Song of the Shaman (5 page)

“What does this have to do with Andre?”

“Well, Andre couldn’t decide who he wanted to be his mommy. Sibo lets you choose your own mom. He doesn’t tell you who to go to. You just say what you want and He might say, “Okay, good.” Or He’ll say, “Are you sure?” Andre wasn’t sure if he should jump, but Ruby was getting impatient. She wanted a mother to love. So because of Ruby, Andre jumped.”

Sheri thought about the logic of his answer. Ruby and Andre were twins.

“I guess they had to jump together.”

Zig shook his head.

“No. Ruby is Andre’s little sister. He had to jump first.”

He was right. The twin’s mother told Sheri they were six minutes apart. Andre was the firstborn. Zig’s fingers and toes were getting waterlogged. Sheri was riveted.

“So what did you do?”

“I told Sibo I chose you.”

“You could see me?”

“Of course! I could see through everything. I saw you cooking in the kitchen. Not this kitchen, a different one. You were angry sometimes.”

“I was angry? About what?”

“You wanted a baby and you couldn’t get one. But you weren’t ready anyhow. So I just waited until you were ready!”

Sheri looked down at her soggy hands on the edge of the bathtub. The same hands that shook five years ago as she unwrapped the pregnancy test stick in the bathroom stall at work, her fate held in its little plastic window.

Please be blue

little boy blue

bluebells, blueberries

blue heart bleeding

She sat on the toilet seat and held the wand in a stream of urine between her knees. A blue smear slowly appeared. Liane burst into the ladies room searching for her. Had she forgotten about the internal meeting? No, she hadn’t forgotten.

Zig dunked himself underwater, pinching his nose shut. Another question plagued her.

“Did you see anyone else?”

She immediately regretted asking. She hoped he hadn’t heard her. Zig emerged with his rubber duckie, squeezing it hard to suck bath water into its beak.

“I saw my daddy.”

Sheri fell silent. Zig sprayed streams of water out of the bird’s beak.

“He had red light all around him and bouncing gold balls, bouncing high and low. I saw his arms moving really fast like this…” He twisted left and right. Water splashed all over her jeans. He stopped abruptly.

“Mom! Are you crying?”

She was just as surprised as he was. Why was she crying? He’d never asked about his father. Sheri had an answer ready, but the question never came. She wiped her eyes with wet fingers, water and tears streaming down her cheeks.

“It’s okay. I already knew about Dad. It’s O-KAY!”

Zig faced her squarely. She wanted to know more.

“What happened next?”

Zig spun around in the tub, his toys swirled around him.

“Sibo said I could jump. So I held on to the string. It was a little scary, sliding down, down, down.”

“You slid down a string…Where did you land?”

“I went right through here, to here.” Zig quit spinning, reached over and touched the crown of Sheri’s head. He traced his finger down to her navel.

“Wow, Zig, that’s…that’s…”

She stared at him. He yawned, following a long blink. She wondered about the stories they were reading at school. Excelsior Prep was a prestigious private school in Brooklyn Heights, highly regarded and with no religious affiliations. She had him on the waiting list before he was born to get in there. Would they dare teach this kind of mystical stuff? She wracked her brain trying to remember if there was a memo in his backpack, something about a guest speaker or school trip, but if the topic were religion she would have remembered. There were no e-mail alerts, no announcements on Excelsior’s Web site. Where was this coming from?

“Did you read a story like this at school?”

“No.”

“At the library with Leatrice?”

Zig wrung water out of his washcloth.

“It’s not a story.”

Distant church bells rang nine times. Nine o’clock. He had been in the tub for an hour.

“It’s late, sweetie. Let’s get you out of the tub or you’ll be Zig soup!”

He climbed out and into his favorite towel with a huge Haring
Radiant Baby
in the middle. Sheri draped it over his head and shoulders like an Arabian cape. He tiptoed to reach her neck and hugged her tightly; his little pruned fingers pressed her skin. Lukewarm bathwater trickled down her sweater.

