Fated (15 page)

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 from 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.

I dig in my heels, flop onto my front, and claw at the dirt in a fight to scrape my way up. I’m not fit to be a Seeker. If this is what it entails—being buried alive with insects, and worms, and roots swirling about me—I want no part of it.

My fingers continue to shovel, digging deep into the loam, but it’s no use. I can’t fight it, can’t get any traction.

There is no going back.

Not when the tunnel behind me closes the second I’m through.

Not when the tunnel before me continues to open and yawn—churning faster and faster to hasten my fall.

I flip onto my back, refusing the scream now lodged in my throat. Telling myself to keep calm, to preserve what little oxygen I have left—when I swoosh into a field of light so bright, I’m forced to clamp my eyes shut and reopen them slowly, allowing enough time to adjust.

My body jamming so hard into the sand I’m like a runaway truck. And after a few dazed moments, I rise to my feet and take a good look around. Finding myself in pretty much the last place I expected—a beautiful white sandy beach with clear turquoise waters, a postcard of paradise.

I head for the shore, thrilled to find myself free of my wounds, free of my cast. Allowing my toes to inch into the water, and smiling when the foamy spray rushes over my feet, soaking the hem of my sweatpants before slipping away and leaving a faint trace of bubbles that pop on my skin.

There are dolphins at play in the distance, along with a small pod of breaching whales, their sleek, broad bodies diving and lifting—and closer still, several schools of tiny shimmering fish racing circles around my ankles and feet. Though not one of these beings is my teacher—of that I am sure.

I abandon the shore in favor of the place where the coast transitions into a beautiful forest sheltered by trees with wide, sturdy trunks bearing branches so thick with leaves they block all but the faintest glimmer of light. The colors so vibrant it appears more like an oil painting than an actual place. The blooms bigger, the moss springier, the cocoon of silence broken by the rush of wind dancing among the leaves, causing them to rustle and sway and chime softly together—a whisper of song urging me to keep going, keep moving on.

I follow the wind. Taking Paloma at her word when she said everything has a life force, a way to communicate—I follow it all the way to a clearing I know from my dreams, and I’m not at all happy to find myself here.

My gaze darts, searching for a rock, a stick, something I can defend myself with should this go wrong again—when I hear a low, deep croaking sound and turn to find the raven hovering in the space right before me.

I narrow my eyes and stare hard at the enemy—the raven with the piercing purple eyes, the one that led me to the horrible scene with the demon boy.

I stoop toward the ground, curl my fingers around a small solid stone, but before I can so much as take aim, he’s gone.

I turn, casting about, until I hear his
calhing
cry once again and find him perched on the ground just a few steps behind me.

Rock still in hand, I raise my fist high—my aim careful, more deliberate this time but just like the last time, before I can release the rock, he’s vanished from sight.

My heart races, my breath goes ragged and quick as I spin on my heels, stopping when he appears just before me again—his curved bill yawning wide as he emits a deep croaking sound and his eyes flash on mine.

I tighten my fist. Raise my hand high. Eyes narrowed on my target when I say, “Third time’s a charm!” Seeing him blink as I let go of the stone, my aim wild, way off—as Paloma’s words replay in my head:

“He will show himself three times, that’s how you’ll know it is him, and so you must pay very close attention.”

“You!” I stare. A whispered accusation directed at him.

And the next thing I know, he lifts into flight. Pointed wings spanned wide as he flies a perfect circle over my head, before soaring ever higher and trailing the wind.

Paloma’s hand on my shoulder, coaxing me back to the comfort of her warm adobe home, her voice no more than a whisper when she says, “Come back,
nieta
. It is time to return.”

sixteen

I lift my head from the table, tousled and blinking as I push my hair from my eyes and secure the loose strands behind my ear. Marveling at how clear my head is—not at all soupy and thick like my meds made me feel.

“How long was I out?” I stretch my neck from side to side, muscles pulling, loosening, as though waking from a nice, long nap.

Paloma smiles. Places a glass of water before me and urges me to drink. “About thirty minutes—though I suppose it felt quicker for you. Your journey was successful, I hope?”

I take a sip of water, then push it away. Tugging my sleeves until they cover my knuckles as I try to come up with some kind of reply, not realizing at first that I still hold that small black stone in my fist.

Successful?

Not really the word I’d use. Still, I look at her and say, “I met my teacher, if that’s what you mean. Though I’m not sure it’s a good thing…”

That last bit spoken so quietly it trails off completely, but even though I’m pretty sure she heard it, she moves right past it and says, “Which direction did you travel? Up, down, or sideways?”

I pause for a moment, remembering the tree, the roots, the tunnel, the worms … “Down,” I say. “I journeyed deep into the earth.”

“The Lowerworld.” She nods. “It is almost always the Lowerworld on one’s first visit. The Upperworld is much harder to reach—even for the well-practiced Seeker. It took me many years to get there.” She looks at me. “So, tell me, how did you find him?”