Song of the Shaman (12 page)

Sheri glanced at the machine with skepticism, this Pandora’s box that might threaten Zig’s standing at the school. Yet at the same time she was curious about what the tape contained. Would there be something concrete that could help her?

He pressed a button. A mature, raspy voice started out humming low, then built to a rhythmic chant. Unusual tones reverberated like a gong; she followed the sounds until they echoed and died into silence. For a moment after it ended neither of them spoke.

“That couldn’t…that didn’t sound anything like Zig! Is it possible for a boy’s voice to drop to a man’s voice like that?”

Bruce pointed to her chair.

“He sat right where you’re sitting and recorded it last Wednesday. Afterwards he wouldn’t open his eyes; he was in a trancelike state. I got a little concerned when he quickly snapped out of it. But what struck me was where I had heard those sounds before.” He ran his hand over his forehead. “I wracked my brain and it finally came to me. It was a day when the village shaman came to perform a blessing ritual. I remember him singing all through the night. By dawn his voice was hoarse. Something about Zig’s song reminded me of him.”

Sheri squeezed herself. “So what does that mean? Are you saying it could be true? That he actually once lived as an Indian?”

Bruce sat back in his chair. “I don’t know. I’m not that familiar with past-life phenomena. All I know is, he probably could not have made the song up.” He pressed another button on the recorder to rewind the tape. “It’s been fifteen years since I did the study so my memory is a bit rusty. But when he started singing my hair stood on end.” The machine stopped and a button popped up. “It means something, Sheri. His experience was quite real.”

Sheri stared at the tape deck while questions flew through her mind. “That’s bizarre…perhaps he saw a documentary on the National Geographic Channel? Could it be a new trading card game like that dreadful Yu-Gi-Oh thing?”

“I doubt the media could do an in-depth documentary on any indigenous clan in Central America. These people are very private and insular. I was honored when they let me stay with them.” He gazed at Sheri. “If you don’t mind my asking, where are you from?”

That question used to be a painful one for Sheri, but over the years she came to realize New Yorkers have to know what ethnic group they’re dealing with at all times. They need to categorize people according to their bias of race and class so they can get on with their day. It wasn’t so obvious with Sheri. She recalled the hours she spent searching collections at the library on Panamanians, her vague resemblance to the pictures she found, how she tried to feel some kinship with the people of that country. She did not speak Spanish, nor was she exposed to any Latin culture. As a result, she didn’t fit in with the handful of Latinas in high school or college. She was attractive in a nondescript multinational kind of way; her olive skin, deep brown eyes, and chiseled cheekbones were mathematically matched to almost any continent short of Asia. When she was with Italians she looked Italian. Traveling in Egypt she passed as an Arab. In Paris she was asked for directions by Americans. She browsed street markets in Rio and never got hassled by vendors. Hassidic Jews in the park blew their horn for her during Passover. If she flat-ironed her hair she might even pass as Irish.

“My adoptive parents were Jewish. They brought me here from Panama.”

“Oh.” Color rose to his face. Bruce was Jewish. He quickly added, “So you do have some Latin American roots!”

“Well, yes. I guess so. My mother died when I was born. I don’t know of any biological relatives.”

“Still, there must be some kind of link. There’re some pretty good genealogical Web sites—better yet, I just remembered something…” Bruce grabbed a chunk of papers off his desk and hurried through them on his lap. He pulled out a limp, photocopied brochure and passed it to Sheri. “I’m on the mailing list of the International Indigenous Leaders. I get notices of all their events, especially when elders come to speak. Here’s one that’s giving a talk this week. You might make a connection there. These lectures are always inspiring and draw people from many different nations.”

Sheri took the flyer, never bothering to say she had long given up hope of finding any real information about her roots. But Bruce was encouraging. Could she open herself to the possibility again? Would it amount to anything? For her or Zig?

“In any event you’ll get a copy of my report by the end of the day or early tomorrow, and just FYI, I did not include the tape in my report,” Bruce added.

“Oh!” That came as a relief; still she looked at him cautiously.

“It would raise too many eyebrows. I recorded it more out of curiosity from my anthropology days.”

“Great, I appreciate that.” But she wanted to know. “What did go into your report?”

“In a nutshell it says he was playing an innocent game and Francesca had a bad reaction to it. He was not at fault for anything deviant.”

