Song of the Shaman (19 page)

1899

Panama City, Panama

THE CARRIAGE SPED AWAY from the Eden-like beauty of El Valle. With her foot on Rosa’s lap and a jittery Maud squeezing her hand, Louise drifted in and out of delirium. Benjamin sat across from her, fanning her feverish cheeks with a torn banana leaf. Her eyes were fixed on him for the entire ride; even when closed she still saw his face. Far off she heard Maud tell the driver to go faster. Visions of Rosa peeping through a keyhole lit the corners of her mind. A door blew open and liquid moonlight drowned their naked bodies. Magenta, gold, and umber pastels smeared across Father’s face. Searing heat trapped her inside Mother’s china pattern.
It’s called Willow.
Soaring lovers, indigo blue, sad, sorrowful, blue blood bleeding. A torn banana leaf. Hoofs barreling. Branches breaking. Wind howling. Black. Black.

Louise awoke to the sight of a plump hand above her head pouring a milky elixir from a bottle into a medicine cup. The brown and gray hairs in the man’s nostrils puffed as he labored to discern the dosage marks on the bottle.

“Aha! Awakened precisely at the prescribed time. Do you know who I am, Miss Lindo?”

Louise blinked.

“Dr. Nassi?” She felt groggy; her tongue thick in her mouth.

“Correct! My dear, you are quite a lucky young lady. If it weren’t for the Indian who extracted most of the venom from your ankle, your condition would have been quite serious. Yes, you would have been in a crisis. Your father has just arrived from Balboa. The main roads were treacherous—flooded all the way to the canal.” He tipped a bit of the liquid back into the bottle. “Here, sit up and drink this down. It’s not as distasteful as it looks.” Louise found the strength to lift her head. She gagged on the medicine before swallowing it all, picturing her father’s stern gaze. It seemed he had been gone for ages. Or was it she who had been gone?

“How long have I been in bed?”

“One day and one night.”

“Where is my father now?”

“Your devoted father and sister were at your side just moments ago. I assume they are dining in the parlor. Your father looked worn and out of sorts. I recommended he eat immediately. Rosa is fetching supper for you.”

“Where is Benjamin?”

“Who, my dear?”

“Benjamin! Don Pedro’s grandson.”

“Oh! You mean the young Indian. He must be halfway to his village by now.”

Dr. Nassi wasn’t the least bit aware of how his words impacted her. She sprang up on her elbows.

“He’s gone!”

“Now, now, don’t exert yourself!” He pitied her for a moment. “Your father returned and found your sister in fair health, and simply released him from employment. If you ask me, I’d say the Indian didn’t do anything remarkably different for Maud than what was done in hospital. Should your father have followed my directives he would have achieved the same results for her, perhaps in less time. All that chanting and herbs and folly! Who knows how
sanitary—”

“Dr. Nassi, I’m quite tired…Would you please excuse me?”

Louise collapsed on her pillow. The doctor shook his head.

“Of course, yes, recovery from a coral snake bite is slow and arduous. Such a lucky girl indeed. I’ll have Rosa hold off on supper. Rest well, my dear, rest well.”

The door closed behind him. Louise sobbed uncontrollably, reaching for her handkerchief in the night table to silence her anguish. A small object fell out of it onto the blanket: Benjamin’s whistle! He must have stolen into her room and placed it there while she was asleep! The sight of it filled her with joy. She pictured him by her bed, opening the drawer, touching her handkerchief. Perhaps he even kissed her. How could she not have awakened! Louise held the smooth bone flute to her cheek and cried herself to sleep.

IN THE WEEKS THAT FOLLOWED the swelling completely dissipated. The scar from the snakebite and Benjamin’s nick faded, as if it nothing ever happened. The guest bedroom was cleaned and the bedding changed. The calico sack of herbs and the drums were gone, replaced with a polished mahogany side table, a crocheted doily, and a vase of flowers. The room looked the way it once had—still and empty. All traces of him were erased. Maud was absorbed in talk of dances, a new wardrobe, and upcoming theater events. Father had gotten over the shock of his daughters’ perilous adventure and immersed himself in telegrams and cablegrams and usual business at the canal. Rosa went about her chores. The house and its inhabitants were the same; Louise was not. No one saw how broken she was. She became pensive and withdrawn, spending days in her room sketching and writing in her journal. Every morning she retched until her whole body shook, as if she were trying to expel Benjamin from her insides. The sound of his voice, his touch, his smell haunted her like a never-ending melody. Months passed yet she still felt him deep in her being, and soon she realized a part of him indeed lived inside of her. She was with child.

