They Called Us Shaman

by Corinne Beenfield

  THEY CALLED US SHAMAN

  CORINNE BEENFIELD

  For Elleny, of course.

  Copyright 2019 by Corinne Beenfield

  Cover design by Erin Dameron Hill/ EDH Graphics

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the author’s permission constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for reviewing purposes), prior written permission should be obtained by contacting the author at corinnebeenfield@gmail.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Corinne Beenfield

  Printed in the United States of America

  Table of Contents:

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Author’s Note

  There is a place where there is no true loss, where even the dead live on. Where heaven can be made into hell, and a hell can be made into a heaven. It consists of flowing waters—at some moments, sparkling with light, and at other moments, deep enough to drown in.

  This place is called memories.

  It is here that I must slowly sift, the cool river flowing about me on all sides. I search through rounded pebbles, not sure if I will find the answers I need in my dripping hands. But this I do know.

  I will recognize gold when I see it.

  ONE

  Tuscan Italy, April 1457 A.D.

  I discovered that I could transform into animals the way a newborn discovers their fingers and toes. Though I’d never felt something was missing, what I had found was as much a part of me as my own limbs and movements.

  I was six years old, and Mama had been up all night tending to a woman whose newborn came without a cry. Though he was blue and quiet, his miracle was that he came to my mama. My mama, who knew never to give up while there was still a faint heartbeat. Somehow she understood what it took to pull infants from death’s cold grasp and place them back in their mothers’ arms, getting pinker by the minute. Mama said she never had magic and she doesn’t know where I got it from, but her gifts always seemed pretty inexplicable to me.

  I remember, that day years ago, our heavy wooden door swinging open without hesitation and her coming in with the morning light. She rushed to my bed and scooped me into her arms as though I was still an infant. I was young enough that I could still fit somewhat on her lap, though my knees and elbows dangled around her embrace. It wasn’t the first time she had come home this absorbed. Each time she delivered a blue baby, she was reminded of my own birth, and how lucky she felt when I finally let out that innocent scream from the shock of cold air and real world. Me, her first and only miracle child before my father died a year later.

  That early morning, overflowing from her lap, I had laid my head on her shoulder, and she had rested her chin on top of my chestnut hair as she spoke.

  “I couldn’t sleep knowing I’d be missing a beautiful morning like this with my sweet Joanna. Let’s wrap up the bread and cheese and disappear into the countryside, shall we?”

  So through the Tuscan hills I had held her hand, rooftops of red and the motherly Basilica watching us go. Though I couldn’t yet put the earth’s powers into words, there was a sense that the earth seemed to be a form of company itself, pulsing and alive as insects caught the light between trees. Not a single other obnoxious human was around to drown out their humming song as they hovered over sun-warmed grass. The scent of wild rosemary hung in the air. We alone seemed to be allowed here, left to unwrap the gift of the morning by ourselves.

  We beat our way off the road to our usual clearing, where poppies, yellow gorse, and wild legume greeted our return. We’d been there so many times in my short years, and still I look back and wonder why this time was different. Perhaps it was because I lay down fully on the ground, where I was in touch with the matted grasses and dark soil beneath me. Every inch of my skin ached to put down roots, to be more nature than child. Maybe it was because of this that the earth could deeply speak to me for the first time.

  Through the puzzle piece of sky in the trees, I could see a bird flying on invisible strings. Not many other birds get mistaken for this one, with its elongated neck and graceful body. Seeing a swan in the wild is so distinctive, so noteworthy, it reminds me of what Mama would say about the short years she had with my father—one can almost remember every moment.

  “Hello,” I whispered out loud. “What’s it like to fly? Wouldn’t you much rather stay with me?”

  The swan flew on for just a moment more, perhaps listening to and considering my request. Then the sunlight caught its white backside as it swooped back toward our meadow, and for a moment, it seemed almost like a source of light itself.

  I realize now that I should have been surprised, but for some reason, I wasn’t. Intrigued, yes, but perhaps I was too young to understand the magnitude of what was happening. Perhaps. Yet I tend to think it was more because I’d struck upon something true and real within me. Even then, before I could comprehend it, I knew I’d found a part of myself.

  Behind me, however, Mama gasped in excitement as the swan landed with ivory wings spread. “Joanna! Do not move! We mustn't frighten it!”

  Frighten it? Fear was no part of this moment as its eyes met mine. The swan tilted his head once, twice, to the side, measuring me up as much as I did him, all the while never breaking eye contact. If it were a human, I would drop my gaze, but with this regal creature, I was drawn closer. His eyes were so different than one might expect—not at all dark and unfeeling, but softer than I had ever known eyes could be. The best word to describe him was “humanity,” though that only means something I could relate to. He was wild through and through, and somehow as we saw into each other’s souls, I knew that he had never been this close to a human just as I had never been this close to a swan. My breathing became softer until I gently reached out, my hand hovering just above his creamy back. “May I?” My eyes begged his permission. He didn’t flinch or pull away, so I lowered skin to feather. He closed his eyes, I hoped enjoying the unusual touch. At that moment, our souls seemed to melt together, as though I belonged with him and he with me. All else was discarded.

  “Joanna!” Mamma’s scream was shards of glass tearing through me. Frantically spinning
around, I saw her face blanch, mouth open and rigid, a horrid silence tensed through every muscle.