Sheri nodded with enthusiasm. “That’s exactly how I saw it, too. Glad we’re on the same page.” She swiftly gathered her belongings to leave should he add any caveat. She had one last request.

“Bruce, since it’s not an issue, would you mind if I took the tape?”

“It’s all yours. In fact, it may be very useful in identifying the tribe. You might find someone who can help at that elder gathering.”

He flipped open the top of the tape deck, removed the cassette and gave it to her. Sheri closed her fingers around the plain black plastic tape. It weighed nothing in her hand compared to the gravity of its echo in her mind.

“Don’t worry about Zig. Just listen to him, let him express himself without being judged. Perhaps it will make sense one day. Or else it’ll fade away and he’ll forget all about it. You’ll see.”

Sheri thanked Bruce and left his office. The hallways were sleepy and silent on the administrative floor; the classrooms were all upstairs. She walked back to the elevator with her thoughts churning. Then she saw Zig’s teacher, Ellie, hurrying toward her from the other end of the hall.

“Oh hi, Sheri! Nice to see you! Zig’s costume is just amazing; he said you helped make it, too!”

“Thanks, Ellie. Halloween is in full swing.”

She was balancing a huge plastic pumpkin stuffed with Halloween goodie bags on one knee. Sheri could see why Zig did not care for Ellie. Wild-eyed and hyper-perky bordering on neurotic, Ellie was of the thin-skinned variety who could go from sunny and warm to dark and foreboding at the drop of a hat.

“Did Zig tell you about our trip on November fifteenth? I’m sending home a reminder note today. We’re going to the National Museum of the American Indian in Lower Manhattan to culminate with our study of the Iroquois Indians! I could really use some parent chaperones—are you available?”

“I’ll have to check.” She looked at the tape in her hand, as if it had all the answers.

“Don’t forget to sign the consent slip, too. Whoops! Gotta get back with the goodies! Hope you can make it!”

Ellie dashed to the stairwell, taking the stairs two at a time. Sheri pressed the button for the elevator. She had never gone on a school trip with Zig. What would that be like? A bunch of kids throwing balled-up paper at each other, crunching chips and spilling juice, texting friends and trading cards on the sly. Could she handle it?

PARK SLOPE’S SEVENTH AVENUE Halloween Parade begins at dusk. Today she and Zig turned onto Seventh Avenue and Park Place at 6:30 p.m.—plenty of time to walk up to the center slope and join the parade coming back down the avenue. Her son beamed, happy to have his mother with him for once on Halloween. The streets were packed with colorfully costumed children and adults. A group of swarthy pirates went by, waving plastic swords and yelling, “Aye aye, Captain” to a boy wearing a huge three-cornered hat. A horn honked and a blond curly wigged Harpo Marx ducked and dived between the crowd, chased by a cigar-tipping Groucho Marx. King Tut, all of four feet high, with smeared but expertly drawn indigo eyes and a gold painted face, walked like an Egyptian while his mother jogged along snapping photos. The assortment of characters was endless; Sheri couldn’t believe she had missed the spectacle all these years. Two Grim Reapers on Rollerblades appeared, gliding like ghosts, menacing in their stark white hockey masks and black hooded capes, wielding a fake sickle in the air. When one came Sheri’s way she stepped aside to let it pass. Instead, the Grim Reaper skated right up to her, raising its sickle over her head. Sheri screamed. The stupid thing gave her a good scare. She laughed to cover her embarassment, but Zig did not find it funny.

“Don’t worry, Mom. It’s not time to go yet. When you’re number’s up it’s up. That guy has no control over it.”

“Okay, Z, don’t be so morbid.”

“I’m not morbid! Halloween is the day when spirits come out to play, when magic is the most powerful.” Zig spread his arms in wide reference to the crowd. “Some of these may be costumes…and some of them may not,” he joked, doing his best
Twilight Zone,
Rod Serling imitation. An impish grin spread across his face.

“You can’t scare me Injun Joe!”

Sheri went to grab him but he ran ahead of her. Then she noticed how his shoulders were hiked up to his ears. The weather had changed sharply since this morning; leaves flew like a flock of geese in the cold, brisk wind. Was he wheezing again?

1899

Panama City, Panama

THE SPELL LIFTED.