“I’m glad you chose me, Z.”

“There was nobody else but you, Mom.”

Zig’s bedtime routine continued as usual. He stood in his bed and pulled on his flannel pajamas, singing a new nursery rhyme he’d learned at school. Sheri read his pop-up dinosaur book for the hundredth time. Even so, she felt different, as if something had shifted between her and Zig.

When she turned out the lights, he said in a dreamy voice, “Do you remember when you were in heaven?”

“No, Z. I don’t.”

She could hear him thinking.

“Do other people remember?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve never asked anyone.”

He drifted off. She sat beside him on his bed, watched his breath become slow and deep. A hush crept into the room, enveloping her like blanketed arms. She kissed him and got up to leave.

“Mom, will you try to remember?”

She looked over her shoulder. His eyes were closed.

“I’ll try.”

In the kitchen were groceries to unpack, food to store, boxes to flatten, a dishwasher to load and set. The alien-green power light on her laptop beamed from the granite counter. Glancing at it made her inbox fly open in her mind and thirty-five new e-mails lash out. If she didn’t take care of them now, by tomorrow they would metastasize like cancer. Next to her laptop stood a foot-high deck of bills, a credit card game waiting to be shuffled and dealt. She turned off the lights. A black hole swallowed the picture, creating an interior pause button. She pushed open a window in the living room and let the wintery air sweep over her drained face. It felt good. In the moonlight the treetops in the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens were like feathery fingers pointing at the night sky, waiting patiently for spring.

I chose you.

Those three little words stood out, solid and incorruptible. She pictured Zig swirling in the tub; when he spoke his eyes were clear, steady. There was no hesitation in his voice.
What if it were true? What if he’d had a choice?
Maybe he was fated to be her son. But why her? She had little to offer him by way of spiritual means. Unexplained mysteries brought her back to ninth grade. Sitting in algebra class, Sheri would watch Mr. Greenstein’s bearded mouth flap up and down, her stomach in knots, his equations like endless gibberish. Her parents were atheists who raised her without any awareness of God. They taught her to value what was logical, what made sense (death and taxes). Even so, there was always a deep longing within her; she was sure there had to be more.

One Sunday, when she was sixteen, she had waited in front of the sprawling St. John the Divine cathedral to see the parishioners pour out the Gothic doors. She combed their faces for some expression of divine wonder and inspiration, not sure what she was looking for, and found only crabby children, chatty mothers, and bored fathers. College twisted her into a skeptic. She came to view life as if it were a marketing plan—a quagmire of personal objectives, strategies, and goals. But the longing did not let her go. Building a successful career, acquiring all the right things, even motherhood could not satiate her hunger. With the volume set on high in her head, she drowned out the persistent ache she could not name, like her true identity.

On the living room walls her Keith Haring prints hung like hip, sarcastic friends, their hard-edged black lines and saturated colors exaggerated by the ghostly light from the street. Across the room were her Basquiat and Max Ernst birds and her coveted Frida Kahlo portrait, art she bought with the money she made from the sale of her parents’ co-op almost twenty years ago. Friends thought she was crazy, but Sheri had to have them. She felt something transcendent when she looked at these abstract pieces. She was drawn to their primitive nature; their almost childlike compositions were like live wire, bursting with an underlying current of meaning and complexity. The Haring and Basquiat reminded her of the drawings she used to make as a little girl, figures that still showed up now and then as mindless doodles on scraps of paper. In the Kahlo portrait she saw a raw image of herself. Not only did Sheri resemble her physically, but also she identified with the brutal honesty, the endurance of life’s cruelties that lay bare in the artist’s expression. Living with her collection was the closest thing she got to a religious experience. If God existed, perhaps He was hiding there between the brushstrokes, behind the electric inks that stirred her emotions, in the feeling she used to get when she poured her heart onto a blank page.

