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The Old Orika Woman's Counsel

Louisiana 1815-1830

The Koasati called her Hecatai (hec-ka'-tay) Rahinaha (rah-hee'-nah-hah) or One Who Knows and doubted little but that One Who Knows should live forever, irregardless of her frequently expressed desire and irreverent promise to do otherwise.

Not that Hecatai Rahi-naha didn't care to live. Physical being was a necessary enterprise and, in itself, a venture she embarked upon wholeheartedly. At least, in the beginning. When the body was infant and fresh. When discension was exciting. When conquering greed and overcoming envy was a challenge and, love, a remarkable journey within a journey that led one to care and respect and accept all things in harmony with all other things.

But, with too many lifetimes to count, Hecatai Rahinaha had little patience for the journey, particularly, when deadends of hopelessness and indecision were the court of fare for far too many mortals. And, for others, bickering and conflict and chaos too easily became life pursuits. And, love? For far too many, love was merely a song, sung too long, with notes too high for singing.

Hectatai Rahinaha's great consolation was her plateau in life, her ancientness which allowed her to freely swat the backs of the heads of young warriors who, in deference to her age and perceived bouts with senility, ducked, and quickly moved themselves from an old woman's warpath, leaving Hecatai to chuckle as she walked alone, mumbling to the stars.

That the warriors thought her mad added much to Hecatai's allure in the eyes of the Koasati maidens who sought her counsel. Koasati warriors proved themselves on the field of battle but the Koasati maiden's courage required more subtlety, such as could be found in the matters of the heart and the hearth and the head and, of course, magic.

So it was that Hecatai found herself giving audience to the new maiden, Shongoma. Unlike the Koasati maidens, however, Shongoma came from a land far across the waters and, she had not come to demonstrate her valiance for she wore her bravery in the trenches of scars that crisscrossed her back and, in the voice, missing from her throat. Neither did Shongoma seek to garner the approval of her belowed, Ketol the Koasati Shaman, who worshipped her already more than his own life. Shongoma's quest was for self and, how she had come to be and, what purpose was she to serve and, how and when would her purpose and destiny be revealed to her.

For this truth, she laid offering before the Old Orika Woman of spices and palm fronds and made herself prone in her petition, trusting the magic of the Old Orika Woman to glean from her heart what she who was without voice could not tell.

Hecatai Rahinaha, of course, did feel and know Shongoma's self and, she was profoundly irritated that Shongoma's self was not where Hecatai understood Shongoma's self ought to be!

But, the Old Orika Woman knew it was not the first time that Shongoma or one of her kin had got into their heads some foolish notion of physical incorporation and brought themselves among the living mortals, causing all manner of unnecessary chaos along the way, tasking watchers like herself to continue in bodies worn far beyond their prime.

Naturally, and long before the young Shongoma presented herself, the rainbow people had forewarned Hecatai Rahinaha of Shongoma's coming. Bothersome as gnats, the rainbow people were constantly flitting here and there, skipping and dancing like mad little fairies, swimming, unbeckoned, in Hecatai's water cup, brimming the moisture in her eyes, taking nips of her blood. They were a trial and an annoyance but Hecatai knew the rainbow people could be trusted always to know and sing the truth. Their wordsongs were a chime that tickled her ear and they loved sharing a deliciouis gossip of the world and mortal events but, as often as not, their songs, such as the one they chimed of Shongoma, were a herald.

Shongoma had awakened amid the change of seasons, and found her village gone.

Frantic, Shongoma searched for her village in the tops of trees and in the tall wild grass and under the giant stones. Finding them nowhere, Shongoma fretted that her sleep had been too long and that her charges had forgotten her, or worse, vanished themselves from her, choosing another in her stead. But, before her suspicions could take firm root, she spied the sailing ships and the broken chains and the whips of leather and iron and the trails of blood. With great horror, Shongoma realized her people had not turned their backs on her but had been forcefully ftaken rom her. Distraught and mindless in her rage, Shongoma dove into the earth and stole the colors of the rainbow people where she shaped herself a woman and took the wind for her breath and blew herself back into the world with such great force that, when the Dutch slavers found her, Shongoma was spent. Newborn and naked and without strength or knowledge of who she was or of what she was capable.

