Song of the Shaman (20 page)

Zig opened his eyes.

1899

Panama City, Panama

AFTER A FITFUL NIGHT OF SLEEP Louise awoke to a sharp rap on her door. It was Father. The clock on her night table read five minutes to noon. There was another knock and the doorknob jangled. She’d taken to locking her door at night for fear of being walked in on.

“Louise! Are you all right? Open the door. I’ve brought your breakfast.”

Hazy and light-headed, Louise climbed out of bed, pulled her robe around her, and hurried to open the door. Charles stood holding a large tray with several dishes. He eyed her and surveyed the room as he spoke.

“Maud said you weren’t feeling well last night. It’s nearly lunchtime—you must be hungry.”

The smell of boiled eggs engulfed Louise, making her stomach heave. She ran to her washstand and retched violently. Alarmed, Charles put down the tray to help her when Louise grasped her stomach, revealing her pregnant condition to him. Charles took several steps back as if he might fall; his quizzical expression soon turned black. Louise steadied herself on the bedpost, awaiting her fate. His stare burned through her. There was a long deadly pause before he spoke.

“I’ll put the tray out in the hall.” He turned his back; Louise limped over to the window for air, her hand over her nose, the heaving less out of control. Father returned, closing the door behind him.

“Let me see you.”

She had heard that contempt once before. Father and Mother were arguing late one night, the night of his birthday party. Their heated words woke her up; she remembered peeking through the balusters on the staircase. He accused Mother of something, what Louise wasn’t sure, but he wore the same expression as he did now: dark, angry, disgusted. Louise moved away from the window. He rushed to her and parted her robe. Louise crossed her arms over her stomach.

“My God, Louise! What have you done?”

“Father, I’m in love.”

“
In
love
? With whom? The man who did this to you?”

“I love him and he loves me!”

“What man does this to the woman he loves and deserts her? I demand to know who he is!”

Louise said nothing, afraid of what the truth would make him do.

“Was it one of the naval officers? That lawyer’s son at the commission? Answer me!”

He grabbed her shoulders and shook them in desperation. Terrified as she was, Louise remained silent. She could think only of her mother’s quiet eyes, guilty not for something she had done, but for something she let happen to her. Charles paced the room like a maniac, pumping his fists and ruminating aloud. His tirade ended when he knocked her drawing pad off the dresser. The book lay open on the floor, exposing a detailed drawing of Benjamin’s profile. Louise froze. Father saw the fear on her face. He picked up the book and slowly turned the pages. One by one he examined Louise’s collection of portraits, with various angles, shadings, and subtleties, of Benjamin.

“The shaman’s grandson? Benjamin?” he uttered, his face red and knotted. She didn’t dare meet his glare. The room spun around her.

“Oh no…No!” He flung the book at her dresser; it careered across the surface, smashing bottles of perfume and a framed photograph of Mother. “I never should have left you girls alone with that Indian in the house! Damn conjurer! Where is Rosa?” He patted down his suit pockets with wild hands. Was he looking for his pistol? Would he dare go after Benjamin? He started for the door.

“Father, please! It’s nobody’s fault!”

“Is that why you wanted to go to your Aunt Esther? To hide the truth from me? Why, because she’s like your mother? Because she will be more accepting of you and this…this
bastard
?”

“
Stop it!”
Louise screamed. He walked toward her, pointing a long, narrow finger like a dagger at her face.

“Love does not absolve you, Louise. Love does not pardon you from your duty to your family…your upbringing! I didn’t get this far in life for you to throw it all away on
love
for some cunning trickster! No daughter of mine will
ever
wed an Indian, nor raise his child!”

She had heard enough. Louise tried to dodge him and run out of the room. He stood in her way and snatched her arm hard.

“You’re not going to Aunt Esther. Rabbi Shonen will know where you should go. He will have a solution for your disgraceful act.”

“Let me go! That’s not what I want!”

“You will do as I say!”
he roared, filling the corners of the room. I’ll speak to him at once and make the necessary arrangements. Pack your trunk. Be ready to leave when I return.”

