| THE LORELEI SIGNAL |
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| Written by Elizabeth Barrette / Artwork by Holly Eddy |
| Make a donation to this writer |
| NGATI AND THE LISTENERS |
First Ngati strolled through a pasture, where she came upon a young boy. He scampered back and forth along a tall stone
wall. As she watched, the goddess noticed some of the stones beginning to tremble. So she took a pinch of squirrel hair
from her magic pouch and tossed it onto the wind. Then the boy heard a little voice warning him, “Quick, hop down! The
wall is about to collapse!”
Now he happened to be a clever fellow, so straightaway he jumped off the wall and backed away. No sooner had he done
so than the stones tumbled loose, creating a large gap in the wall and a billowy cloud of dust. “Goodness!” exclaimed the
boy. “If I had stayed on that wall, I might have been crushed.” Although he could not see the goddess hiding in the dust,
he muttered a quick prayer of thanks to Ngati, for he was a devout boy; and then he ran home.
The goddess continued her walk, following a pebbled road, and presently she came upon a cottage where an old woman
labored in the yard. A big black pot sat atop a blazing fire and skeins of yarn draped over a rack, ready for dyeing. The old
woman was contemplating her herbs, trying to decide what color to dye the yarn. “I could make it yellow,” she said, “or I
could make it pink. I think I’ll make it a nice, bright pink.”
Ngati took a hen feather from her magic pouch and loosed it on the breeze. Then the old woman heard a little voice say,
“Pink? Why, that’s a young girl’s color! Look at you, wrinkled and brown as last year’s walnut. If you knit pink yarn and
wear it, then everyone will laugh at you.”
Well, the old woman didn’t like that one bit! She huffed up her scrawny chest and set her toothless chin. “I don’t care
what people think,” she declared. “All my children are grown; I have no one to please but myself. Pink makes me feel
happy, so I’ll wear it if I want to!” With that, she set aside the onionskins and dumped the rosyroot into the pot to boil.
“That Ngati is nothing but trouble,” the old woman said. It did not matter that the goddess had hidden behind the cottage;
she heard that anyway.
Ngati left the road and wandered for a while through the forest, where high leaves made dappled patterns of sun and
shade, and the wildflowers tickled her ankles with pale blue fingers. As she walked down the trail, you could hardly see
her pass, for her cloak and her dress blended so well with the trunks of the trees. You could only see the flat red cap
bobbing along like a stone skipping over the surface of a stream. No one knows why Ngati wears that flashy cap, when
the rest of her outfit is so sneaky; she just does it. Ngati is nothing if not a mess of contradictions.
So the goddess came at last to a clearing where two woodcutters lived with their wives, each in his own house on his own
side of the clearing. Ngati put one hand on her cap to make sure it stayed in place, then tiptoed to the nearest window and
peeked in. There she spied one of the woodcutters coveting his neighbor’s wife. Lust simmered in his eye like a pot of
soup about to boil over. The wife stooped and stretched, stooped and stretched, showing off her fine body to great effect
as she hung wet laundry from convenient branches to dry. Little did she know the woodcutter was watching her. No one
else occupied the clearing, for her husband had gone to fell trees while the other woodcutter’s wife had gone to market.
So they were all alone.
All alone, that is, except for Ngati, who watched them with unmistakable glee. She decided to have some fun. The
woodcutter soon tired of watching at a distance and left his house. Quiet as a secret, Ngati slipped up behind him. She
took a cat whisker from her magic pouch and poked the man in the butt with it.
So then the lecherous woodcutter heard two little voices. One voice said, “You horny fool! Get your eyes off that woman
and get back to work where you belong. If you go tupping your neighbor’s wife, he’ll find out and chop your legs off!”
The other voice said, “Go on and feel her out. Maybe she’ll invite you, and then it will be her fault. After all, if you’re not
going to use your manly parts, you might as well chop them off!” Caught between two equally convincing arguments, the
man looked left and right, but Ngati was nowhere in sight, having hidden herself in the underbrush. He was not a
particularly bright man, so he did not think of the goddess at all. The two voices began to argue with each other, and it
was just like having a catfight inside his head. He hated that, so he did the first thing he could think of to make the little
voices shut up – he went right over and pinched his neighbor’s wife on the rump.
It happens that this woman was more than a bit lecherous herself. She squealed and slapped him with a handful of wet
laundry, but you could just tell her heart wasn’t in it. When she turned her back on him, she gave a little twitch of her
hips, and she threw those clothes over the branches with some extra spunk. Then the woodcutter caught her, and kissed
her, and told her how her eyes were bluer than skyflowers. They lay down right there in the wet laundry and put their
matching parts together.
Suddenly, the other woodcutter and the other wife returned home. The other woodcutter threw down his load of wood,
except for one good branch which he laid across his neighbor’s backside. The other wife threw down her load of
vegetables, except for one slightly overripe squash which she broke over the woman’s head. All four of them commenced
screaming at each other like so many cats in an alley.
Ngati laughed so hard, she had to stuff her own red cap in her mouth to keep them from hearing her. Then she went home.
#
Now, Ngati is not truly good, although some people believe she is and therefore worship her. Neither is Ngati truly evil,
although some people believe she is and therefore revile her. Some people don’t notice the goddess at all, even with her
flashy cap, and blame their problems on plain bad luck. Truly, Ngati just likes to make things interesting for everyone.
That is her job, and as you can see she does it very well.
It all goes to show that some little voices are good to heed while other ones are not, and it pays to tell the difference before
you decide what to do.
wall. As she watched, the goddess noticed some of the stones beginning to tremble. So she took a pinch of squirrel hair
from her magic pouch and tossed it onto the wind. Then the boy heard a little voice warning him, “Quick, hop down! The
wall is about to collapse!”
