstairs to her lawyer husband.

Giselle leaned back on the couch again and looked at the little gray cat perched on the trunk in front of her. He flicked his tail, then curved it gently around a small wooden statue that sat in the place of honor on the trunk – a little Chinese carving of a woman who seemed to be emerging from a tree, with one foot stepping out into the world. It was one of the few possessions Giselle’s great-grandmother had brought with her from China when she came to this country as a very young GI bride. Giselle didn’t know anything about her, but she loved the little wooden woman.

Monica hated it.

Why? thought Giselle, for the hundredth time. Why does she hate it?

She took the statue in her hands. The wood was so warm and smooth, her face so serene and calming, and there was something so promising about the foot stepping out. She’d like to know more about her.

She smiled at the cat whose tail flicked slowly back and forth, back and forth...

The plants became a smoky green aura pushing everything else into the background and she closed her eyes listening sleepily to the swish and thump of the dog tails. That deep dark thinking space inside her head seemed to open out. It felt like something was there... touching her. Something beyond…

A fragment of a melody slipped through her thoughts and then a deep voice whispered in her head…

(Breath).

Breath? It was a voice, not a thought. A voice!

(Whispering breath.)

Her eyes popped open. Where did that come from? The cat licked a paw and then turned his head to look at her. She closed her eyes again. This time the voice was singing to the same fragment of melody.

(Breath, murmuring in the wind-whipped grasses.)

She peered at the cat. Is that coming from me or from you? He just flicked his tail, back and forth, back and forth…

(Flowing in the waves of the sea...)

She smiled. The song was familiar, but…

(Breath, singing through the voice of the wind.)

Then, spoken, not sung and with more urgency…

(Time. The time is now. Leave.)

Time for what? she thought.

(Time to leave.)

She sat up straight and stared at the cat, who suddenly showed great interest in a paper clip, batting it with a paw.

Giselle sat back again. Leave? she thought. Leave and go where?

(North,) whispered the voice.

North, Giselle exclaimed out loud. She laughed and shook her head. This is idiocy.

She hopped up. I have to finish my report cards.

Two more days and summer school would be over, then a month off before jumping back into the frenetic activity of the school year. She looked at the cat.

Leave? Go North? "Like that would be possible," she muttered as she turned toward the dining room table and the summer school grades.

But she did have a month off. Maybe she should take a vacation – by herself. Yes. A vacation without big sister hanging over her all the time! And she could go north, too. She could head north along the coast...

It was a ridiculous idea. She pulled her papers out of the basket and set to work.

That Friday evening, after the last day of summer school, the seventeen teachers at Rockland School and their spouses had a gathering at a seafood restaurant across the city next to the bay. The district summer classes had been consolidated at Rockland, the inner city school where Giselle taught – the first time Giselle and Monica had taught at the same site.

The dining room was a cozy dark place with a fire in a large fireplace on one side of the room to fight off the chill of the summer fog, a strange comfortable contrast to the serious talk of the destruction of public education and the use of rote learning to pass multiple choice tests.

Giselle sat and listened. They all seemed to agree about the problem of corporate owned schools and the teaching of rote answers to the tests, but when one teacher expressed distress at the disappearance of art and music in the schools, Giselle was amazed that some of the others disparaged their importance. One even suggested that artists and musicians were purveyors of drugs. From there the group moved into a strident discussion about the War on Drugs.

She sat forward in her seat. But…, she said several times trying to get a word in edgewise. Each time someone spoke right over top of her voice as if she didn’t exist.

Annoyed, she raised her voice. The War on Drugs isn’t really about drugs. It’s about racism – a counter to the Civil Rights movement. It’s really all about throwing people in jail – people of color. It brings in big money by privatizing the prisons. Actually, lots more money than the corporate schools. One Earth Together says…

But before she could finish, Monica interrupted, Don’t be silly, Giselle. Everyone knows One Earth Together is full of conspiracy theories.

They all turned away from her, and the conversation went on without her.

Her principal, Samuel, an older African American who was sitting next to her, patted her hand, but said nothing.

When she finished eating, Giselle left the table and moved over to a footstool next to the fire. One Earth Together was a good organization pulling together the concerns of many different organizations interested in social change. Their e-newsletter was one of the best sources of accurate information around and Monica knew it.