Father stormed out of her bedroom. The hypocrite! He turned to his faith when it suited him, when his precious reputation was threatened by things beyond his control. She envisioned him in the vestibule of the stone temple, whispering to dry, unemotional Rabbi Shonen; pictured the sage’s sparse beard and beady eyes. To them, her bleeding heart was like some sacrificial lamb; her pain and loss insignificant. Suddenly tradition mattered. Father would beg the rabbi’s confidence and execute his plan with no time to spare. She had to act quickly. Louise put on her travel clothes and shoes. Inside her trunk was a small carpetbag; she took it out, opened it, and threw in her sketchbook, Benjamin’s whistle, and a red velvet purse thick with her life’s savings. Rosa must have gone to market. Maud was punching scales on the piano. When Louise hurried down the steps the notes ended sharply. Maud rushed to her side.

“I heard Papi yelling…”

“He found me out. I’m leaving, Maud.” Louise moved through the parlor, snatching her hat off the rack by the door with Maud at her heels.

“You’re leaving? Louise, please don’t go. Papi will calm down, you’ll
see—”

“He never cared about me, and now he has a reason not to. My life is my own. I can’t go on living here.”

Maud began to cry. She latched on to Louise’s sleeve.

“When will you come back?”

“Don’t look for me, Maud.”

Louise embraced her sister, blinking tears from her own eyes. She spied a carriage on the corner and, releasing Maud, darted across the street.

“Take me to the border at Guabito—
ahorita!
” she demanded to the coachman.

The carriage sped away, leaving behind all she had ever known for all she ever wanted.

LOUISE RODE BACK IN TIME to the mystical place she would soon call home; retracing her steps to the day she first met Benjamin. But it was a day unlike this day. Once-laden banana trees were now barren, the lush greenery now brown and limp with heat. Roads were pitted with gouges and dry hilly lumps of earth. The carriage rocked violently over a rough terrain, making her womb tighten and cramp. She caressed her stomach but still the cramps intensified, along with the thought of Father’s pursuit. That he might reach her or Benjamin and what he might do terrified her. She ate quickly in roadside cafés, avoiding the stares of the local people. Exhaustion forced her to spend one sleepless night in a run-down tavern, during which the cramps returned. In the morning Louise changed to a hackney coach and pressed on. The trip was longer than she remembered. Her body seemed to be rebelling against her wishes. The dull pain in her stomach would not ease. Something was wrong. She tried to comfort herself knowing that every step brought her closer to her lover. But the aches became more constant and severe. At last relief came at the sight of the border crossing. It lifted her above her pain, and though hungry and thirsty, she was determined to cross the river. It was late afternoon; a dense gray mist glazed the water’s surface. She needed a boatman and guide to take her to Benjamin’s village. A canoe drifted into view as if floating on the haze; a man rowed toward her with slow, deliberate moves. The carriage driver hailed the boatman to shore. After a brief conversation Louise got in the canoe.

As the vessel pulled away the driver called out, “When should I come for you, Señorita?”

She was a distance from the shore when she answered, “Take the carriage back. I won’t be returning.”

The boatman was a native who spoke broken Spanish. A trace of tribal resemblance to Benjamin showed in the man’s direct look and placid confidence. They rowed in silence for several minutes, listening to the language of the river. She had to know if he could take her to Don Pedro’s village.

“Señor, ¿me puede llevar a Don Pedro, el chamán, por favor?”

A tattered, wide-brimmed straw hat framed the deep creases in his face. His arms were spotted with black scars. He casually observed Louise—her dress, her carpetbag, her swollen belly. He seemed to be composing his own story about her.

“El camino es muy pendiente, Señora”
was his reply, a warning. Louise dismissed it. The path was not that steep.

“He estado allí antes, y creo que puedo hacerlo, gracias.”
She had climbed this countryside with her ailing sister; she could do it again.

The boatman squinted at her thoughtfully.

“Sí, Señora, entonces la llevaré.”
He agreed to take her.