By and by Louise became more robust, until Maud made a pointed comment one evening when dressing for a party. Maud, outfitted in the latest style of evening gown, hair coiffed, Mother’s pearl necklace dangling from her fingers, burst into Louise’s room.

“Louise! Why are you in your nightgown?” she cried, ogling her sister from head to toe. “The coach is outside waiting for us!”

“I changed my mind. I’m not going.”

Maud stomped her slippered feet in frustration, sending wafts of her sugary sweet perfume around the room.

“What do you mean? This is the grandest dance of all! Every fashionable young man will be there. You must come!”

“No, go on without me. Tell Father I’m not well and want to rest.” Louise began to turn down her bed, hoping to dismiss the subject altogether. But Maud did not hide her disappointment.

“You’ve been so boring, Louise! You never want to go anywhere or do anything!” She threw the necklace at Louise for her to fasten it around her neck. “You stay cooped up in here scribbling in your stupid journal and getting plumper every day.” Maud scoffed, frowning in the dresser mirror. Louise approached her from behind with the string of pearls. Maud softened her tone, tried to bargain with her. “Oh, please come! I can tell Father you need a little more time to…” Maud turned around. “Goodness Louise! You
are
fat!”

Louise’s protruding belly brushed up against the small of Maud’s back. She quickly moved aside, but it was too late. Maud saw the roundness of her sister’s stomach beneath her thin nightgown. She gaped at Louise, her callous remark turned into a cry of disbelief. Louise placed her palm firmly over Maud’s mouth.

“Don’t say anything—not one word. Or else I’ll never forgive you, Maud. Ever.”

Fear flashed across Maud’s eyes. Louise released her hand from her quivering lips.

“Oh, Louise!”
she whimpered.

Louise sat down on the window seat, hugging her ripe stomach. At more than six months pregnant she could no longer hide her condition.

“It’s Benjamin, isn’t it?”

Louise nodded. She covered her face with her hands.

“I…I knew there was something,” Maud stammered. Louise looked up to see her poor sister in shock, trying to fathom it, jogging her memory for glimmers of how and when, for evidence of their romance.

“In a hundred dreams I never thought this would happen to me, but it has. I’m frightened, Maud.” This admission to her little sister made her tremble. Maud started to cry.

“What are you going to do? When Papi finds
out—”

“Father will not find out! He mustn’t suspect anything!”
Louise warned. “I plan to visit Aunt Ester in a few days, but instead the driver will take me to Guabito. There I’ll hire a boat and guide to take me across the river to Benjamin’s village.”

“Not
alone
! I’ll go with you.”

“Shhh! Don’t worry about me, just keep my secret. Now go tell Father I have a headache and am staying home tonight.” Louise wiped Maud’s tear-stained face. “Compose yourself! Father is waiting.”

Maud obeyed, taking a last look at Louise. Louise kissed her sister and mustered a courageous smile. Maud left; her tiny voice ringing down the empty hall.

“Coming, Papi!”

Her light steps faded away. The carriage door opened and closed; there was silence before the horses started down the street. Flutters of life tumbled within her, a life that knew nothing of the torment she went through day and night. She felt in her pocket for Benjamin’s whistle; its presence comforted her. Louise put it to her lips and blew a long, soft note. Soon she would be with him again.

2006

Brooklyn, New York

THE AMBULANCE CAREENED into the emergency entrance of Long Island College Hospital. Two EMS doctors ran to the back of the vehicle, flung open the doors, and carried out the stretcher. The paramedic Sheri rode with gave a quick report on Zig’s condition before leaping back into the ambulance and disappearing down the road, putting distance between one emergency and the next. Sheri ran alongside the EMS team as they sped Zig into the emergency room. Nurses and doctors spun into a tumultuous carousel of masks and gloves and green hospital uniforms. All the while her eyes were fixed on her son. His unconscious state rendered his stubborn little face docile and rubbery. Though his head tossed to and fro with the yanking of the stretcher, his slumber was undisturbed.

