My Kind of Town
My Kind of Town
Marching as to war
>> Elsewhere
Ho'ola, goddess of life, was walking in the land of spirits and dreams, trying to avoid stepping on the lords of the ants and the skinks. She was, after all, the largest woman there. Like life, she was immense but nimble.
She was also protective, and that's why she was walking. Something -- maybe her nose, maybe in her joints -- sensed the coming of Mort, god of death, and his Legion of Rot. The goddess of life wanted to meet them head on.
She was also keeping her eyes open for a wisp of a goddess who on her bad days was a mere ether, on her best a Tinkerbellesque faery who traveled with a fluttering herd of monarch butterflies. Concordia, the ancient Roman goddess of peace, was elusive, ephemeral, susceptible to gusts.
Ho'ola knew she was on the right path for ahead just over the sunset she heard the drums of war. She quickened her pace and ran smack into a faery in full flight, her ballerina outfit charred and tattered.
"Is that you, Concordia?" It had been a while since she'd seen her. This looked like Concordia, except she was black and wore an Afro.
"It's Salama now," she said, settling on a branch of a gingko tree. "Girl, I went back to my roots."
"Roots?"
"Way before the Romans came along and made me white -- oh, they liked to do a Michael Jackson on me! -- I was from Africa. Just came from there, as a matter of fact. And those folks today, they don't want nothin' to do with me. Look what they did to this outfit!"
Ho'ola tsk-tsked at the charred lace and crinoline. She had a lot of powers, but seamstressing was not among them. Which may explain why the very large, very brown, very beautiful goddess of life was also very naked.
"Tried Israel and they busted my chops too!"
"The drums." Ho'ola cocked her head toward the sound.
"Take me back to Burundi, baby! Now those brothers could play some drums!
Least-wise before they showed my butt the door."
"Mort's war drums are getting closer."
"That mean old bastard! He's marching off to Iraq."
"That's where I'm heading. I was hoping you'd come along."
Salama's wings fluttered. "I like hangin' with you, Ho'ola. Somethin' good always happens."
Ho'ola tapped her shoulder. "Ride along, save your strength for later."
Salama gratefully accepted the lift. "But I'm not going nowhere lookin' like this. First we got to stop by my crib so's I can freshen up."
All these years, the goddess of peace hadn't figured out that nobody else cared how she looked. They just wanted her to be there. It wasn't vanity on her part, just insecurity. Who could blame her?
Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek.
His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin
with weekly summaries on Sunday.
He can be e-mailed at dchapman@midweek.com