The Talamanca embankment rose out of the fog. She glanced back at the river, seeing only an opaque gloom; the other side ceased to exist. The boatman helped her out of the canoe, and they began their passage. The moss-covered path she found so enchanting several months ago was now parched and menacing underfoot. Although it was steep and rocky, Louise went on. The trail was harder than before; her cramps started again and continued to build. She held her stomach—
just a little further, you’re almost there.
The pressure was becoming too great. The baby was turning. It dawned on her that now, right here, her child might be born. But how could that be? It was all too soon. She was not ready. Where was Benjamin? She stopped to catch her breath by a stream. The boatman offered her some water from his gourd. Near faint, Louise drained the cup, grateful for the cool drink. Her fingers traced a long snake carved into its side. Just when she thought she could go no further the boatman pointed to the clearing ahead.

“La aldea esta bastante cerca de aquí, Señora!”

The rustic peak of Don Pedro’s dwelling stood out beyond the treetops. Excited, Louise jumped up from the log where she had been resting. A sharp pain in the abdomen astounded her. She pressed her palms under her belly to quell it, but the pain increased. The boatman came to her aid. She leaned on his arm and took short, heavy steps. Breathing became difficult. The thought of Benjamin’s loving face gave her the strength to go on. Louise held that image until she collapsed on the ground. She heard the boatman yelling in his native tongue. Suddenly there was an earthquake in her womb. Light became dark; then the sound of footsteps running near, of someone calling her name. Benjamin! He cradled her head in his arms; again and again he called her name.

Louise! Mi amor Louise!

ON THE MATTED FLOOR in the awa’s home Louise gave birth to a baby girl. Don Pedro safely delivered the child. He named her Tukitima, in honor of his mother, who had taught him the way of the shaman. Don Pedro worked the songs, incantations, and herbs into Louise, but at last he could not stop her bleeding. Benjamin stroked her hair, covered her face with kisses. Hours later Louise died in his arms. The soft midday air lifted Benjamin’s laments over the treetops and mountains and pulled the sun down from the sky. Don Pedro, sensing Charles’s looming arrival, feared for his grandson’s life. He pleaded with Benjamin to leave, to save himself and his daughter. Benjamin would not let go of Louise. At dusk Don Pedro took up Louise’s carpetbag, placed his great-granddaughter inside, and fled into the rain forest. Shortly afterward Charles appeared in the distance with two men. They followed the sound of tears falling, the sun tumbling in the sky, until Charles spotted Benjamin clutching his daughter. In an instant he pulled out his pistol and shot Benjamin dead from afar. The earth recorded Charles’s footsteps as he ran to where the lovers lay. When he saw the river of blood and realized Louise had also died he drowned aloud in grief. The two hired men searched the area tirelessly for Don Pedro and the baby. They found no trace of them. With darkness steadily falling, Charles carried his daughter’s body away, down the sleepless Talamanca hills, until night buried the day.

2006

Costa Rica

WHAT HAPPENED WAS NOT MEANT to be logical. Logic had no place now; it was broken and discarded at the bottom of a winding staircase. Logic had nothing to do with knowing, with trust. You either know or you trust. All this became clear in the weeks following Zig’s recovery.

Miguel drove. The jeep rattled and bounced on a gouged clay road that led to the Talamanca Mountains. On one side a wall of green brushed the jeep with a soft, shirring sound. On the other a steep drop to emerald shadows edged with slithers of pearly coastlines.

She was an abandoned girl.

How strange this hope, this audacity to search for a family history. Beside her Zig twisted his narrow back to face the window and the moving green wall. He reached outside to let the pointy fronds tickle his fingers. It had been fifteen days since he left the hospital. He hadn’t spoken a word.

After the hospital, after newspaper journalists and photographers hounded her about the wall drawings, after Zig’s silence stretched from hours to days, she knew things would never be the same. Something had been trying to impart some knowledge to her from the moment Zig was born. The elastic blue cord that had dangled from her womb to his navel was never cut. It was an invisible bond that didn’t exist with her adoptive mother and father. What they could give her was not enough to make her whole. But Zig, he could.

