Shaman, Healer, Heretic (15 page)

“How’s Brad?” Livvy asked.

“About the same,” said Roger as he led the way down the stairs. “It was a pretty good week, actually.”

Brad was in his late teens now. Livvy had started treating him when he was in high school. To be more exact, she had started treating him when he’d been thrown out of high school. Roger had quit his job as a technical writer for one of the local aerospace companies to be the stay-at-home dad. He had home-schooled Brad and was the major reason that Brad wasn’t institutionalized.

Roger and Margaret had been at a loss to explain his behavior. Seemingly overnight he had become isolated, avoided his friends, and had been caught stealing from other students. The last thing he needed to do was steal with the kind of money his mother made, but he seemed unable to stop himself.

They had bounced between different counselors and finally MDs and psychiatrists, but everyone had a different opinion to give: attention deficit disorder, schizophrenia, autism, bipolar disorder, and all sorts of combinations of these. They had tried medications and even an institution for a short while. Anything, as long it might help their son.

Then, through a television documentary, Roger had learned about shamanic trips to Siberia and had convinced Margaret to take a chance on it. It had made believers out of them. They had snowmobiled to the remote location of traditional Laplanders who moved their reindeer herds every month or so. One particular group had a shaman of renown, and Roger had seen the story of a couple from the west who brought their young boy to the woman as a last resort and were delighted with the results. They had been delighted too.

“We must be coming up on the six month mark,” said Livvy, quietly, as they all began to walk more softly on the bottom stairs.

“Right,” whispered Roger. “We’ll be heading back in a few weeks.”

Although the visits to Siberia had greater and lesser degrees of effect on Brad, he sometimes seemed like his old self, especially right after one of the trips.

Roger quietly turned the knob, opened the door, and Livvy stepped into the candlelit room. He and Margaret peeked in and then closed the door.

The walls were covered with the usual teenage posters of favorite bands and babes. A huge collection of DVDs and CDs lined one wall and a gaming mat took up a prominent place on the floor. It was a familiar room that Livvy hadn’t seen in regular light for at least a year because, when she arrived, Brad was usually ready to begin their session.

A trip to the Multiverse wasn’t the only way to help a patient. Once Livvy had determined that none of the usual spiritual ailments was at work–malevolent shamans, soul loss, soul transformation, or angry ancestors being the most likely–she had begun working directly with Brad.

Guided meditation was the treatment of choice, with no drugs whatsoever. Ironically, Livvy was probably more knowledgeable about matters pharmaceutical than most other shamans since she had done well in those classes. Even so, she had never felt comfortable with taking the drugs, let alone administering them. Besides, Roger and Margaret had made it clear from the beginning that Brad was off all his prescribed medications now, and they’d like him to stay that way. So far, the meditation seemed to be enough.

He was lying on his pallet on the floor. Several Siberian souvenirs were located around the room and the faint odor of peppermint as well as the lemony smell of flagroot seemed to be everywhere.

“You’re late,” he said quietly, never opening his eyes.

“Yep,” she said, not caring to elaborate.

She rolled out her mat and sat down cross-legged next to him.

“Why don’t you have a boyfriend?” he asked, not quite fully awake but not yet meditating.

Their sessions seemed to start like this lately. It was almost as though he was testing her. She did the same thing she always did, answer honestly.

“Because of my work,” she said. “Not a lot of guys are into the…lifestyle.”

He didn’t reply. She looked down at his face, which was peaceful, and watched his chest rise and fall slowly, his hands resting on his stomach.

“Okay,” she said quietly, picking up the small clapping stick that he’d left next to his pallet. “Concentrate on my voice.”

She lightly rapped the clapping stick into the palm of her opposite hand. As the two flexible pieces of reed came together, they made a tapping noise followed by a buzz.

“We’re going to relax,” she said, her words matching the slow but steady cadence of the clapper. “You’re not trying to see anything. You’re not trying to hear anything. You are at rest.”

She watched as he breathed more deeply. At this point in their work, the sound of the clapper was so associated with the meditative state that he was able to slip into it quickly. She kept up the rhythm for several minutes, not too loud, not saying anything. The flickering candle light was soothing. She realized that one of the reasons she had not gone home after being attacked was not only that clients like this needed her help, but she knew she’d feel more peaceful too.

Taking in a deep breath, she released it slowly, closing her eyes.

“Let us journey,” she said, lowly, still tapping the clapper. “We travel inward.”

Tapping, tapping, tapping.

“Past the signs of the subconscious.”

Tapping, tapping, tapping.

“Onto another plane.”

Typically, Brad reported visualizing Siberia. Sometimes it was snowy; sometimes he was inside a tent with a warm fire. Other times he walked near the edge of a frozen river. It made sense. It was the place where he had managed to get in touch with himself and where someone had first been able to help him.

“Where are we?” she asked.

He paused for a moment, but then he said, “I’m at the edge of a lake.”

She waited, tapping.

“What else do you see?”

“The forest. It’s very quiet,” he whispered.

“Is anyone there?”

“No. I’m alone but…”

She waited and kept tapping. And waited. She opened her eyes and looked down at him. His eyebrows were knitting together.

“But what?” she said.

“I’m too alone,” he whispered. “It’s too quiet.” He paused. “And the lake is so dark…it looks black.”

Black? She stopped tapping. Black, as in the black lake of the Middleworld? How could that be?

“Stay where you are,” she said, putting down the clapper and fetching her goggles. “Stay right there.”