Monica often said things like that when they were in public – things that made her feel like a little kid, and then everyone else acted like she was a child. Monica’d done it all her life, or at least ever since their mother died. She couldn’t remember what Monica had been like before that.

She felt a familiar lump in her chest. It seemed funny that it never got easier. And then dad made it worse, saying over and over again that Monica had to take care of me, that I was like our mother – ‘imaginative’, ‘flighty’, ‘unable to cope with life’. It’s not true, she thought. It wasn’t true about Mom, either. Imaginative, yes. But there’s nothing wrong with being imaginative… Mom was powerful. And I… am I powerful? Am I?

She felt herself sinking into a dark red tunnel inside herself. The people around her – even her fellow teachers and her sister – seemed like robots, all movement on the outside and no thought on the inside, like she was the only one alive…

(Listen, the words sang through the red fog. Listen,

Breath, warmed by the life-giving sun,

Burn, burn within...)

Under the logs of the fire she watched a forest alive with dark crevices, bright grottoes, and wiggling creatures made of newspaper ash. A forest, inviting her to... she didn't know what. I’ll just get up and walk out the door, and leave them all behind. Maybe I’ll go ‘north’.

She grinned, shaking her head at her childish drama.

Suddenly Monica was leaning over her hissing, What are you doing over here humming to yourself? We’ve been calling you.

I didn’t hear you.

That’s because you were being weird again. Get up. We’re leaving.

Giselle rolled her eyes, but dutifully got up.

By the time she’d gathered her things and made her way out the door, most of the others were half way down the block to their cars. Samuel and his wife stood a little way down the sidewalk waiting for her.

As she turned to follow them a haunting voice – a beautiful, rich chanting voice – came from somewhere behind her. She turned around, searching the dark, nearly deserted sidewalk for the singer.

In a pool of light on the next corner she saw a shadowy figure.

She moved closer, listening, mesmerized by the minor soaring tones. Not English. Maybe not even words.

A tall black woman dressed in swirling colorful skirts and shawls stood looking out toward the sea, her arms reaching to the sky, her head thrown back as she sang.

As Giselle moved quietly toward the corner, the woman turned and looked directly at her. She was beautiful, with flowing dreadlocks and eyes almost too large for her mahogany face.

You will become, she sang, her voice rich and deep.

Like the moon and the stars and the sun,

You will become.

You will emerge,

Step out into the world.

You will go.

You will learn.

You will return.

She slowly nodded her head at Giselle.

You will return.

Then, lifting her face to the stars, spun away and returned to her chant.

Monica grabbed Giselle’s arm. What’s wrong with you, Giselle? Come on. Giselle shook Monica’s hand away and reluctantly followed Monica’s fast clip, clipping down the street.

Samuel and his wife stepped in beside her and Samuel asked, What did she say to you?

Giselle just shook her head. I don’t know. Her voice was so beautiful. They nodded and hugged goodbye before crossing the street to their car. Giselle moved a little faster toward Monica’s car, smiling a quick good evening to a homeless man sitting on the curb as she passed him. Monica, waiting impatiently, rolled her eyes.

Giselle spent Saturday trying to bring order to the chaos in her apartment after the daily rush of summer school. At the top of her closet she saw the little bit of camping equipment she had bought for a trip with Rod and Monica the summer before – a sleeping bag, a small, one person tent, a little solar stove. Maybe she could go camping.

The cat sat on up on her bed and looked at her.

Monica thinks I’m weird, she told the cat. You know what I don’t understand? I don’t understand why Monica and the others weren’t entranced by that woman’s singing.

She stood still for a moment thinking of the haunting, wild notes of the woman’s song. And what did she mean, I would ‘become,’ I would ‘emerge…’ I would ‘go,’ but I would ‘return?’ What did she mean?

She looked back at the cat, who blinked at her. You know, if anyone around here is weird, it’s you. She pulled the camping equipment down and stacked it on the bed. No chip, no collar. Where did you come from? What do you want?

In her head she heard, not the woman’s chant, but that earlier little haunting melody.