Louise instantly put a proper distance between her and Benjamin. She forgot Maud didn’t know Rosa had gone home.

“Keep this pressed against your forehead for now,” she touched the twisted dishcloth to his brow and replaced her hand with his. “I’ll get the gauze and iodine.” Louise started for the stairs with the lit lamp, her head still spinning. Maud met her at the top of the landing.

“Is Benjamin badly hurt? Where’s Rosa?”

“Rosa’s gone home. I told her to leave before the storm got under way.” A thin, creaking noise came from Maud’s chest. Louise tried to lead her sister back to her bed. She resisted.

“Gone home! Father told her to stay here with us until he returned!”

“I know, but Rosa has a family, too. They would be worried sick about her, and she about them.”

Maud hesitated before she got under the covers. Louise placed her lamp on the nightstand next to Maud’s unlit lamp. Matchsticks littered the floor.

“So it’s just me and you and Benjamin…”

Maud waited for a reaction. Louise ignored her and turned up the lamp; the flame brightened the bedroom walls. She spied a candle behind the nightstand and picked it up.

“How is he? I saw him lying on the ground outside.”

“He got a smart bruise on the head, but it’s nothing
that—”

“Good gracious! He needs my help!”

“Maud, you must stay in bed. Fretting like this will only make you worse. Why, you’re wheezing again already!” Louise busied herself with tucking Maud in. Maud studied her sister.

“Why didn’t you answer me when I called you?”

“What do you mean? I answered you right away.”

“I called out three times before you replied.”

“Maybe I didn’t hear you, what with all the wind and my looking for the lamps…” Louise avoided Maud’s inquisitive stare. She took the glass shade off the lamp to light the candle.

“Where’s Benjamin now? In his room?” Maud coughed after her question, a racking cough that lasted through Louise’s answer.

“He’s down in the kitchen waiting for me to bandage his hand and head. Afterwards I’ll fix us some supper
and—”

“Let me help you.” Maud threw the covers aside and started out of her bed.

“No! You stay here. I’ll tell Benjamin
to—”

“It’s not you he likes, Louise. He fancies me!”

Louise cast a wary eye at Maud and bit her tongue to keep from mocking her. Maud lay back, pulling the covers under her chin.

“Ask him.”

Louise ignored her challenge. The humid evening air always brought on a worsening of Maud’s condition and her attitude.

“I’ll light the rest of the lamps and get supper ready.”

The storm continued to beat against the roof and windows. Louise got up to leave, taking a last look at her little sister covered up to her neck in bed sheets. Her limp, blond ringlets were pressed flat on the plump pillows. Her mouth, slightly open, sipped at the air. Several books were facedown and pushed aside. Maud fixed her gaze on the pouring rain. She had a childlike fear of foul weather. Maud worried Louise as much as she annoyed her. Prior to meeting Benjamin she wished her sister’s asthma would go away for good. Now she hoped her recovery would take all the time in the world.

She left Maud and went to fetch the iodine and bandages from the medicine cabinet in the hall bathroom. Benjamin surprised her at the foot of the stairs.

“How is Maud’s breathing? I heard her coughing again.” He looked grave and concerned. Louise pictured Maud’s smug face.

“She’s a bit congested, maybe more so with the storm.”

Branches tapped an eerie tempo on the windows in the parlor. Maud coughed loudly, ending her spasms with a moan. Benjamin took swift steps up the stairs. Louise blocked him.

“Let me bandage your head first.” She poured a bit of medicine on the gauze and gently wiped his brow. “What Maud needs more than anything is a good night’s rest. Perhaps you can give her that…the tea that makes her sleep quite soundly?”

She taped a bandage over his wound. Under the weight of his stare she felt both desirable and disgraceful.

“Yes, the storm is taking its toil on her. She should rest. I’ll prepare the herbs.”

Louise lowered her eyes and tugged on her damp gown, her fingers cold and shaking. She could hardly believe what she had proposed. All she knew was she had to be alone with him again.

“I’ll get supper ready. I promised her Rosa’s soup.”

Without a word Benjamin went up to his room to retrieve his parcel of herbs. Louise went into the kitchen and took the kettle off its hook.

2006

Brooklyn, New York

ZIG DARTED THROUGH THE CROWD, under the arms of a giant clown on stilts and around a clan of shrieking witches.