The emergency waiting area was starkly lit, crammed with rows of plastic chairs occupied by mothers with screaming babies, broken-boned teenagers, and elders lost in their pain. She followed the stretcher with an uneasy awareness. The smell of disinfectant mingled with the odor of overcooked cafeteria food. She cupped her hand over her nose, tried not to breathe. A bucktoothed orderly grinned at her from across the hall. Doctors made their demands out loud like gamblers, shuffling medical terms along with their shower cap–covered feet on the linoleum floors.
Postictal…full workup…CAT scan… EKG… neurologist screen… respirator…blood pressure… pulse… IV …unresponsive…oxygen…

“What’s happening to him?”

She found her voice just as they were transferring him from the stretcher to a bed, its pitch high and shrill. No one answered. Her knuckles were bleeding. Despite the pushing and shoving she had tried to hold on to the stretcher, even when her fingers got jammed between the metal railing and the mattress. Finally her hand fell away. Amidst the chaotic hospital scene her anchor of sanity was cut and Sheri was lost, drifting out to sea.

“What are you doing?”

Medical terms continued being hurled about. Doctors were swift with their tasks, working with great absorption. She tried to read badges and scrutinized the faces of all who crowded around her son, watching their reactions for positive or negative signs. Zig remained unresponsive, not troubled at all for being moved from classroom to hospital room, not sharing in her terror. An East Indian woman with the body of a teenager had her stethoscope pressed to Zig’s chest. She gave Sheri a flat look before taking the black cord out of her ear.

“Are you the boy’s mother?” she asked, shining a light under his eyelids, prying open his mouth as you would a fish to remove a hook.

“
Yes!
What’s going on?” Sheri stepped up to the woman.

“Does he have any allergies? Penicillin?”

“No,
he—”

“Is he on any medication?”

“Zig has asthma…He’s on Albuterol and Pulmicort…Are you
the—”

“Antibiotics?”

“No!” Sheri paused, then added, “He took a dose of Ritalin this morning for the first time.”

No reaction. None of her answers seemed to faze the deadpan doctor. Zig’s blood was extracted; tubes went down his throat.

“Somebody tell me what’s going on with my son!”

Her scream was effective. For a moment all movement ceased. The little doctor turned to Sheri and held out a narrow hand.

“I’m Dr. Patel, head of emergency pediatrics. I’ll be treating the patient.”

Sheri searched for the years of training in the young woman’s sad, glossy eyes. “His name is Zig,” she said.

The doctor’s blue gauze mask bunched under her chin. She tipped her head lightly toward the door.

“Let’s go out in the hall for a moment…I can explain your son’s condition.”

THE GROWL OF BROOKLYN rush hour traffic began to seep through the hospital windows. Sheri’s elbows pressed into the spongy vinyl armchair where she sat next to Zig’s bed. She had not spoken or moved from that chair for hours. With trepidation she witnessed the tent set up around his head, the oxygen mask over his face, the several monitors switched on. An IV inserted into his wrist dripped watery liquid into his veins. Test results were inconclusive—no one had a definite prognosis as to what caused his seizure. Dr. Patel’s report showed his airways were clear, his breathing normal albeit shallow, his pulse within range. He didn’t have a fever. Earlier Dr. Breen, her pediatrician, had waltzed into the room with that “yet another inept mother to bail out of disaster” smirk on his moldy face. Sheri shut her eyes. Although he spoke at length to the hospital staff and Dr. Patel, in the end he offered no better forecast. It finally dawned on her that these doctors could not help Zig. Suddenly she was hurling fast through time and space, falling down a black hole. The sense of losing control, the world slipping away devoured her. The only one who could save her was the very one who could die. In that dark abyss memories surfaced; snapshots of moments alone with Zig: shivering in Prospect Park, red rubber boots crunching newly fallen snow, breaking tree branches and testing walking sticks, him talking about his past life, his Indian family.

You weren’t always my mother.