Predictability and order were also important. Knowing Duane Reade would always stock Zig’s asthma medication and his favorite tear-free shampoo. A pack of Chips Ahoy had twenty cookies that tasted the same as the first. She could count on her babysitter, her doorman, her routine with Zig, her reputation in the business. These things gave a sense of security, of belonging.

Then came 9/11.

It had been five months since the collapse of the World Trade Center towers and life as she knew it. The somber march across the Brooklyn Bridge, the powdery fall-out dusting the faces of stunned pedestrians, the brilliant sunshine on the darkest of days was ever vivid. When she finally got to Excelsior Prep to pick up Zig, she was one of the hordes of desperate parents trying to control their anxiety, trying not to bolt down the hallways. She found him sitting on the floor in his classroom playing with a friend, his backpack like a parachute on his back. He seemed oblivious to all the commotion, even though he knew what had happened. Zig saw the first plane crash from the rooftop playground, before the teachers knew, before they rushed the children back down to their classrooms. Something he said stuck in her mind.
Don’t be sad, Mom. Those people had to jump out of their bodies today, but they’ll get a new one. Then they’ll come right back down again.

The tragedy of that day crushed her personal truths. Mayor Giuliani’s televised speech haunted her; how his face twitched as he urged New Yorkers to carry on a normal life—to keep shopping, as if shopping were a balm to soothe us, console us, and sustain us as a people. It was a defining moment that pushed her to the edge of her own burning edifice, with no hope or God or faith to comfort her. Night after night she would lie awake, too afraid to sleep, frightened at the bang of a garbage truck or the slam of a gate. Curled up on his side, Zig would slip easily into a tranquil slumber. When she reached out and held him tight his peace was with her. Zig’s love was transcendent; it was the only thing that kept her sane. He was what truly mattered. He was her reason for living.

SHORTLY AFTER 9/11 he began telling tales about being an Indian.

On and on, day after day, he would recount endless adventures of his past indigenous life—foraging for food, animal conquests, tribal initiations, even details of his dwelling and his crude weapons. She listened with half a mind, juggling deadlines and terrorist news headlines. Life went on despite the turmoil in the city. Still she indulged him, thinking what a great storyteller he was, and maybe he’d be a writer someday. But something else nudged her. Zig was special in ways she couldn’t fully understand. These were more than just stories to him.

Sheri heard the thermostat click and the heat come on. How long had she been standing there? The living room was ice cold. She reached up to close the window. Out of nowhere a helicopter appeared, swooping and hovering in the sky, choppers whipping the air. Her body tensed up in panic. She quickly shut the window. The helicopter zoomed up over her building and out of sight.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

I waited until you were ready.

She thought about Zig lying in a tender sleep in bed and wondered what kind of dreams he had.

1899

Panama City, Panama

THE POUNDING OF HORSE HOOVES on stone streets awakened Louise. She opened her eyes to find Benjamin staring at her. Louise hastily looked out the carriage window, her heart racing. The city was upon them. Their carriage mirrored others moving swiftly through San Felipe, carrying passengers eager to be home for supper. Despite the noise, Charles and Maud slept on, their heads bobbing like marionette dolls. Benjamin sat next to Charles and opposite her. Was he still watching her? Shadows dipped in and out of the coach.

“What’s that?”

Benjamin pointed to a broad stretch of dilapidated bricks and stones.

“Those are the remains of the old seawall,” Charles answered suddenly, as if he’d been wide-awake all along. “Eons ago the notorious pirate Henry Morgan looted San Felipe and burned it to the ground. A massive fortress was built to protect residents from future attacks.”

“A fool’s wish,” Benjamin said, amused. Louise glanced at him curiously.

“Indeed! Fires destroyed it anyway, along with the country’s confidence,” Charles replied, yawning.

“When someone wants something, no wall can keep them at bay,” Benjamin added, but Charles wasn’t listening. Louise shifted in her seat; a smile crept across her face.