She let him be. Did not coax him to speak or make him go back to school. They continued their trip as planned, leaving her doubts and fears thousands of miles away. She looked at her hands. A black stain around her nails lingered from the ink marker. Tender blistered spots would not let her forget that night. How could she?

The mountains were as silent as Zig, silent as a memory. Memory bloomed like a moonflower in the stillness, petals uncurling the heady secret of a hidden reality. Here there was magic. In New York City cement and asphalt suffocated the ground. Here the earth breathed. The palms sighed; ancient trees creaked and groaned; ferns and mosses murmured. Deep inside she sensed a spark of something extraordinary, and she was filled with hope.

Zig suddenly whipped his body around. He lifted his chin, peered far left and right, like an overseer surveying his property. The blank, indifferent expression he’d worn for two weeks was replaced with a sharp awareness.

“Soon you’ll come to a fork in the road. Take the right side.”

The words came out of nowhere. Sheri wondered if she heard anything at all. Zig was staring straight ahead, his hands grasping his knees. Miguel did a double take.

“The map says to stay straight on this road, Zig, until
we—”

“It’ll take you up a steep hill that levels out at the top. Then we walk,” Zig said, cutting him off.

Sheri and Miguel eyed one another. Zig blurted something strange out loud, startling both of them.

“Enjenui a medta! Beswanta a joeki. BESWANTA!”

Overjoyed to hear him speak at last Sheri didn’t care if she understood him. But Miguel was not smiling.

“
¿
Como, amigo?”
he said to Zig, confused.

Silence. Again.

Five minutes later they came to a fork in the road. Miguel slowed down. The road to the right was barely discernable; overgrowth and hanging vines obscured the steep path ahead. Miguel reached for the map spread on the dashboard. Zig snatched it out of his hand.

“Tsaku pa!”
His hot words were foreign but their urgency was plain.

“I don’t know what he’s saying,” Miguel whispered to Sheri. “That’s not Spanish. It’s something else, a different dialect.”

Miguel rapidly shifted gears and accelerated the jeep.

“That’s his language. He knows the way.”

The jeep dug into the trail and whined its way up the hill. It leveled off at the top, just as Zig had said.

“Batse!”
Zig commanded.

Miguel turned off the ignition. Zig opened the door, waved his arm for them to follow him. Sheri and Miguel hiked through the dense rain forest, fording several streams and finally a wide river, led on by Zig. On the other side of the river they came to a circular, cone-shaped thatched house. A small Indian woman with long quick fingers sat at the entryway, shelling peas.

“This must be a Nrvai meetinghouse,” Miguel said, observing the large dwelling. “
Hola!”
he called to the woman.

She only stared back. She took the bowl of peas off her lap and placed it under her chair and stood up. Zig walked directly to her. He spoke with ease to the woman. She nodded her head, threw a cautious look over Zig’s shoulder at Sheri and Miguel. The woman gazed thoughtfully at the ground, put her fingers to her lips. A hand flew up with an
“Ah!”
The woman pointed behind the house. Zig studied the direction and again waved for Sheri and Miguel to follow him.

The trek took them a short distance beyond the meetinghouse to a series of small huts set back along a sparkling river. Spectacular views of the rising mountains and foothills, the scant, vaporous white clouds that weaved through the landscape took her breath away. Could this be true? The sun bathed her surroundings in a pure, clear light. Every stone, stick, and leaf gleamed.

She took dreamlike steps across an open field. The silvery sound of the river drew near. Her heart beat louder. Clusters of square wooden homes on stilts were a few yards away. The river ran in front of the houses. A girl, less than five years old, was splashing in the river. Another woman, much older than the first, sat on a low stool watching the girl. The woman rocked slightly. She clenched a thin pipe in her teeth. They approached her from the side, and when she turned her face Sheri froze. It was if she were struck by lightning. The lovely scenery collapsed around her. Her feet locked, her knees gave way.