“Slow down! Wait!” she yelled.

Heads turned to Sheri’s frantic call. Cold fall evenings had a way of messing with Zig’s lungs, especially if he started running around. And just the other night he’d had a hard time breathing. Where did he go? It made her nervous not to be able to see him, even for a few seconds. There he was, crouched behind a fruit stand, laughing his head off. She grabbed him tightly under his armpit and lifted him from his hiding place.

“It’s not funny, Zig—I told you to stop. If you won’t listen to me we’re going home.” The smirk fell off his face. Just as she feared, he was struggling to catch his breath and began to cough.

“Get your inhaler out and take a puff right now.”

Zig’s eyes glinted in the early evening light. He patted down his front pants pockets. Giggles escaped from his lips in little spurts between coughs. He patted his back pockets.

“Uh, I think I left it in my backpack.”

“What! I asked you if you had it before we left home!”

“I thought I put it in my pocket.”

A festive mob was assembling to start the parade a few blocks up. Where were they? She squinted to read the nearest sign: Twelfth Street. Sheri filled all Zig’s prescriptions at the Duane Reade near her office in the city; they should have it on file here in Brooklyn, but the closest store was on Flatbush Avenue, almost a mile away. Zig sat on a fire hydrant to catch his breath, his cough building in intensity. He could have a full-blown attack in no time. They had passed Methodist Hospital on their way up at Sixth Street. Much as she loathed the emergency room scene, it was her best option. She reached into her bag for a bottle of water.

“Here, take a drink, then climb up on my back. We’re going to the emergency room.”

Zig wagged his head. He swallowed a mouthful before picking words through a wracking cough. “Piggyback?” his said, his voice hoarse. “Daniel
(cough),
Kwami
(cough)
are gonna see me!”

Sheri took the bottle from him. “It’s too far for you to walk and we’ve got to hurry. C’mon!”

Zig glanced around covertly; he couldn’t bear to have any of his buddies see him scrambling onto his mother’s back. She hoisted his thin legs around her sides and he clasped his arms under her chin. At ten years old he still felt light but was cumbersome to carry. His cough went deeper. She could feel his chest rising and falling rapidly against her spine. Sheri wobbled along, dodging the throngs of trick-or-treaters darting in and out of stores, grabbing cheap foreign candy. She had to stop to redistribute his weight every couple of feet. Carrying him six blocks would take forever. According to Dr. Breen, almost half the kids in New York City had asthma; it was as common as pimples. Someone out here had to have an inhaler. She searched the crowd for anyone who was coughing or dragged along or jumping around, the way Zig got when he took his medicine. Today all the kids fit that description.

“I can’t believe you forgot your inhaler, Zig! How many times have I told
you—”

“Mom, stop! There’s Kwami!”

He pointed to the boy she had seen at school this morning, the one dressed as a blacksmith. The boy spotted Zig at the same time. He and his mother, a plump, buoyant woman in a Yankees baseball cap started for them. Could they have an inhaler? Zig slid off Sheri’s back; her shoulders numb. She hurried to meet the mother on the curb.

“Hi, I’m Sheri, Zig’s mom.”

“Hi, I’m Gina!”

“This may sound like a strange question, Gina, but would you happen to have an inhaler? Zig forgot his and he’s having trouble breathing.”

The woman’s smile faded. “Oh, gosh no, I’m so sorry!” Her posture hung forward in apology. “Great costume!” she said, praising Zig in his haggard state. “You should win a prize for that one.” Zig covered his mouth, hacking his reply. Gina watched him struggle. She put her hand on her cheek.

“Inhaler…oh! Daniel! He carries one.”

“There he is—over there!” Kwami exclaimed.

“Which one is Daniel?” Sheri craned her neck to see above the crowd.

“He’s the gladiator—see the helmet with the long plume?” Gina pointed. “Clara is his mom.”

Sheri dashed across the avenue, leaving Zig behind on the sidewalk with Gina and Kwami. She followed the plume waving above the crowd, pushing her way through. The boy’s mother was straightening his helmet.

“Clara! Clara!” she yelled. “It’s Sheri, Zig’s mom.”

“Oh hi! We were just looking for Zig. Daniel talks about him all the time. He’s dying for a play date.”