The carriage barreled off Avenue Alfaro and their elegant French mansion came into view. Casa Bella Vista was where Louise was born and had spent all her twenty years. It was a grand house; she loved the twelve-foot ceilings and intricate tiled floors, the brightly painted frescoes and the cupola’s rounded windows that were flooded with sun by day and bathed in moonlight at night. Charles had purchased the property for a song from a noble family who had all but abandoned it during the failed French canal efforts. It was his prized possession. But with the canal in financial transition, budgets had been cut and positions eliminated. He was fortunate to have kept his employment. The past few years had been leaner and the house suffered—the foyer needed a coat of paint, stones were loose in the entrance walkway, the roof needed repair. He worked long hours at the canal on the administration changes and kept himself preoccupied from sunrise to sunset. Tonight their street was empty except for one coachman waiting for his fare. The air was warm and salty when the gleaming glass-paned door opened. Rosa, their housekeeper, greeted them with slippers and hand towels. Short, stout, and stiff-lipped, her smile faded as Benjamin stepped into the foyer.

“Rosa, this is Benjamin, Don Pedro’s grandson,” Charles announced. “He will be staying with us for a few nights, attending to Maud and her asthma. Please see to his needs.” He wiped his face and hands on the cloth with a sense of conciliation. “After dinner prepare the guest bedroom upstairs. We are all famished and tired as well.”

“Sí, Señor Lindo.” Rosa paused, looking perplexed. “Buenas noches,” she said dryly, handing Benjamin a towel.

“Buenas noches, Señora. Gracias,” Benjamin replied politely, touching the towel to his forehead. Rosa looked him up and down with suspicion. Louise could plainly read her thoughts: a working-class
mestizo
from the rain forest—a so-called shaman. Native Panamanians who embraced Christianity shunned shamanism and its culture, at least until their health failed and they could not afford the costly doctors’ fees. Rosa had worried about Charles taking Maud to see an awa. She too pandered to her delicate little mistress.

Before dinner was served Maud said she was not feeling well and went directly to her room. The night air disturbed her breathing again. Louise instructed Rosa to boil sweet plantains for Maud to eat in bed. At the dinner table Benjamin ate nothing. He appeared to be listening closely to Maud’s sporadic cough. When Rosa came out of the kitchen with Maud’s supper he excused himself and followed her upstairs, leaving Louise to dine in silence with her father.

A second night of drumming and chanting began. The rhythmic sounds spilled out the open windows to the streets below. Passersby would stop and look up at the terrace in wonder, straining to see who was beating out the magnetic tempo. Eucalyptus and other strong herbs boiled in pots on the stove, the scent adding an atmosphere of mystery to every corner of the house. Charles, catching up on paperwork in the library, had shut his door to the ritual happenings. Louise sat in a corner of Maud’s room. Her sketchbook on her lap, she dutifully took notes, as Charles had instructed, keeping track of Maud’s treatments. But after a few pages she tired of words. No longer focused on the ritual, her eyes took in the smoothness of Benjamin’s skin, his lean and graceful movements around the room, the intensity of his concentration. Her pencil began to drift, outlining the subtle curves and shades of his face in the mellow lamplight.

Though he seldom spoke, his face was quite expressive. There was an honesty and confidence behind his closed lips. He passed the carved mahogany settee in the parlor, the eight-foot gilded mirror by the front entrance, even the imported French dresser and headboard in Maud’s bedroom, without noticing their luxury. The young shaman attended to Maud with a single-minded coolness. Louise sketched an outline of his profile in quick strokes. Every so often he caught her watching him, and she automatically scribbled a few words on the page. His eyes would linger a moment on her. How must she look with her unruly hair and bushy eyebrows? Charles’s appearance in the doorway put an end to her musing.

“How is Maud feeling?” He strained to see in the faintly lit room.

“She’s stable now, her cough has quieted.” Louise closed her sketchbook.

“I’ve given her a tea to help her sleep,” Benjamin said.

Satisfied with the answer, Charles went back to the library. Maud finally fell asleep with a low rattling in her chest, and Benjamin and Louise went into the hallway to talk.