She saw again his eyes blaze with the telling of the mystical bird in her dream; his anger at her parents when he learned they had thrown out her childhood drawings; his miraculous recovery when he breathed in the drummers’ beat on Halloween…

A stretcher carrying a skeletal shape beneath thin sheets rolled past the doorway, breaking her reverie. She rubbed her numb shoulders. Zig’s unconscious state was a mystery. Since he was born mysteries had become a part of her, and she had no choice but to accept them. The neurologist recommended a spinal tap. After the hospital team mulled over its pros and cons, jabbering about test outcomes, Sheri consented. They moved Zig to a private room, and the procedure was ordered for eight o’clock the next morning.

Alone in the room she kept vigil at his side, absorbed by his deep rhythmic breathing, his still, flat face. Computerized beeps and sliding mechanisms became a metronome, keeping time with the living. Hours passed in deep concentration brought Sheri to a curious new awareness of her surroundings. She moved closer to Zig’s bed, lifted the edge of the plastic tent. He wasn’t asleep. He was not unconscious due to drugs or even a blow to the head. His face glowed in the ugly fluorescent light, as if in some kind of trance, an altered state. Reaching carefully into the tent and around the tubes, she caressed his cheek. Where was he? What was he dreaming? The light flickered. Her eyes focused on her handbag dumped on a low metal cabinet that housed nurses’ supplies. She let go of the oxygen tent, opened her bag, pulled out her journal. A business card marked a page; the handwritten cell phone number, scribbled in haste, stopped her. She turned over the card.
Miguel Murillo. Education Curator. National Museum of the American Indian
. Before pride and reason could change her mind she took out her phone and dialed the number.

“Miguel, it’s Sheri.”

“
Hey!
I was just thinking about you and Zig. Are you all set with the tickets?” Miguel’s voice was like a newly lit fire—comforting, burning with enthusiasm. She let her shoulders drop.

“Something happened to Zig today...”

“What happened to him?” Immediately his tone changed.

Her throat tightened. She tried to steady her voice, but little tremors broke free.

“He had a seizure at school this morning. I’m at the hospital with him right now.”

“My God! Is he okay?”

“The doctor’s aren’t sure. He’s unconscious.” She paused again, saltless tears slipped into the corners of her mouth. “I’ve been here for hours just staring at his face and…wondering. With everything I read about the Nrvai, their history, I wonder…if this is something else.” She wanted to squeeze the pain from her words. “I’m so sorry to be telling you all this.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m honored that you thought of me. I remember how incredibly knowledgeable Zig was about the Nrvai.”

Sheri stood up. The back of her head tingled.

“He knew the symbols were special, but he wasn’t sure why. As soon as I showed him the book sparks flew. He started rattling off the makings of an awa—the sacred plants and stones, talking to spirits, going to sleep when you’re awake—and getting instructions. The symbols are instructions, the story…” Miguel’s voice faltered. “You drew those symbols.”

For a moment Sheri was silent. Blue-green shadows danced around Zig’s head.

“I always have.” Saying those words released a strange ardor into the air, as if a bird flew out of her mouth and spread its wings.

A garbled PA system announcement streamed through the phone.

“Sorry, I’m at the airport, leaving for a conference in Boston,” Miguel said.

“Oh! You did say you’d be out of town. I shouldn’t have called,” Sheri said, embarassed.

“I’m glad you did…I’ll be in the city on Sunday. Can I call you?”

“I’d like that very much,” she said. Warmth spread over her.

His tone changed again. “There’s one other thing I want to tell you.”

“I’m listening.” She pressed her ear to the phone.

“When a shaman works in the spirit world, only he knows when the work is done.”

She was staring at Zig’s tightly sealed eyes, his bottomless expression. “Thank you, Miguel.”

The PA system blared again. He had to go. She promised to call again, to let him know how Zig was doing. She promised.

Moments later Sheri began to write down everything. Everything that had happened since she woke up that morning—every doctor, the medications, the ambulance ride, the procedures. Nothing was left out, not even how many times her cell rang before she answered it. What was missing were words. She wrote entirely in pictures. She drew fast, the images simple, primitive. The pen felt alive, the movements right. The act grounded her. Pages filled quickly; her hand glided, feverishly depicting every minute, emptying her thoughts into the notebook. A night nurse came by to check the IV drip and oxygen tank.

