Hiʻiaka And The Guardians Of The Marsh

A Peaceful Hawaiian Sleep Story

Journey with Hiʻiaka, the gentle sister of Pele, across moonlit forests and misty waters in this soothing Hawaiian sleep story. Guided by aloha and song, she meets the Green Women of the valley and the twin moʻo who guard the marsh—spirits of leaf, rain, and water. Through kindness and calm courage, Hiʻiaka learns that every place has its guardians, and every heart finds peace when it listens to the land.

Transcript

Hiʻiaka and the Guardians of the Marsh,

A Peaceful Hawaiian Sleep Story Shhh,

Let's begin by getting comfy.

Feel your shoulders rest,

Your hands grow soft,

Your toes quiet.

Take a slow breath in,

And a long,

Easy breath out.

The night is a deep,

Velvety blue,

And all the stars are wide awake.

High on the mountain,

Pele's home blows like a warm lantern,

Golden and steady.

Down below,

The ocean whispers to the shore,

A hush,

And a hush,

And a hush.

Between fire and sea walks Hiʻiakaʻi Kapolio Pele,

Hiʻiaka,

Pele's beloved younger sister.

Where she steps,

The island listens.

Where she sings,

The wind leans close.

Tonight Hiʻiaka carries a lei of lehua blossoms,

Petals the red of banked embers,

Soft as feathers after rain.

She hums a quiet mele,

It sounds a little like the ocean,

And a little like a heartbeat.

The mele says,

I come with aloha,

I come to listen,

I come to care.

The lava plain beneath Hiʻiaka looks like waves frozen mid-curl,

Ridges and ripples of shiny black rock.

Pockets of fern have found a way to bloom in tiny,

Steamy cracks.

A small owl,

Wailed,

Sweeps by with a silent tilt of its wings,

And Hiʻiaka smiles.

E malama,

She whispers,

Take care,

And she walks on.

Behind her,

Pele's glow warms the night.

Ahead of her,

The island stretches wide,

Forest valleys where mist gathers like folded blankets,

And quiet waters that remember every move.

Hiʻiaka's footsteps are unhurried.

She touches the leaves as she passes,

Holofrons like green ribbons,

Kukui with pale blossoms that smell like soft honey.

The air tastes like salt and ginger and something bright,

Maybe the first idea of tomorrow.

Breed like the tide,

She tells her body,

In and out,

In and out.

A silver path opens where the moonlight spills through the clouds.

It leads towards a valley so green it seems to glow.

The valley is cool and damp and full of tiny,

Friendly sounds of night,

Crickets fiddling,

Water ticking over stones,

Ferns uncurl like sleepy fingers,

And droplets hang from moths like glass beads.

Here,

The green women dwell,

The wahine o maʻo maʻo.

They are tall and still at first,

Easy to mistake for trees.

Their skin is the color of new leaves,

And their hair flows like hanging vines.

When they move,

They make the sound of the wind and grass.

Hiʻiaka pauses because this valley is theirs to watch.

She lays her lei of lehua on a smooth stone and bows her head.

Her mele grows just a little louder,

Like a lantern turned up so the flame can be seen.

The green women step from their places,

One by one,

Circling with the hush of the night.

Their eyes glint softly,

Like fireflies drifting in a jar.

A whisper brushes Hiʻiaka's ear,

More feeling than sound.

Why do you walk our forest at night?

Hiʻiaka keeps her hands open and her gaze gentle.

To listen to the leaves breathe,

She answers,

To hear how the roots drink,

To make sure my steps are soft.

The green women tilt their heads.

Can you hear the smallest thing,

Another whisper asks,

Like the slide of dew down a blade of grass.

Hiʻiaka closes her eyes.

She hears the faraway rumble of Pele's mountain,

Steady as a mother's hum.

She hears a beetle stepping carefully across a fallen leaf.

She hears a drop of water let go of a fern and kiss a stone.