“Your sister’s spirit is willing, but the hostile forces surrounding her are strong.” Benjamin tightened the bundle of herbs and picked up his drum. He showed no signs of fatigue, though he had little rest.

“But she is getting better—I can see that. It’s just a matter of time.” Crushed leaves tumbled out of Benjamin’s sack onto the floor. They both reached down to pick them up and bumped heads. Pardons were promptly exchanged, and this time she didn’t blush. He smelled like the rich earth from his village.

“I can’t judge how long it will take. I only know Sibo’s signs. So far I have seen a few, but not all.”

Rosa had gone home for the evening and left tea and biscuits on the small table in the front parlor.

“You must be very hungry. Won’t you have some tea?”

Benjamin accepted, though he confessed he could only help himself to tea during the ritual. They sat down at the table.

“I can’t thank you enough for traveling so far from your home to help my sister. Father is very grateful.” She leaned over to pour him a fragrant cup of hot tea, glad Rosa had not used the chipped china.

“Grandfather said it was a good time to test his teachings.” Benjamin held the delicate cup with as much assurance as he did when selecting plants in the rain forest.

“Is it a tradition that’s passed down only among family members?” Louise asked.

“Not always, but many times it’s in the same family for generations. In my grandfather’s case his mother was an awa.”

Louise pondered his statement.

“But how does someone know if it’s their calling?”

Benjamin sat back in his chair.

“I only know what grandfather told me. He said sometimes a child gets a mysterious illness that no one can cure. That’s what happened to him. His sickness brought him near death in order to cleanse his soul—to wash away all that was bad and weak within him. It was part of his initiation.” He massaged his right arm. “Grandfather says if the sickness doesn’t kill you it transforms you.”

She sipped her tea, wondering how this could be. “But what if he were to have resisted? What if he was unsure?”

Benjamin replied, “The spirits of a dead shaman call the chosen one out to follow the path. If they choose not to accept their duty to heal and help others they may suffer the rest of their lives…or die.”

“That seems so extreme, so rigid. But the same did not happen to you.”

“I was supposed to die in the fire with my parents. The Great Spirit pulled me out. I was found unconscious on the street a half a mile away from the house. No one knows how I got there.” Benjamin touched the linen tablecloth, his eyes distant. “We had a room very much like this one…I don’t remember the fire.”

A loud crash from above startled them. Several thuds and the sound of breaking glass followed. Charles hurried into the parlor. The sound had come from Maud’s room.

The three raced upstairs. When Charles reached for the doorknob Benjamin intercepted him.

“Sir, I should go in first. Spirits do not take kindly to intruders.”

“
Spirits!
Someone has broken into my daughter’s bedroom! Charles gripped the brass doorknob, his anger tinged with fear. Benjamin’s hand was firm on his arm.

“Your life may be in danger…”

The ruckus stopped. Charles glared at Benjamin. His hand fell from the doorknob. Benjamin opened the door.

The tall narrow bookcase facing the bed had fallen and caught on the edge of the footboard. Books were scattered everywhere; torn pages danced around the floor, some stuck to the wall as if by magic. Maud’s porcelain dolls lay smashed underneath the fallen books; shards of their gaily painted faces still smiled. Maud slept serenely, unmoved by the commotion. Neither the fallen books nor the dolls nor the bookcase had touched the bed. Chanting low in his native language, Benjamin found a path through the debris and sat down on the floor near the head of Maud’s bed. A sliver of moonlight inched over to where Louise and Charles stood in the doorway. She could barely see Benjamin; his figure became a deep, shapeless mass, his intonations a haunting lullaby. Were there really spirits that caused the mayhem? How could he have known? Charles, trying to be stoic, took repeated steps back and forth, muttering something about Rosa forgetting to close the windows, the strong evening breeze this time of year…

Louise sank down to the floor in wonder. The house was so completely still that she became aware of her shallow breath, her fists pressed against her chest. Slowly her fingers unfurled listening to Benjamin and his song.