AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Or at least that’s what I think until I tie my hair back into a ponytail and head for my window to close the curtain. Seeing the gate still open and Chay still parked right beside it, only now the driver’s side door is flung open in a way that allows Paloma to lean in and embrace him.
I watch them together—I can’t help it. It’s just so unexpected. Surprised to see it’s less the brief, back-patting kind of embrace exchanged between friends, and more the slow lingering caress shared between two people who deeply care about each other.
I knew they were friends, but I always assumed. it was platonic. It never occurred to me that their relationship might extend a bit further.
Though just as I begin to talk myself out of what I’m seeing, sure I’ve read too much into it, they kiss and confirm it. Prompting me to snap the curtain shut and head for the kitchen where I sit at the table and wait for my first official day of training to begin.
My father never made it this far. He refused to take part, and I can’t say I blame him. But, in an effort to avoid the same grisly fate, I promised myself I’d at least give it a chance and see where it leads. If I don’t like it, I’ll do what I can to find a way out. But it won’t be rash. And I won’t end up dead. Unlike Django, I plan to be smart about my exit.
Paloma steps inside and closes the door behind her. Her fingers working the buttons on her cardigan, she rubs her palms together and makes for the fireplace where she prods the wood with a long, iron poker until she’s satisfied with the way the fire sparks and spits, then turns to me and says, “Chay has a sweet tooth.”
I stare, the words so odd and unexpected, I have no good response.
“He is a good man but a bad influence.” She laughs, claiming the seat opposite mine and folding her arms on the table. “Your training will require many lifestyle changes, the first being diet. I’m afraid you and Chay have enjoyed your last soda together, so I hope you enjoyed it.” She reaches forward, places her hand over mine. Hers appearing so tiny and dark it makes mine look like a large, pale blob in comparison. “From this point on, you will eat only that which nature provides, in its purest possible form. Which means no sugar additives, no processed foods, no fast food—in short, no junk.”
I gulp. Stare at her wide-eyed and dumbstruck. Wondering what could possibly be left—she nixed pretty much all of my favorites.
“The first few days will prove difficult, as you will soon see. Sugar is a powerful substance and highly addictive. But it won’t be long before you start to feel better, stronger, and healthier in body, mind, and spirit. The results will be so pleasing, I’ve no doubt this new way of eating will become second nature. But if not, if you find the opposite to be true, I’m afraid you must find a way to live with it. There is really no choice in the matter.”
“But … why?” My face scrunches in a way meant to convey that not only do I object, but I also doubt the validity of what she just said. It reminds me of the carb-free cult all the celebrities embrace before a big shoot, regarding the bread basket as their number-one enemy. “Other than my injuries, which are almost all healed, I’m healthy. So I really don’t understand what difference the occasional Coke or candy bar can make.”
Paloma pushes away from the table and heads up the brick ramp to her office. Motioning for me to take a seat at the square wooden table, as she fills a small copper pot with bottled water, sets it on a single burner, and busies herself with pinching off bits of dried herbs hanging from a multitude of overhead hooks.
She rolls the pieces between her forefinger and thumb, singing a soft, lilting tune I can’t quite decipher. Then she drops the tiny herb balls, one by one, into the pot, adding a small dark stone she retrieves from the soft buckskin pouch she wears at her neck.
The rock landing with an audible plop, when she says, “We hail from an ancient line of shamans.”
I stare at her back, face scrunched in disbelief. “Shamans?” I shake my head, trying to tame my annoyance, reminding myself to be patient, to give her a chance. Surely that’s not what she meant. “I thought you said we were Seekers?” I frown, doubting I’ll ever get used to the random things she says. From the moment I arrived I’ve been in a state of perpetual confusion, and I’m beginning to doubt it will end.
Paloma shrugs off her cardigan, drops it onto the counter beside her, returning to pot stirring when she says, “Shamans, medicine men, healers, Light Workers, seers, mystics, miracle workers, those who know, those who can see in the dark—” Her shoulders rise and fall. “Different names for what is essentially the same thing at heart.” She glances over her shoulder, ensuring I heard before she gets back to stirring. “Shamanic concepts date back thousands of years—its origins have been traced to Siberia when a shaman’s primary role was to care for the community. To maintain the well-being of the tribe by providing healing when needed, tending to the weather to ensure the availability of crops and food, leading sacred ceremonies, serving as the primary link between this world and the spirit world, and more. It was a revered and sacred role—a calling of the highest order. Fanned out across several continents, separated by great bodies of water with no way to communicate—their ceremonies and rituals were found to be shockingly familiar. Though unfortunately, in later years, when we all became civilized,” she forms air quotes around the word, “shamans were persecuted and forced into hiding. They were deemed witch doctors, sorcerers, accused of conjuring evil. They were said to be dangerous, when really they were just misunderstood by those too ignorant to look past their own narrow concepts of how the world works. Ignorance is one of the greatest evils known to man.” She turns to me, her dark eyes flashing. “With ego and greed trailing a very close second and third.”