“Okay,” he whispered. Then, mumbling and barely audible, “Oh, I see someone.”

“Wait for me, Brad,” said Livvy.

She lay back, put on the goggles, and turned them on.

“Come on, come on,” she muttered.

The symbols finally appeared and began their familiar flow.

Settle down
, she told herself.
Settle down and get there. You can’t help him until you get there
. She took in a deep breath and slowly let it go.
How had he managed to get to the
–suddenly, she was in the Middleworld.

• • • • •

She looked up and down the path and then spun around in a circle, but he was nowhere in sight.

“Brad!” she called and waited for an answer.

Nothing.

“Brad!” she tried again, but there was only the maddening silence of the Middleworld.

She looked up to the clouds. They flowed away from the path and into the forest.

“At least he didn’t go to the lake,” she muttered and took off at a run into the forest.

“Brad!” she kept yelling. “Brad, it’s Livvy. Answer me!”

The clouds hadn’t stopped yet. She crashed through the undergrowth, dodged around trees, dove under branches and heard a scream off to her left. She headed straight for it, her feet pounding the ground, her legs pumping. The branches and bushes whipped past her, snagging her clothes and scraping her face and hands. There was another scream, much closer this time.

“Brad!” she yelled, just as she saw him.

He was on the ground, trying to back up on all fours like a crab, when his back hit a tree. There was a man standing in front of him. As Livvy crashed through the brush, they both looked at her. The man wheeled around and Livvy saw that he was holding a large hunting knife.

“Livvy!” screamed Brad.

The hunter ignored him, sensing the power that Livvy brought, focusing on this new threat. Livvy skidded to a halt. The hunter was still within striking distance of Brad. He wore a wolf’s head headdress that fell down over his shoulders and the skin around his eyes had been painted black like a raccoon’s. He wore buckskin clothing and boots and also a large leather pouch slung around his neck. Three red streaks had been painted down his chin.

The knife in his hand glinted as he held it in front of him. Livvy tried to make sense of what she was seeing. This was an ancestor spirit, the only types of Multiverse spirits that took human form. They were the most powerful of the ancestors to be able to thrive in the Multiverse, and they could be evil or good, depending on those who made offerings to them and asked for their help.

Who would be invoking an ancestor against Brad?

“Who sent–” she started as the man lunged at her.

“Look out!” Brad screamed.

As she dodged, the knife thrust past her side but tangled in her jacket. She heard fabric ripping as a strong hand gripped her arm. Writhing and twisting, she wriggled her jacket off the knife but she and the ancestor spirit were both careening toward the ground. Livvy grabbed the hand that held the knife with both of hers as they tumbled. She landed on her back as he rolled on top, the knife still between them. She focused all her energy on pushing the knife away but as he put his other hand on it, the tip started to move closer. He grinned, pointed the knife at her heart and kept pushing. She looked up to the clouds, but there was no way she could free a hand and call down her spirit helper.

Her arms shook with the effort but she managed to stop the knife’s progress. All she needed was a few seconds to call her spirit helper. He saw her glance to the sky and laughed.

Suddenly his head fell forward as Livvy heard a loud crack. Behind the ancestor, Brad was standing with a large piece of dead wood that he had swung like a bat. The ancestor slumped off to the side and the knife buried itself in the soil. She shoved him off and scrambled to her feet.

“Thanks,” she breathed. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, staring at the back of the ancestor.

“Anybody you know?” she asked.

“I’ve never seen him before in my life,” he said as he dropped the branch.

“Where are we?” asked Brad.

“Let’s talk later,” she said, stooping down.

Using the sleeve of her jacket as a glove, she grabbed the handle of the knife and pulled it from the ground, then tossed it as far away as she could.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said, taking his hand.
 

• • • • •

In the real world, Livvy sat up as she reached up to her goggles. By the time she took them off, Brad’s eyes were already open and darting all around the room, landing on her.

“What happened?” he said, panting.

“Do you remember anything?” she asked.

His eyes kept dancing around as he struggled to find the words. There was a manic look about him that reminded her of how he’d been when she’d first seen him. Somehow he’d gone to the Middleworld. Possibly, it meant he had the makings of a shaman, or perhaps it was the strange things that were happening with the Multiverse right now. Either way, a trip to the Middleworld was not for the uninitiated.

“There was a wolf man,” he said, jerking upright.

She remembered to discharge her fingers to the carpet and then took one of his hands in hers. It was cold and sweaty.

“Brad, listen to me,” she said, looking into his eyes.

She had no choice but to tell him the truth. The fact that he had remembered the journey told her that. Clients never remembered the Multiverse, but Brad’s experience had been different. Could he be a future shaman?

“That was the Middleworld,” she said calmly.

His eyes moved around the room, distracted by the flickering of the candles.

“Brad, try to look at me.” She put a hand to the side of his face and turned it toward hers. “Try to concentrate on my voice.”

Finally, he looked at her. “Who was the wolf man?” he asked.

“That was an ancestor,” she said, forcing her voice to be level and calm. “The spirit of a man who was wearing a wolf headdress. He, and you, and I were in the Middleworld.”

His eyes searched her face, trying to understand. “Middleworld?”

“Yes. The Middleworld is where I work, where all shamans work. It’s the other plane of existence where we travel for our healings.”

“But why was I in the Middleworld?”

She shook her head slightly. “I don’t know.”

“I didn’t mean to go there,” he said, calming down. “I mean I didn’t even know it existed.”

“I know,” she said, gently stroking the side of his face.