(Breath, flowing in the waves of the sea…)

Saturday night folk dancing at the little local park had always felt like a kind of ritual to Giselle – a communion – although she’d certainly never said anything about that to Monica, who couldn’t understand why Giselle would want to folk dance at all. Monica’s big fear was that Giselle would hook up with one of those strange folk-dancing men.

This Saturday night the dancing seemed more than just that feeling of fullness and connection. It was more intense, as if she was entering into some new ritual. The people who lived in the park sat at the edges of the grassy circle watching, their grocery carts filled with their belongings behind them, clapping to the music and sometimes joining the dancers.

The setting sun spread silky pastels over their heads and the small band playing folk instruments began the haunting music of one of her favorite dances.

The dance was a slow, rhythmic circling, each dancer moving with the same steps, but not touching, separate from each other, followed by a unison clapping. Tonight every one clapped together. No one missed a beat. They joined hands briefly, thrusting their hands up and stepping together into the center.

Something electric ran around the circle.

Letting go, they lifted their arms again in a burst to the sky that threw them back to the beginning.

There was a high pitched cry above them and Giselle looked up. A Red-tailed hawk (like the one I saw before, Giselle thought) circled overhead as if he were a part of the dance, spiraling downward as the dancers circled again, moving as one, but not touching until the unison clap like a drum beat that called them together, joining them as they reached upwards to the fiery sky and the hawk.

The dance music retreated and the strange familiar song whispered to her again:

(Breath, singing through the voice of the wind,

Dance with me. Dance with me…)

The dance moved on, leaving Giselle rooted in the middle, her eyes on the hawk gliding above her. He swooped down close enough for her to see his eyes peering into her own.

(Go north,) she heard, and the whisper was like thunder in her heart.

Light headed, she crouched, touching the earth. Her fingers tingled and she felt something flowing, filling her. Her own voice drummed thunder in her head: (Go north, it shouted. Go north.)

I will, she cried, leaping back into the dance.

When she got home she loaded the camping equipment into the trunk of the car, along with all the dog and cat food in the apartment, a cardboard box full of food, and a duffle bag full of clothes and toiletries.

She wrote a note to put in Monica’s mailbox just before she left:

Monica,

I’m going camping. I’ve got the dogs and the cat, and I haven’t left any perishables in the refrigerator. I gave the plants a good watering so they should be fine for a week or so, so you don’t have to worry about anything. I have my cell phone. If there are any emergencies just leave me a message.

Love,

Giselle

Sleep didn’t come easily. She was both excited and terrified about going off somewhere on her own. Monica would be really angry. But I don’t care, she thought. Time to grow up!

In the morning she slipped out of the apartment building into that quiet that always marked an early Sunday morning in the city. As she walked past the garbage bin, she saw the old woman tucked into the little space between the bin and the wall of the garage, fast asleep. She smiled and slipped ten dollars under the edge of the quilt Monica had given the old lady in December. Monica wasn’t all bad. She let the woman stay, and she gave her money and food. No, Monica wasn’t bad – just too controlling.

She laughed. Monica was a helicopter sister!

Heading north on the freeway, past the columns of gray smoke hovering over the bleak neighborhoods surrounding the oil refineries and the stark square buildings of the maximum security prison surrounded by fencing topped with spirals of razor wire, she finally reached the exit for the coastal highway. She breathed a sigh of relief at leaving the freeway and began to relax.

The coast road was beautiful, but dangerous if taken at too high a speed. Giselle loved slowing down, then accelerating slightly into the curves, feeling the tires grip the road. It felt like she was an extension of the car, like she could feel the road through the steering wheel, through the seat of her pants like a very slow race car driver.

The cat rode behind Giselle’s neck between the top of the seat and the headrest, purring, the vibrations massaging her shoulders. She felt she was breathing in the coastal cliffs, the beaches, the occasional small towns with tiny harbors full of fishing boats, and breathing out all the distresses of the school year, of her life, of her problems with Monica. And maybe of the world, she thought. This frightening world we’re living in.

She shook her head. Hard to escape the world.

Monica did call her cell as soon as she found the note, but Giselle didn’t answer. Let her leave messages. I’ll call her back later. After all, I’m not supposed to talk on the phone while driving, she grinned.

She stopped often, exploring the beaches and hiking trails along the way, and loving every moment, except when occasionally she saw a sign:

No entrance.