She tends to the pot, giving it a few more stirs before placing a strainer over the top and pouring the brew into a mug. Then, grabbing a pair of small tongs, she lifts out the wet, steaming stone and places it on the table before me.
“Over the years, the role has evolved, and the name along with it. Among our kind, we are now known as Seekers. We are Seekers of the truth—Seekers of the spirit—Seekers of the light—Seekers of the soul. And it is our job, our calling, our destiny, to keep things in balance—a balance that requires us to walk in the spirit worlds just as easily as we walk in this world. There was a time when keeping the balance was much simpler, but those days are gone. And, to answer your original question of why, the ability to walk between the worlds depends on your commitment to purifying yourself, both inside and out. Which, my sweet nieta, begins with your diet.”
She peers into the mug and inhales deeply. Then, deeming it ready, she places it before me and says, “And now you must drink.”
I screw my mouth to the side and stare hard at the mug. Not entirely on board with her agenda but not wanting to reject it outright and end up like Django either. The horrific image of my father’s battered, bloodied head hanging fro
m a spike and screaming to get my attention providing all the motivation I need to empty the cup until there’s not a single drop left. Surprised to find the liquid offers a comforting warmth as it slips down my throat, and though the aftertaste is bitter, I don’t really mind it.
“There is much more to the world than it seems,” Paloma says, returning to her seat. “It is actually made up of three worlds—the Upperworld, the Lowerworld, and the Middleworld. Each of those worlds consists of many dimensions—including the Middleworld, which is the one you are used to—the one we reside in during our normal, daily lives. Though most people never look past the surface—never realize it’s populated by unseen forces that influence their lives in ways they could never imagine. What you see is not what you get, nieta. In each of those worlds you will find many lovely, compassionate beings available to help you on your various quests. They’ll appear in the form of animals, humans, mythological creatures, even something as simple as a blade of grass is able to help us. Everything has its own energy—its own life force—and someday you will communicate with the earth and its elements as easily as you communicate with me—all in good time.” She looks at me, her fingers steepled, fingertips pressed tightly together. “I know you might feel a little overwhelmed by it all, it’s a lot to take in. That’s why it’s important for you to remember that you are never alone. I will serve as your guide, though I’m not so much here to teach you as to help you retrieve what you already know deep down inside.”
I glance around the room, taking in shelves filled with tonics, potions, all manner of herbal remedies—while others are crammed with books, rattles, an assortment of crystals and rocks, and a red-painted drum. And though I try to keep an open mind, try to do my best to play along, I have no idea what she means. I’m the kid of a traveling makeup artist—everything I know I learned from a movie set, the Internet, or direct, hands-on experience. Though I never learned anything like this. I’d never even heard of shamans or Seekers until I came here.
I shake my head, start to protest, but she’s quick to silence me. “Trust me, nieta—all the knowledge you need is already within you. It’s your ancestral legacy—it’s in the blood that flows through your veins, it’s the pulse in your heartbeat, and it’s my job to help you discover it. It won’t be long before you move between the Upper and Lowerworlds as easily as you move through this Middleworld. You will learn to navigate all the various dimensions until you know them quite well. When the time is right, you will make the trip physically, but for now there are several steps that must first be completed. So this journey, your first journey, will be a soul journey. It will feel like a dream, though I assure you it’s real. It will prove to be both profound and revelatory, and one you will not easily forget. Its purpose is for you to connect with your spirit animal—the one you will grow quite close to and come to rely on. He will show himself three times, that’s how you’ll know it is him, and so you must pay very close attention. This is the first and last time you will drink this brew, and the things you see and experience are never to be revealed to anyone but me. This is imperative in ensuring your safety. So tell me, nieta—how are you feeling? Are you ready to make the journey?”
I struggle to answer. Struggle to slog through the words. My head’s filled with fog, my mouth stuffed with cotton, allowing nothing more than a muffled groan to creep forth.
And the next thing I know, my fingers fold around the small black stone, my face meets the table, and my soul leaps from my body, traveling faster than sound.
fifteen
I stand before a tree—a very tall tree with a large, gaping hole gouged in its trunk. A tree that I recognize from the time Jennika and I went zip-lining in the Costa Rican cloud forest.
But this time, instead of climbing the inside ladder to reach the platform above, I duck into the hole and tunnel deep into the earth. Careening along a root system so far-reaching and complex, it reminds me of long, spindly, tangled-up fingers with no conceivable end.
I’m enveloped in darkness—a dank wind slapping hard at my cheeks, stuffing my nostrils with the scent of rich soil that churns out before me, providing passage for my journey. And while at first it’s kind of fun, reminding me of the times I went sledding as a kid, it’s not long before I grow anxious, claustrophobic, my breath becoming panicked and labored in such a cramped space.