Now he happened to be a clever fellow, so straightaway he jumped off the wall and backed away. No sooner had he done
so than the stones tumbled loose, creating a large gap in the wall and a billowy cloud of dust. “Goodness!” exclaimed the
boy. “If I had stayed on that wall, I might have been crushed.” Although he could not see the goddess hiding in the dust,
he muttered a quick prayer of thanks to Ngati, for he was a devout boy; and then he ran home.
The goddess continued her walk, following a pebbled road, and presently she came upon a cottage where an old woman
labored in the yard. A big black pot sat atop a blazing fire and skeins of yarn draped over a rack, ready for dyeing. The old
woman was contemplating her herbs, trying to decide what color to dye the yarn. “I could make it yellow,” she said, “or I
could make it pink. I think I’ll make it a nice, bright pink.”
Ngati took a hen feather from her magic pouch and loosed it on the breeze. Then the old woman heard a little voice say,
“Pink? Why, that’s a young girl’s color! Look at you, wrinkled and brown as last year’s walnut. If you knit pink yarn and
wear it, then everyone will laugh at you.”
Well, the old woman didn’t like that one bit! She huffed up her scrawny chest and set her toothless chin. “I don’t care
what people think,” she declared. “All my children are grown; I have no one to please but myself. Pink makes me feel
happy, so I’ll wear it if I want to!” With that, she set aside the onionskins and dumped the rosyroot into the pot to boil.
“That Ngati is nothing but trouble,” the old woman said. It did not matter that the goddess had hidden behind the cottage;
she heard that anyway.
Ngati left the road and wandered for a while through the forest, where high leaves made dappled patterns of sun and
shade, and the wildflowers tickled her ankles with pale blue fingers. As she walked down the trail, you could hardly see
her pass, for her cloak and her dress blended so well with the trunks of the trees. You could only see the flat red cap
bobbing along like a stone skipping over the surface of a stream. No one knows why Ngati wears that flashy cap, when
the rest of her outfit is so sneaky; she just does it. Ngati is nothing if not a mess of contradictions.
So the goddess came at last to a clearing where two woodcutters lived with their wives, each in his own house on his own
side of the clearing. Ngati put one hand on her cap to make sure it stayed in place, then tiptoed to the nearest window and
peeked in. There she spied one of the woodcutters coveting his neighbor’s wife. Lust simmered in his eye like a pot of
soup about to boil over. The wife stooped and stretched, stooped and stretched, showing off her fine body to great effect
as she hung wet laundry from convenient branches to dry. Little did she know the woodcutter was watching her. No one
else occupied the clearing, for her husband had gone to fell trees while the other woodcutter’s wife had gone to market.
So they were all alone.
All alone, that is, except for Ngati, who watched them with unmistakable glee. She decided to have some fun. The
woodcutter soon tired of watching at a distance and left his house. Quiet as a secret, Ngati slipped up behind him. She
took a cat whisker from her magic pouch and poked the man in the butt with it.
So then the lecherous woodcutter heard two little voices. One voice said, “You horny fool! Get your eyes off that woman
and get back to work where you belong. If you go tupping your neighbor’s wife, he’ll find out and chop your legs off!”
The other voice said, “Go on and feel her out. Maybe she’ll invite you, and then it will be her fault. After all, if you’re not
going to use your manly parts, you might as well chop them off!” Caught between two equally convincing arguments, the
man looked left and right, but Ngati was nowhere in sight, having hidden herself in the underbrush. He was not a
particularly bright man, so he did not think of the goddess at all. The two voices began to argue with each other, and it
was just like having a catfight inside his head. He hated that, so he did the first thing he could think of to make the little
voices shut up – he went right over and pinched his neighbor’s wife on the rump.
It happens that this woman was more than a bit lecherous herself. She squealed and slapped him with a handful of wet
laundry, but you could just tell her heart wasn’t in it. When she turned her back on him, she gave a little twitch of her
hips, and she threw those clothes over the branches with some extra spunk. Then the woodcutter caught her, and kissed
her, and told her how her eyes were bluer than skyflowers. They lay down right there in the wet laundry and put their
matching parts together.
Suddenly, the other woodcutter and the other wife returned home. The other woodcutter threw down his load of wood,
except for one good branch which he laid across his neighbor’s backside. The other wife threw down her load of
vegetables, except for one slightly overripe squash which she broke over the woman’s head. All four of them commenced
screaming at each other like so many cats in an alley.
Ngati laughed so hard, she had to stuff her own red cap in her mouth to keep them from hearing her. Then she went home.
#
Now, Ngati is not truly good, although some people believe she is and therefore worship her. Neither is Ngati truly evil,
although some people believe she is and therefore revile her. Some people don’t notice the goddess at all, even with her
flashy cap, and blame their problems on plain bad luck. Truly, Ngati just likes to make things interesting for everyone.
That is her job, and as you can see she does it very well.
It all goes to show that some little voices are good to heed while other ones are not, and it pays to tell the difference before
you decide what to do.
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One fine spring day, Ngati, the Goddess of
Little Voices, set about her business. She put
on a dress the color of mist and sand. She put
on her rope belt and her magic pouch which
held words of warning and words of wisdom,
cautious words and courageous words, nice
words and naughty words. She put on her
favorite weasel-fur cloak and her flat round hat
made of woodpecker feathers. She put on her
sneakiest sandals. Then she went out into the
world.
Little Voices, set about her business. She put
on a dress the color of mist and sand. She put
on her rope belt and her magic pouch which
held words of warning and words of wisdom,
cautious words and courageous words, nice
words and naughty words. She put on her
favorite weasel-fur cloak and her flat round hat
made of woodpecker feathers. She put on her
sneakiest sandals. Then she went out into the
world.