Beach eroded.

Once someone had added, Rising seas – climate change! in red spray paint.

The first two times she stopped, she saw a hawk circling above her – a Red-tailed hawk like the one she’d seen while folk dancing. When she saw a hawk the third time she stopped, she wondered if it could possibly be the same one.

Once, as the hawk flew down closer, she looked at the little cat and saw he was watching it, too, and then the melody came whispering into her head:

(Breath, flowing in the waves of the sea,

Dance with me…)

She smiled. Yes, let’s dance!

In the early evening she pulled into a state beachside park, setting up her little tent in one of the numbered campsites. She called Monica back, but was vague about where she was and got off the phone quickly, after reassuring Monica that she was just fine, and yes, she was alone, not with some strange man. But if I was with some man Monica didn’t know, it would be my own business, she thought as she tucked the phone away.

A strident "Kee-eeeee-arr" pierced the air. Again, a Red-tailed hawk soared above her head, circled and flew away – north.

The next two days followed the same pattern. The mornings were chill and a good time to explore the park trails with the dogs – some winding between tall coastal redwoods, others crossing open grassy meadows – before setting off again up the coast. The cat always ran alongside the dogs for a bit before demanding to be carried balanced precariously on Giselle’s shoulder. They were on the road again by ten or eleven in the morning.

Once they were caught in stop-and-go traffic passing an ugly logging camp – a muddy mess of wide redwood stumps and huge logging trucks pulling out into the road. She felt an ache in her chest – a deep vibration wailing through her body.

"The trees crying," she whispered to the animals.

But most of the trip was lovely. She did note how low the water was in the rivers they crossed, deep cracked mud showing between the high-water line and the slow muddy flow. The meadow grasses were usually yellow in the summer, but now they looked almost white and dried up. I haven’t been out in the country to see how bad the drought is, she thought.

They stopped and explored several times each day. Each time they stopped, a hawk circled and called above them, and the elusive melody whispered in her head.

Last Quarter, Ripe Corn Moon

On the third day the road moved inland a little, meandering through a forested area and past some small steep hills separating the road from the ocean. About noon she came around the curve of a hill to see a meadow that swept down toward the sea. She pulled over to a wide spot on the verge on the left side of the road, and sat with her window open gazing at the water while she ate crackers and cheese. She smiled as she noticed a hawk circling over the meadow. She turned to the dogs, There’s our hawk.

Suddenly the cat hopped from where he had been lying behind her neck to the edge of the window and then out into the meadow. Giselle dropped her crackers and jumped out of the car to rush after him. The dogs leapt out the open door after her and they pushed through the tough yellow grasses afraid they’d never find him again as he led them on a stumbling run down toward the sea. He swerved to the left around the ocean side of the wooded hill they’d just driven past and straight to a little gray weathered house, hidden from the road by the hill. Jumping up on the porch, he turned and sat looking at her, giving his fur a little lick.

Giselle stopped and leaned over, hands on knees, panting while the dogs danced around the house in delight. The cat scrubbed a paw. Walking slowly up to the house, she scooped him up and nervously backed away afraid someone might come out the door and demand to know what she was doing there.

She turned.

Directly in front of her next to a driveway that swerved north through the meadow and then curved toward the road, was a sign on a wooden post:

For Sale or Rent

She turned back to look at the little house. It was sturdy and pretty with a porch running around at least two sides so that it sheltered the front door and the side of the house facing the ocean. Climbing up on the porch, she peeked in the windows at the neat little front room.

On the ocean side a bank of windows looked in on a long bright kitchen with a stove and refrigerator, lots of counters and cupboards. The porch continued around to the back where a door, with a small swinging flap for pets at its base, led out of the kitchen and down some steps.

Spinning in a circle looking at the land and sea around her, she breathed deeply.

The air smelled so clean!

The meadow continued on the other side of the driveway down to a cliff overhanging a small beach. To the south, it narrowed as the hill moved out toward the sea. Here, just a little south and west of the house, was a huge coastal live oak tree spreading its gnarled branches wide and tall over the grasses.

(Waves of things of forms I am,) it murmured.

Her eyes widened. Turning quickly away from the tree, she walked to the edge of the meadow to look down at the little beach and the sea.