“I’m in a bit of a dilemma, Clara…Do you have an inhaler on you? Zig forgot his and I think he’s having an asthma attack. Kwami’s mother told me you might have one.”

Clara read the desperation on Sheri’s face as only a mother with an asthmatic child could. “Yes, I’m sure we have it.”

“Can I trouble you for a puff or two? It might help me avoid Methodist’s emergency room. I’ll pay for the cost of the
inhaler—”

“No, that’s okay, it’s no problem.” Clara looked down at her son. “Daniel, can Zig borrow your inhaler? He needs a puff.”

Daniel’s pert little face appeared beneath the cardboard helmet. “Where is he?” he said, digging deep in his pocket and handing Sheri his inhaler.

“He’s right across the street.” Sheri looked back through the crowd. Zig was doubled over, half gasping. She ran to where she left him with Gina and Kwami. Clara and Daniel followed her.

“I told you we were supposed to meet
here!”
Daniel chided his mother, running over to Zig. Gina was patting Zig on the back and looked relieved when Sheri returned.

“He’s not doing so great,” she said, stepping back so Sheri could see him. His face was red; veins rippled in his neck.

“It’s okay! Daniel had his inhaler! Hurry, Z!” Sheri immediately shook the inhaler and pushed it into his hand. Zig hesitated.

“Go on! Take a puff!”

He just sat there on a milk crate, eyes closed and head bowed. Sheri became frantic. “What’s the matter?”

In the near distance the peal of African drums cut through the commotion. The parade stopped. Everyone grew quiet and stood on their toes to see what was going on. Drummers dressed in flowing batik gowns with matching caps marched up the middle of Seventh Avenue. The count appeared endless; fifty or more musicians advanced steadily like an army of sound and fury.

“Zig, please hurry! Why are you waiting?” She shook him by the shoulders; still he made no move. Was he losing conscious-ness? At once the noise was maddening; there were too many people, not enough air. She wanted to sweep him up above the scene and carry him to safety. Suddenly he tilted his head as if he were listening. The force of the drummers’ rhythm stunned her; the vibration was so powerful it nearly threw her to the ground. But the sound had the opposite effect on Zig. He moved toward its thunder. Lips parted, he seemed to be breathing, in time, to the beat.

The drumming ended as abruptly as it started. People in the crowd exchanged looks of wonder.

“Whoa! I’ve never seen African drummers at the Halloween parade!” Gina gazed after the performers.

“Me neither! Where did they come from?” Clara too was straining to get a last glimpse of them.

“Take a puff right now, Zig, before you have another attack!” Sheri demanded, trying to contain herself.

“I don’t need it.” He put the cap on the inhaler and gave it back to Daniel.

“What’re you talking about?”

Zig shook his head. “I don’t need it.”

Sheri pressed her ear against his back. The two women waited for her reaction. Sure enough, his lungs were clear, completely clear. She pulled her head back. How could that be? He looked into her eyes. Feathers hung limp around his head; shards of cloth blew wildly at his sides. Zig was like an Indian warrior on his last leg, weary from facing a long battle. Sheri faked a smile and fingered his headdress, her hands shaking. She glanced nervously at the other mothers.

“Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe you weren’t as bad as I thought.”

“Overreacting!” Gina blurted out. “I was terrified waiting for you to come back—he worried the heck out of me!”

Clara looked at Sheri. Zig got up, dusted off the seat of his pants.

“I needed some help, so they came.”

There was a pause. The two mothers bent down to his level. Kwami and Daniel moved in.

“Who?” Gina asked.

“Sweetie, it’s getting
late—”

“The drummer spirits! See, it’s kinda like the inhaler…I sucked in the beat and the silence between the beats, and the pain in my chest stopped. The drumbeats beat the cough out.”

Sheri observed the two women, wondering what was percolating in their minds. Gina pushed up her baseball cap. Clara brushed hair out of her wide eyes.

“The whole universe moves to one beat,” Zig continued, placing his palm on his chest. “Even your heart and breath moves to the same beat. In fact, it never stops beating, unless your body is dead, course. It just gets out of rhythm sometimes and makes everything go crazy inside. That’s when the drummer spirits come—to put the right beat back into you.”

