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.