WATER IN A BASIN. A music box of bangles jingles in her ears. A peculiar herbal smell, then a wet cloth presses over her eyes. Her eyelids slit open and light creeps in. The cloth lifts away. A hard old woman studies her. A woman with yellow for whites of her eyes. Coral, chalk, and stone-colored shells hang from her neck. It is the same woman as before, the woman in the mirror. Sheri meets her gaze with equal intensity. Miguel is at her side, Zig next to him, his face quiet.

“Sheri, this is Alma,” Miguel says. “She has something to tell you.”

Alma’s speech is halting. Her hoarse voice cracks and snaps. She begins to rock and a scent of tobacco rolls off her body. Wrinkles carved in her forehead frown and tighten like lips, forming beliefs before she speaks. She draws a short, audible breath after every sentence. Miguel translates a beat behind her.

“When I was a little girl there was an awa who lived in the hills above the village. I was afraid of him. I was afraid because of the strange stories the elders told about him. One day my mother went to see him about a pain in her side. She took me with her. It was very far and soon I was tired and hungry. When we arrived we met a pretty young woman there. She gave me guavas to eat and played with me while my mother talked to the awa.

She looked very different, different from the people in our village. Tall. Pale. Long arms and legs. Around her face her hair floated like a brown and gold cloud. I was so curious. I asked where her mother and father were. She said with Sibo. The awa was her great-grandfather. I told her I was very afraid of him. She laughed and said he wasn’t as scary as he looked. She said one day she too would become an awa. Right away I stepped back from her. She laughed harder and said, ‘I’ll tell you a story.

I was about your age when I ran away from the awa—my bisabuelo. I was mad at him for not letting me go to see a birth in the village. I ran deep into the forest and thought, I’m on my own now, and then, POW! A snake bit me on my foot! Well, I was very lucky. My bisabuelo had followed me, and when he saw me lying on the ground he carried me to the sacred river. He pressed some corn seeds in my hand. When we got to the river he put my feet in. He told me to throw the seeds in the water, to tell him what I saw—’”

RIGHT THEN SHERI REMEMBERED. Not as a dream, but as a memory as real as the endless sky over her head, as real as the yellow moon in the old woman’s eyes.

“White rocks. The seeds…
turned into white rocks.”

She stared past the woman. Images of river water rushing, a pattern of glittering white rocks rose in her mind. Miguel translated Sheri’s words. The old woman put her pipe in her mouth. She nodded slowly.

“If the seeds turn into white rocks, it’s a sign the person has a choice—to become an awa. She said her bisabuelo picked out the white rocks from the river. He shined them and gave them to her to keep. He said now she was healed and he would teach her to use them to help other people
.
”
Almost breathless, the old woman leaned forward and whispered,
“Her name was Tukitima.”

Sheri
looked at the spot where Zig had been sitting. He was not there
.
The old woman watched Sheri. She began to rock back and forth on her stool.

“Tukitima had a cloud of hair, just like you. And a space”—
she tapped the chewed end of her pipe against her front teeth—
“like you.”

The old woman rocked faster, she drew on her pipe.

“Where is he?” Sheri quickly swung her legs over the edge of the hammock. A weighty palm came down her arm. Its sudden warmth and strength reminded Sheri of the homeless woman who grabbed her in the subway ten years ago.

“He knows where he is, Mami,”
the old woman said.

“It’s getting dark!” Sheri cried.

“That is the time.”
A shrewd smile crept across her lined face. “
Sibo is his guide. Sibo knows every grain of sand, every blade of grass, everything you can see.”

A wave of calm washed over her. She pressed her bare feet into the wood plank floor; tiny roots seemed to stretch from her soles. It was true. She did have a story. A whole other world claimed her, opened its arms to her. An apricot sky soared beyond the thatched roof, silhouettes of forest trees danced in the soft breeze. Sheri walked out of the dwelling into the orange light. How long she stood there she didn’t know, only that the light had changed to deep violet. A high, sweet note sang in the perfumed air like a lost bird. Zig emerged from the shadows of a bamboo grove. In one hand he held a tattered cloth bag, in the other a stiff, warped volume. A white whistle dangled from his lips.