“Miss, there’s another armchair right next door.” The woman fiddled with the IV tubing. “You could rest
your—”

The nurse stopped talking. Sheri didn’t take her eyes off the page. She didn’t feel the woman’s stare or the cramp in her leg or the black scab forming on her scraped knuckles. No food or drink had passed Sheri’s lips since breakfast. Suspended in time, she continued to draw. Just as the nurse left, Sheri glanced up. Her pen dropped and rolled underneath Zig’s bed. She quickly retrieved it to resume her drawing, but there was a shift.

Suddenly cryptic symbols came quite rapidly. The graphic designs grew and grew; she couldn’t turn the pages fast enough. Her hand flew out of control. Tree forms and animals, stick figures and spirals; arcs of flame, waves, curves, and vertebrae dashes rushed from her pen to the page. When the last sheet in her journal was filled she started to draw on the metal cabinet next to her. The ballpoint pen slipped on the smooth enamel surface. With her pen in the air like a hummingbird in flight, she sat forward in the chair, gazing at the ceiling. Floating before her eyes were stark hieroglyphics, symbols she could almost touch and hold. They swam around her head at a dizzying speed, swirling, colliding, and forming anew. Embedded in her mind’s eye, these pictograms compelled her to record them.

Immediately she tossed the pen, turned her handbag upside down and shook it. Loose change flew about the floor alongside Advil packets, store receipts, tissues, ChapStick, keys, Tic Tacs, her cell phone, and wallet. Sifting through the debris with frantic hands, she spied her black Sharpie marker in a corner near the window. She snatched it up and bit off the plastic top. Directly across from Zig’s bed was a bare wall that met with a window on one side. Sheri pushed the chair up to the wall, stood on it, and pressed the tip of the marker near the ceiling. Hundreds of signs then poured from her hand with remarkable skill and agility. Many of the images were unfamiliar, her fingers propelled by an unknown force. From left to right, up and down, her hand moved without rest.

She worked uninterrupted; no doctor or nurse passed in the hall, no one came in to stop her, to tell her that she had lost her mind. But at last she had lost her mind, lost the toxic thoughts that had bound her whole life with fear, lost her unknown story. In its place was something real, something unchanging. That was her birthright—the courage to believe in herself. The small room became a living canvas where she drew her picture of life, one encoded with a healing energy that originated before any hospital existed. Heat swept up her arm and spread over her body, consuming her with an inner fire. Perspiration flowed down her temples like baptismal waters, pooling in the hollows of her neck. She obeyed her hand’s command until every inch of wall, from ceiling to floor, was covered with a vast mosaic of divine expression. All the while she sensed an awareness, as if someone were watching, waiting, alongside her. Something incomprehensible radiated from it, through her walls of flesh and bone, out into the dark night sky. Peace. The world fell away, and she experienced deep peace within herself.

Sheri stopped. Fingers hot and blistered, nails black with ink, she took an unsteady step back. Each character—every abstract, animal, and human form—sprung to life before her eyes. Trembling, the marker fell from her grasp. She collapsed in the chair, sobbing, until sleep silenced her tears.

A sound stirred her, a sound different from the drone of hospital machinery. The room was disorienting. Her eyelids were too heavy to lift so she looked with her ears. Someone was standing next to his bed. A doctor? Nurse? The person was of small stature and bent at the waist; he or she appeared to be examining Zig. The sound became more distinctive, more like a hum. She concentrated on it, and before long she heard a tune come through. A rough, uneven melody. Where had she heard this song before? The repetitive intonations drifted through the ether and settled like dust on her hair. She watched with detachment as the figure turned around to face her; an old man with brown leather skin filled her vision. A crown of feathers adorned his head. His expression was contorted; his parted lips moved ever so slightly to form the song. He grew closer, chanting louder and louder, imbuing the air with the brilliance of his voice. His wizened face was inches from Sheri’s; sharp black eyes locked with hers as he breathed the song into her. In that instant she knew him as the old man in her dream, in her bedtime story, the one Zig called great-grandfather. She inhaled and her voice became one with the old man’s. And as they sang together the song transformed her, the meaning came without words, without intellect, but with a power closer than the beat of her heart. The man began to recede. He drifted back to the dark place where Zig lay; his image melding into the body of her son. Yet the song filled her soul. In the background the tone of the heart monitor joined with the melody and did not interrupt it.