The tree’s presence behind her felt like something warm on her back. Not a bad feeling. Just scary, like when you meet someone you know is going to be important to you. She looked back at it.

(Waves of things of forms I am,

Exist in dreams within me…)

She looked down at the cat. He wiggled out of her arms, jumping to the ground, and then turned to wind between her legs.

Shaking her head she turned back to the house, keeping the tree a shadow in her peripheral vision.

(Waves of things…,) it whispered.

The dogs ran delighted circles around them, darting at intervals out into the meadow.

(Of forms I am…)

She shook her head again as if to shake the song out of her thoughts and took a deep breath. The cat stood a moment on his hind feet leaning his front paws against her leg and she reached down to pet him.

Could I rent this house? Could I stay here? Monica’d be upset if I moved away from her, but it’d be a good thing for both of us.

The thought wasn’t a new one. I do love Monica, she whispered. I do, but…

She’d have to have a job. She had some money she could use for a deposit, but she’d have to have a job.

She moved slowly back toward the house, thinking. The smaller print on the For Rent sign read:

Country Acres Real Estate

1322 Main Street, Arundel

She scooped up the cat, called the dogs and walked up the driveway to the road and then turned toward the car. Jee-sus, she muttered, I left the car door open, the keys in the car.

Putting the car in drive, she drove silently just a little farther north.

The road turned inland and crossed a river before heading into the small coastal farming community of Arundel. The highway took her through the middle of town past a row of stores, the real estate office, an older gas station, and a little farther along, a small elementary school.

She turned around and headed back to the school, pulling into a parking place under some trees shadowing the parking lot. There was one other car in the lot.

She wasn’t exactly dressed in job interview clothes, but she was clean.

This will be the test. If there’s a job, then I’ll move.

Rolling the windows down so they could get out if they wanted, she told the animals to stay near the car.

The school was built along the same model as so many rural schools – two long buildings of back to back classrooms with doors to each room coming directly off the sidewalk, joined by a slightly taller building Giselle assumed was the multipurpose room – the cafeteria, gym, assembly room all in one. At the end of the first building was a door marked Office. The door was unlocked.

No one was sitting at the two desks behind the long high counter, but a door behind them was open. A friendly middle-aged white woman with short gray hair, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, came through the door introducing herself as Nicki Nichols, the principal, and asking Giselle if she could be of help.

Giselle smiled and explained her situation, including having two dogs and a cat out by her car.

I do have an opening, she exclaimed. One of my fourth-grade teachers quit just yesterday. Let’s talk outside at the picnic tables. You’ll have to tell me how you came to be job searching with dogs and a cat – a cat? – in your car.

She held the door for Giselle and pointed out the tables near the cafeteria. Giselle got the animals and joined her.

Nicki petted the wiggling dogs and the gray cat.

A cat? she repeated, laughing.

The cat just came… I mean, he stays pretty close. Giselle stumbled a little over her words. This is a sudden decision. I mean applying for this job, but I think it’s a good one.

She looked hopefully at Ms. Nichols. I was traveling up the coast camping. I saw this house for rent just outside of town and it… I just thought...

She took a deep breath. I love teaching. I don’t want to stop. I just want to be here.

Giselle listed her educational background and gave her Samuel’s name and phone number.

Ms. Nichols told her about the community. The school serves Arundel and the outlying farms with two classrooms at each grade level. The older children travel to Robertsville for middle school and high school. Arundel’s a nice little town with a few stores and in Robertsville there’s a shopping mall with all the modern conveniences.

She leaned back and smiled. Are you interested?

Giselle nodded. She wouldn’t have to stay here forever if it didn’t work out. Besides it just felt like…

The cat jumped into her lap and looked up at her.

See, laughed Ms. Nichols, the cat wants you to take the job!

More than you know, thought Giselle, looking intently at the cat. Otherwise I’d still hear Go north!

She nodded. Yes, I want to apply.

They returned to the office and Giselle filled out the forms and made arrangements for transcripts and her credential to be sent. Ms. Nichols would call Samuel for a recommendation.

The principal walked her to the office door. We should know the answer in a day or two, since I’ve already interviewed you.

She gave Giselle a searching look. It’s very odd you showing up like this just when we need you… but good, she smiled. It’s good.