Yes,

Hiʻiaka says,

I can hear the island being alive.

Her words ripple out like a pebble dropped in a pond.

The green women sway,

Their circle becomes a dance.

The kind that doesn't hurry,

The kind that makes the heart slow down to watch.

They lift the lei from the stone and with a smile as small as moonlight,

Settle it back around Hiʻiaka's shoulders.

You may pass,

They whisper say,

And now they sound like rain when it begins,

Bright and kind.

Walk slowly.

I will,

Hiʻiaka promises,

And she touches the lei,

Warm from their hands,

And continues through the valley on feet that feel even lighter.

The path unwinds like a ribbon.

Hiʻiaka crosses a trickling stream that threads silver over black stones.

She balances on a log,

Arms wide,

Toes curling to feel the bark.

Moths swirl around her like it's a moving moon.

She climbs a small rise and looks back.

The valley breathes.

The forest seems to lean towards her.

For a moment,

It feels like a hug.

Mahalo,

She says softly.

Thank you.

And the leaves answer with a hush.

The night opens into a meadow where the grass smells green and sweet.

A single white flower blows at her feet.

She kneels to see it closer and notices a line of tiny crabs skittering towards their burrows,

Each one pausing as if to bow.

Above,

An eva bird glides in the star-spangled dark,

Drawing a long,

Lazy line across the sky.

Hiʻiaka lifts her hand in greeting.

The bird tilts one wing back.

Everything in the night seems to say,

We are here.

We are here with you.

At the meadow's far edge,

The land dips towards water,

Broad and quiet,

Wrapped in silverness.

The marsh is a wide place where the island keeps its cool thoughts.

Reeds stand tall,

Combing the breeze.

Dragonflies write secret messages on the air with their glittering wings.

The water holds the moon in a gentle,

Wobbly bowl.

Hiʻiaka slows.

Even her breathing is careful now.

This is a place with guardians too.

Moʻo,

Ancient spirits of water and memory.

Sometimes the moʻo look like women with long,

Flowing hair that moves as if it's still underwater.

Sometimes they look like great lizards,

Their scales shining like wet stone.

Always they feel like the tide,

Steady,

Strong,

And older than anyone can say.

Hiʻiaka hears a sound from the middle of the marsh.

Not loud,

Not frightening.

A ripple,

A sigh.

The mist parts.

Two shapes rise,

Slow and graceful,

As if the water itself is standing up to look.

The first moʻo is lit by moonlight along the curve of her back.

Every scale a silver coin.

The second moʻo's eyes hold starglance,

Like the night fell in and forgot to climb out.

For one breath the marsh is very,

Very still.

Even the dragonflies seem to hover without moving.

Hiʻiaka bows.

She gathers blossoms,

White and red and green,

And sets them to float upon the surface.

A little island of color,

Drifting kindly.

I have come to honor your waters,

She says,

Voice low as the tide.

I have come to listen and to leave the marsh calmer than I found it.

The moʻo watch.

The water tips the tiniest bit back and forth,

Back and forth,

As if testing her words for balance.

The first moʻo lifts her head,

And the mist glows around her like a blanket of pearl.

When she speaks,

The sound is soft as rain on taro leaves.

What gift do you bring the marsh beside the flowers,

Child of fire?

Hiʻiaka thinks for a breath.

Then another.

I bring a promise,

She says,

To walk light,

To carry stories carefully,

To remind the island we are family,

Forest and stone,

Wind and wave,

You and I.

The second moʻo's eyes soften.

And when storms come,

Her voice asks,

When the water runs muddy and fast?

Hiʻiaka places her hand over her heart,

Where the mele lives.

Then I will sing,

She says,

Until the water remembers how to rest.

The marsh listens.

The reeds sway.

A nightbird calls once,

Close and calm.

The moʻo lower their long,

Shining heads in a bow that makes the moon break into a hundred silver pieces and come back together again.

Your promise is good,

They say,

And the whirls feel like a warm quilt.