She could just imagine the gossip at school tomorrow. Kwami looked down the street for the drummers. Daniel could hardly contain his excitement. He put the inhaler in his pocket.

“I have a drum at home. Think that could work for me?”

“Zig, it’s getting really late and cold out. We better go.” Sheri steered him to the middle of the sidewalk.

“But I didn’t even get to trick-or-treat!” he protested.

“Can’t he stay a little longer?” Daniel and Kwami pleaded.

“Sorry, guys, we have to go. Thanks again for all your help, really. Nice meeting you!”

“Same here…get home safely,” Gina said with uncertainty. Clara stared after them. The mothers waved but their brows were crumpled. There would be talk at school. Zig lagged behind a bit until Sheri yanked him by his sleeve.

“C’mon, Z!”

His two friends ambled into the street.

“See you tomorrow!” Daniel yelled.

“Bye, Zig!” Kwami yelled even louder.

“Bye, Daniel! Bye, Kwami!” Zig voice was as crisp as the night, the cough and hoarseness gone. A breeze blew the feathered strips on his headdress straight up in the air, like a peacock fanning his plumes. He lumbered at her side.

“Why couldn’t we stay?”

“It was time to go. Besides, you were spooking everybody out.”

“No I wasn’t. You’re the one spooked out. You’re always spooked out.”

“I live with you; I’m the last person to be surprised at anything.” Sheri got stuck behind a bunch of loafing teenagers.

“Then you shouldn’t be afraid of everything I say and do, but you are.”

“I’m not afraid, Zig. I’m just concerned.”

“About what?”

“About what other people will think.”

“Why should you care what other people think?”

“Because you’re different, Zig. It’s good to be different, and sometimes it’s not so good.”

“Like when?”

“Like just now, when you tried to explain your…curing yourself.”

“Well, I’m still not wheezing, am I?” He breathed in and out deeply to show her.

“Yeah, but they won’t understand it, babe, even if you explain it to them. So why bother?”

“You don’t understand it either, Mom. You don’t want to understand.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to understand you, Zig. There are other issues at hand.”

“What issues?”

“Like what’s going on with you at school. You don’t listen, you talk out of turn, and you’re badgering Ms. Herman in class.”

“What’s ‘badgering’?”

“It means beating up on her with words.” She looked down at him. He was shivering.

“Mom, I’m just asking questions, that’s all. Isn’t that what school is for?”

“Yes, but you’re going way overboard. And you’re bringing a point of view to school that others don’t appreciate. You’ve got to keep your bright ideas to yourself.”

Zig stomped on a half-eaten Snickers bar.

“You mean what happened in the playground.”

“Exactly. I also spoke to Bruce, and he played the tape for me.”

“What tape?”

“The singing? Remember? When he recorded you singing an Indian chant? You never told me he taped you. You barely said anything about your interview with Bruce.”

“I don’t remember...”

“Oh, you don’t remember? Well, those kinds of things—bragging about spirits and stuff—send up red flags at school. I don’t want you singled out as a ringleader that needs to be watched. So just cool it from now on, okay?”

It was cold and there wasn’t a vacant cab in sight on Flatbush Avenue so they took the subway. Zig didn’t speak for a long while.
Was she too hard on him? Did he really believe she didn’t want to know?
Truth is, she was afraid of the mysterious things he talked about, afraid to place meaning on it, yet she so wanted to know more, to make sense of it all. Maybe that was the problem—it didn’t have to make sense for it to be true. But what if the school labeled his ways as ‘attention deficient’? She saw a PBS show about bright kids who were written off as ADHD because they couldn’t behave. To make it through school you have to conform to the norm, that’s just the way it is. And what about the drummers? First, they appeared out of nowhere, then Zig’s asthma attack disappeared. They came because he ‘called’ them? Sheri was not good at illogical; to her, all things had to be consistent with reason. Everything could be explained—except her son.

He flicked his thumbs in the seat next to her, his mind somewhere else. She started to put her windbreaker on him but knew he would object loudly. Inside her jacket pocket she found a Hershey’s Kiss. She took it out and nudged him.

“Trick or treat?”

A smile crept over his face. He unwrapped the chocolate and popped it in his mouth. Finally, he broke his silence.

“Do you have the tape of me singing?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Me! I want to hear it.”

“It didn’t even sound like you.” She found another chocolate.