Giselle laughed and shrugged.

As she headed back into town she shook her head. It was like the job was just waiting, she told the dogs. So strange...

She just shook her head again.

The real estate office was in a little white house next to the row of stores. The owner, Mr. Humphries, was a jovial older man. I’d be delighted to show you the Bidewell house, he exclaimed when she told him what she wanted.

As they drove out to the house in her car (because of the animals) he told her more about it. It’s a wonderful little house, lovely views. Comes with a little land – a little meadow and beach. Very nice.

Before they went inside he handed her a sheet of paper with a picture of the house, a description of its physical qualifications, and the very reasonable rent and sale price.

The rent seems pretty low, Giselle pointed out. Is there something wrong with the house?

Oh, no, nothing wrong, he reassured her. "It’s just been on the market a long time. It’s a little isolated for most folks. The old folks kept it up very nicely. The wife – the husband passed – the wife pays someone to come in every so often to clean and check things out.

And you don’t have to worry about the rising seas, he added. The cliff is high and the house is set pretty far back from the edge if the cliff does erode.

Giselle hadn’t thought about rising seas. A little shiver went down her spine and she sighed.

If we were a little farther south, Mr. Humphries went on. You know, closer to the city – it would have sold in a snap.

What about local people?

Oh, well, they mostly have their own places, and..., he hesitated.

What? asked Giselle. And what?

He laughed. Well, local people don't want to live there because of the rumors about some of the hilltops over there. He pointed toward the hill back of the house. People have a funny thing about the hills – the forest and the hills. Ghosts or something. They never define it, just hint at it. Things whispering in the redwood trees, or something. It’s ridiculous of course. No one has ever said anything about the house, though. No ghosts in the house.

Singing, maybe? thought Giselle. Are they hearing songs, too?

The house was delightful. Everything seemed well and lovingly cared for. It was small – just the living room and kitchen downstairs, a bath and two bedrooms upstairs.

The view from the oceanside bedroom windows was a spectacular panorama from the meadow to the north to the hillside reaching for the cliff to the south where she could see, through the wide branches of the oak tree, a spit of rocks pushing out into the ocean.

And when she focused on the tree…

(Waves of things,) it whispered. (Waves of things, of dreams...)

Ghosts, she murmured to herself.

She’d have to wait to hear about the job, but she really wanted to live here.

Humphries smiled with delight. I’ll be glad to rent this house and maybe you’ll want to buy it later. Mrs. Bidewell needs the money. I think you’ll get that job. We have a hard time coming up with enough teachers.

As they drove back to town Humphries told her more about the community.

Yes, they had a nice little library – thank heavens it hadn’t been closed down like some – and most folks really liked Ms. Nichols, the principal. Some of the people in the community have lived here forever and tend to be a little provincial.

Humphries shifted a little uncomfortably in his seat. But there are some folks who’ve moved in from other places – or been out in the world and come back – like Ms. Nichols – whose attitudes are a little more modern, if you know what I mean.

Giselle didn’t really ‘know what he meant’, but thought about the rumors of ghosts in the woods. Maybe he was talking about that kind of thinking. I really liked her. Does she live here in town? asked Giselle.

No. She lives in Robertsville. A little more privacy I think.

Privacy? For her family, you mean? I mean… Is she married?

Well… He hesitated. No, she’s not married. Ah… she just lives with a… He paused. Well, she has a housemate. Robertsville’s just a little farther from the families of her students, and a larger community. That’s all.

Housemate, thought Giselle. Partner, perhaps? Maybe that’s how the community is ‘provincial’.

Did you grow up here? she asked.

Oh, no, he exclaimed. My wife did, though. That’s why we moved up here. I took over her father’s real estate agency. Don’t make a lot of money, but I have a small pension from my old job and it doesn’t take a lot to live up here.

He paused looking thoughtful. Hopefully I’ll still have a pension from my old job. The way things are going today…

She let him off at the door of the agency with promises to call him as soon as she heard about the job and drove off to find the nearest campground – a small county park on a river.

Oh, my god, she thought, what am I doing? This feels right, but scary. She wished she had someone to talk to, but she wasn’t going to tell Monica until it was a done deal.