Sing,

Then,

So we may sleep.

Hiʻiaka breathes in cool marsh air.

Her mele begins with a thin thread of sound and widens until it blankets the whole place.

She sings of rain beginning,

One drop,

Two,

Three,

Waking leaves and stones.

She sings of springs under the roots that never run out,

Even in the smallest,

Hardest times.

She sings of rivers remembering their curves,

Of ponds holding moons,

Of the ways water carries stories and returns them polished and kind.

Her song says,

You are loved,

Fi,

You are needed,

You are home.

A little ripple travels outward from her toes and makes a circle,

Then another,

Then another,

Rings like bracelets sliding away.

The blossoms she set upon the water turn slowly as if to listen with all their petals.

The moʻo's breath slows,

A rhythm the marsh understands.

Dragonflies lower their glittering wings,

Reeds lean.

The mist folds over the water like a blanket pulled to the chin.

E hoʻomaha.

E hoʻomaha,

Hiʻiaka whispers.

Rest.

The first moʻo sinks slow as a lullaby and disappears with a last,

Soft shimmer.

The second moʻo follows,

Eyes closing like gentle doors.

Only the moon remains,

White and whole,

Rocking in the great cradle of the marsh.

Hiʻiaka lingers by the water's edge a little while longer,

Letting the night finish its sentence.

She touches the blossoms,

Now damp and cool,

And tucks one behind her ear.

When she turns away,

Her footsteps are so light that even the moths keep sleeping.

The reeds let her pass with a goodbye hush.

Back across the meadow she goes,

Where the grass swishes like friendly whispers.

Up to the rise,

Where the air smells faintly of wood smoke and plumeria.

Past the log,

Where a tiny line of ants carries crumbs the size of boats.

In the green valley,

The forest is a cathedral of leaves.

The green women have returned to their places,

But the air still remembers their dance.

Hiʻiaka bows her head and thinks.

Somewhere high above,

The eva bird draws a new silver path across the sky.

The lava plain welcomes her back with a glint.

Ferns nod from their warm cradles in the rock.

Far away,

Pele's glow is steady,

Like someone keeping a light in the window for a beloved traveler.

At the edge of the plain,

Hiʻiaka stops and looks back the way she came.

Over meadow and forest,

Over mist and moon.

It is all one story,

She says softly,

Told by many voices.

She thinks of the green woman asking if she can hear the smallest thing.

She thinks of the moʻo asking what she brings besides flowers.

And she thinks of the island breathing,

Of water remembering to rest,

Of fire holding safe and warm.

Hiʻiaka touches the place over her heart.

The mele is quiet now,

But it is still there,

Like a stone you keep in your pocket,

Smooth and sure.

I will carry you,

She tells the island,

And you will carry me.

The night grows softer still,

The stars blink slower,

Even the ocean seems to sigh in its sleep.

If you place your hand over your heart now,

You can feel it.

In and out.

In and out.

Like the tide,

Like footsteps,

Like a song that never forgets its rhythm.

Hiʻiaka curls beside a warm fold in the lava,

Where the ground hums with the mountain's breath.

She closes her eyes,

The lei of Lehua settles against her like a small,

Kind weight.

The island watches over her,

The marsh holds the moon,

The forest keeps the secrets of dew and fern.

And somewhere in the wild dark,

Two moʻo rest,

Their dreams as smooth as water.

The green woman smile without moving,

As trees do,

And the iwa bird glides until gliding becomes sleep.

Good night,

Hiʻiaka whispers to the velvety dark.

The dark whispers back,

And everything is easy.

Now let your breath be slow,

And your thoughts be light.

You have walked with Hiʻiaka through the forest and marsh.

You have heard the questions of guardians and the promise of a gentle heart.

You are part of the story too,

Stone,

Leaf,

Water,

Star.

Close your eyes,

Feel the soft sleep arrive,

Like mist on the marsh.

Good night,

And sweet dreams.