April 10, 2008
Vulcanomancy.
She sits under the land. Her hair is the rich black of lava freshly-cooled; her eyes burn with the fire of molten earth.
She sits under the land, and smiles. The mouths of the mountains tremble and strain to match her expression.
She sits under the land, and laughs. Her laughter explodes from the depths of the mountains – but her children look up in fear as the mountains roar, and her laughter fades.
Instead, she sits under the land and speaks. But her voice erupts from the mouths of the mountains as molten as the lifeblood of the Earth itself, and her children flee in terror, screaming and crying in their flat, high voices. She tries to comfort them, but they cannot hear. She tries to embrace them, but they run from her burning hands.
Upset, she stops speaking and tries whispering. Her children look about in alarm, but they do not flee. Indeed, several of them go to her slopes and put their ears to her mouths. They still cannot understand her, but she is content at last. They are listening; understanding will come with time.
Pele sits under the land, and whispers to her children, and hopes that someday, they’ll whisper back.