Oh! she exclaimed out loud. Ms. Nichols was going to call Samuel.

She pulled to the side of the road and found his number on her phone. He answered on the second ring.

Hi, Giselle. I hear you’re leaving us.

Wow. She called you already?

Ms. Nichols called an hour or so ago. Does your sister know?

Not yet. I’m not going to tell her until I know I have the job.

Samuel laughed. A wise decision.

He paused. Actually, Giselle, I think this is a good move – moving away from Monica. You’re an excellent teacher and I’ll have a hard time filling your shoes, although not as hard as Ms. Nichols has. At least we have plenty of applicants. But I do think it’s a good thing for you.

Giselle sighed. I haven’t gotten the job yet.

But you will get it. Trust me.

After the phone call Giselle continued on to the campground by the river. It was a lovely little green brushy spot, with a small sandy beach where the river made a wide curve under overhanging cottonwood trees and you could swim at your own risk. The river was low – to be expected after three years of drought, but there was still enough water to swim. It wasn’t very far from the house.

My house, she thought.

She set up her camp quickly, and they all headed for the little beach where the dogs paddled in the shallows while the cat patted curiously at the water with one paw.

Swimming out to the middle of the river, Giselle floated in the dappled light where the sun filtered down through the trees and willfully pushed the future out of her head. Just floating, she thought. Just floating.

She spent the night in the campground, and much of the next day swimming and exploring. Ms. Nichols called her in the afternoon to tell her the teaching job was hers, contingent on the receipt of her transcripts and credential.

As soon as she was off the phone Giselle rushed to the real estate office to rent the house. She signed the lease and Mr. Humphries informed her she could move in as soon as she wanted.

When she returned to the city, Monica was loud and disbelieving, but Giselle gathered her things, rented a truck for her few possessions, and moved. There would have to be a reconciliation with Monica at some point, she knew, but for now she just needed to leave with as little talk as possible.

Leave, and go to my house, she thought. My house on the ocean.

Chapter 2

Moon of Ripening Fruit

Tata Sundancer circled high in the sunlit sky, gliding over the sea below and then beating his way back up the air currents to the top of the cliffs. He swooped low over the golden meadow, tipping his wings to the ancient oak tree, and then climbed the air currents up the hillside behind, turning higher and higher in the sky until he could see the wiry young man in jeans and well-worn t-shirt seated beside the sacred spring.

Circling above him, he called, She’s come, Yameno Wolfwind, and then took off back into the sky, heading again for the meadow.

Yameno bowed to the little waterfall, renewing his vow to protect the spring as his people had protected it for centuries. He stood, pushing his long black hair away from his face. Singing a low song, he transformed into his Tla Twei – a huge gray wolf – and trotted across the top of the hillside to a place where he, too, could watch the meadow, his silvery fur a shadow under the trees.

Stillness crept over the hillside, muffling the background hum of insects and birds, sung to the deep faint beat of the sea pulsing beyond the meadow.

The Wolfwind, sitting on his haunches between two pines, nodded to the Sundancer flying high above him, and then lay down, feeling the spongy needles under his pads. He nosed a weed away from his face, and peered at the meadow below, watching the figures at the edge of the cliff, his ears perked forward, intent.

The woman, and the small gray cat standing beside her, turned and watched the hawk rise out of sight. The sea wind swirled her cotton skirt around her legs. The wolf's body was tight, unmoving, as he sat watching and waiting.

The beating of the surf on the rocks, the wind swishing through the meadow grass echoed a thrumming in Giselle's chest as she watched the circling hawk. She would do yoga here at the edge of the cliff every day. Surya Namaskara, the sun salutation. What a perfect place to do it – at sunset, watching the sun go down over the sea! She stretched her arms wide and threw her head back, feeling the pull on her spine reach down the backs of her legs and lift her heels from the ground. My house, my meadow, my beach, my place! This is my place!

(Breath, sang the earth, the wind,

Listen,

Whispering breath,

Anima of the earth,

Murmuring in the wind-whipped grasses,

Lift my feet and keep me dancing.)

And my song! I hear it! I hear it!

With a quick release of her breath, she straightened, reaching for the sky, and then contracted in, touching the ground, curling into herself in a deep bow to the earth and the sea and the sky.