The slavers brought her to the City Exchange in New Orleans.

When came Shongoma's turn to stand on the auction block, the rainbow people chimed to Hecatai, there were whispers and murmurs that spoke of a captured queen. The men in their waistcoats and top hats, smoking their thick cigars and tapping the ground with their polished black canes, speculated that one such as she could ever be domesticated. That she was exquisite and her body so perfect as to appear carved from the finest ebony wood, buffed smooth and oiled to a glossy, silken shine, was not in dispute and, was, certainly, in her favor. That she had endured the torturous journey from the shores of Africa to the port of New Orleans, huddled and cramped in the putrid bowels of the infamous slave ships, spoke not only of the stamina required for a life of servitude but of a stubborn will to live.

But, buyers and spectators alike could not help but feel there was something inappropriate in the chains about her feet. And, that she would be exhibited thus, her uncannily beautiful body bared and she, forced to stand naked before them, unsettled even the most stoic among them. What was more, she dared to look into them in their eyes, despite that the auctioneer did repeatedly force down her head and threaten to flay the skin from her bones. Still, she found their eyes and let flash her anger for her captors and, with each flash in her eyes, the buyers heard thunder roar. Lightening ripped high noon from the sky and left it in purple shreds that could not hold back the floods that drenched and soaked and drowned them all in oceans of bleeding rain. Rousing themselves, they cast their own eyes quickly away from her, attributing their fearful vision to the glaring noon day sun or the sweltering heat or the noxious smells of human sweat and oil and rotting meat so pervasive in the City Exchange.

Gallant were they in their remarks of the beautiful African from the River Nule but, each buyer avowed she was found wanting in some indefineable yet consequensial way and, there was none to bid for her save one.

Judge Edward Thames Stillman, a maverick from New England whose disdain for the honor of his chosen profession had been perfunctorily exhibited in the form of hefty bribes and improper carcerations, all of which, eventually led to his removal from local employ. Finding his way down and along the coast, he conducted a reasonable hand at the game tables which allowed him to live suitably. That his hand was often quicker than the eyes of his fellow players allowed him to live well for it was his disposition for fallaciousness that allowed him, during a high stakes game of faro, to acquire his fortune in LeTrebec Plantation. And, though the proprietary style of the genteel Southern landowner whose fancy broadcloth coats and shiny brass buttons appealed to him, not in the least, Judge Stillman found himself much at home in the command of others.

Sucked into the vortex of Shongoma's storm, Judge Stillman had been forced to shut his eyes and struggle against the wind for his breath just like the others. But, unlike the others, Stillman considered himself a maverick and a visionary and, he reveled in the tempest, welcoming the challenge to tame the storm but, especially, the wench who commanded it. He was charged an exhorbitant price for her but paid eagerly and quickly that he might sooner be away with her to his newly acquired, ill-gotten estate of LeTrebec.

Hecatai Rahinaha did not need the rainbow people to tell her how fortunate it was for Judge Stillman and all those present in the City Exchange, that Shonga had no knowledge of the storm she brought for she had no knowledge of her true self, nor of the power inherent in true self, else the storm that lived only in her eyes would have been manifest and, all of New Orleans, destroyed in less than an instant.

Thus, it took all of the Old Orika Woman's ancient discipline to refrain from swatting the back of Shongoma's head. A wise refrain, she knew, for the Shongoma, reunited with her self, would be fatally powerful. As it was, a reunion of self was the Shongoma's destiny and, with it would come a storm that would have it's toll on them all.

But, not today, Hecatai Rahinaha chuckled to herself and proceeded to give counsel to Shongoma that consisted of daily rituals for cleansing and meditation, a pouch of mild peyote and ripe nutmeg and, a few wise words regarding fasting. But, in the midst of her counsel, the rainbow people grew suddenly agitated and their chimes nearly deafened her and when finally, the rainbow people had settled, the Old Orika Woman told Shongoma to add red raspberry tea leaves and squawvine herbs to her diet. Soon enough, she knew Shongoma would know the reason for it but, Hecatai Rahinaha thought it prudent not to reveal to Shongoma that she was with child and, that the child was her own soul, divided.