Breath,

Flowing in the waves of the sea,

Creep into my soul and conquer me.

The two dogs, who had been racing across the field, came back and ran in wide circles around Giselle and the cat. Caught up in their joy, she ran after them and soon led them around and around, beating a path in the meadow grasses. She tossed her head and laughed and the dogs wiggled and leapt and added small yaps to the whistling wind. Faster and faster they circled, until her breath gave out and she fell smiling on the ground.

Breath,

Singing through the voice of the wind,

Dance with me, sing with me,

Take my hand,

Enter me as a lover,

Make me one with you.

A small breeze caressed her as she lay still, gazing at the sky. The dogs pounced on her, full of licks and rubs, shoving their cold noses into her neck. She held them both close and warm, one under each arm. The cat climbed up on her chest between the dogs and rubbed his head under her neck. Do you hear the music, animals? she whispered. Do you hear it?

Breath,

Warmed by the life-giving sun,

Burn, burn within me, until I am consumed.

The sun reached the edge of the sea and the jagged rocks pointed from their foam washed bases to the fire-lit sky. The wolf's gaze was drawn from the woman to where the hawk winged a swooping dance across the sinking sun.

Even the dogs were quiet as the pink and orange light consumed the day. The cat rubbed against the woman and she sat up, pulling him into her arms, hugging him tightly, and running her fingers through his fur.

Then the light was gone and the sea turned dark.

The Wolfwind watched the woman return to the house set against the hillside. He lay there for a while after she disappeared under the cover of the porch, and then slipped away, a silver shadow in the dark forest.

Loping tirelessly through the woods to the edge of town where the forest met the cat woman’s backyard, he crouched behind a tree and made a small yapping noise. The door opened noiselessly and Luhanada, walked swiftly to the edge of the woods. She smiled and pushed a strand of red hair shot with gray back behind her ear, as she watched the Wolfwind take human form.

She came, Yameno said, joyfully hugging the woman.

Yes, Tata told me, she replied.

Did he tell you of the song that came from the earth? Could he hear it from the sky?

Yes, and I could hear it here.

Yameno nodded thoughtfully. Ninas Twei sent for her. Ninas Twei is calling her – calling us all, he added.

The cat woman nodded. You’ll be able to create the totem? she asked, anxiously.

Yes, soon. I’m beginning to understand it, he nodded. Beginning, he added, smiling. They hugged again before he took wolf form, melting back into the trees.

A large yellow cat came and twined himself around her ankles, rubbing back and forth. She leaned down and picked him up before walking silently back to the house and settling herself in a chair, the cat in her lap, the other cats sleeping or bathing on the sofa and in other cozy spots around her.

The music had started. Twei – both music and dance in the language of Yameno’s people, the Tuwillians. Well, cat, she whispered. Now we gather. First this young woman, then the children. It begins again.

She gave a deep sigh and closed her eyes. Now that the young woman was here she kept flashing on the last time and Mary – dear Mary – falling and falling out of the vortex.

It had been a beautiful autumn day, the sky endlessly, cloudlessly blue, and the air crisp and clean. The woods, as they walked through it to the meeting place, had seemed to bow in anticipation. She had noticed that Gunther seemed to hang back and that Mary had to coax him on, but...

We never thought he would… she whispered.

The new woman was a wild card just as Gunther Amundsen had been last time – wild, unpredictable, and afraid – but it was different this time. The woman heard the music. Please, she whispered. No accidents this time.

Giselle lit a fire in the small stone fireplace. Tonight was a new beginning. Not just a move to a new town and a new job and her wonderful new house. There’s something else, she thought. She looked into the fire. Today, in the meadow by the cliff, a hawk circled and the earth sang. I heard it.

She looked at the little cat. Didn’t I?

Waxing Crescent

The morning sun fell across the old oak bed awakening Giselle and the two dogs lying curled one on each side of her. As she rolled over to look at the time, a small gray head popped out from under the covers. The cat climbed precariously up her side to her shoulder and then leaned his head down and rubbed it under her chin. She hugged his whole soft body close to her and let his strong tail run through her hands as he arched and walked away across the bed.

Yameno Wolfwind, welcoming the morning scent of pine surrounding him, lay under the same tree as the day before watching the little house.