  It was my own body, however, that terrified me the most. Milky plumage where my backside should be, wings where I should have found skinny arms. One, two seconds, and it was gone, and I was myself again. At least, myself as I had always understood until that moment.

  A rush of air brought my long hair into my face, the first beating of a wingspan larger than a grown man. My wild friend lifted high above me, our moment over, as Mama rushed over and thrust me onto her lap as though I had just been pulled to shore from drowning. Her hands kneaded my forearm, perhaps checking for any remaining quills.

  “Mama,” I whispered, unsure how to feel. “How did that happen?” Her fear was being wrung from her body into mine, soaking me, yet there was also a thrill that refused to be extinguished. It must have been like when a great painter first holds a brush in their fingers, or a brilliant musician first brings a flute to their lips, and they simply know, “This is who I am.”

  “Shaman.” It came out sounding almost like an accident. It would be the first time I ever heard the word. “You are...a shaman,” she answered with a hushed voice, her eyes steadily fixed upon the speck of diamond white above our heads, flying away from us. “How did we not realize sooner? I have heard of others, but never thought—” She paused mid-sentence and lowering her eyes, she met mine. She must have seen in my irises all those feelings churning, boiling over inside of me, too much for a little body like mine to comprehend what to do with, and she decided not to put a single drop more of fear there. “It means you are special. You have a remarkable gift, one that will change the whole world for you.” She smiled, and though it didn’t reach her eyes, she tried. She really did.

  I giggled in the way grown-ups never do. Grabbing Mama’s face with both small hands, I pleaded, “Can I try again? Right now? Maybe there are other animals it will work with.”

  Mama took my hands from her cheeks and kissed each palm one by one. “Oh, darling. I’m so very tired—it was such a long night. Let’s go back now, and I’ll help you learn more tomorrow. I promise.” She bit the corners of her mouth and swallowed hard. Though we had just arrived, we stood and walked, hand in hand, back to our little home. I chattered, my imagination taking flight with all the possibilities I wanted to try. “Maybe it won’t be just swans.” I danced on ahead of her a few steps. “Deer, rabbit—maybe I will even try to become a hog!”

  Mama smiled and remarked “Ooh” and “Wouldn’t that be lovely,” but her movements were slow and her eyes drawn down. When we reached our small courtyard, she placed her hand on my shoulder.

  “I must sleep. Why don’t you play out here?” She ran her fingers through my dark hair. “I’ll come get you when I wake, my sweet passerotta.” Passerotta. “One who is learning to fly.” Looking back, I see how brave she was then, how fiercely she was trying for me.

  She slipped through the wooden door and closed it with a loving little wave. Alone, I began to entertain myself by gathering sticks into a nest of sorts. After a few minutes, I could hear a raw cry through the window, like the pain from an open wound. My Mama, my whole world, the only rock I had ever known, was sobbing. The cry swirled around me in ocean currents, strong and deep, and I knew she was weeping for me. It seemed to take a long time for her exhaustion to overcome her. I couldn’t understand then why she cried—I had just been given a kingdom! A world beyond anything I’d ever known! But in the years since, I’ve wondered if somehow she had already known what would be ahead for me. How secret my life would be, how no one could ever know me fully. Perhaps because of her own loneliness, she understood how alone I would be. Where even she could not reach me.

  None of that occurred to me that day, but something else struck me. Mother would keep her word. She would help me learn how to use my new abilities even if it destroyed her. So I gave a word of my own, to figure it out by myself. My dream would not become her nightmare.

  If I was doing this on my own anyway, why wait?

  Closing my eyes, I concentrated my entire young mind on the moment with the wild swan. I noticed inside me something that had been added to the canvas of my heart, a fresh brushstroke that hadn’t been there before. And I knew that now the swan was a part of me. Having touched him, I had become forever touched. Changed. “I can do it again,” I whispered to myself. Focusing my young mind, I remembered every detail until once again I was staring into those soft eyes, understanding its heart as well as I did my own.

  Connecting with the wild earth came to me as easily as slipping on a cloak.

  That day, in the thickening light of afternoon, I spread my wings for the first time.

  ___

  Behind closed eyes, I see them. The memory comes, and I no longer am Ramose. Now, through another’s eyes, I see a room I have never stepped in.

  A young woman, hair the color of dampened soil spread wild across the chair she is strapped to. Her dress from another century flows carelessly about her, the only color in this room of black and gray suits. A single dart protrudes erect from her slender neck, the vial of liquid attached to it emptied. Squinting, I cannot make out whether her breath is rising and falling.

  And I see him. Gadian. He walks toward her, shoulders rolled back and eyes confident, as though he is being sworn into office. Squatting in front of the young woman, he grasps the dart and pulls it from her neck, but she doesn’t wake. Producing a syringe from his pocket, he suddenly thrusts it into her abdomen, without so much as flinching. I inhale and take a step forward, but stop myself.

  She stirs, yet still doesn’t have the strength to lift her head. Her voice comes out softer than a rustling of leaves. “Cos’hai fatto?”

  Around me, they all look at each other without understanding. I alone know what she has said.

  Her question rings in my mind.

  “What have you done?”

  TWO

  Tuscan Italy, April 1461 A.D.

  The loneliness settled with each practice, like layer after layer of snow until you are shut in, isolated. For years, only Mama knew my secret, and while we spoke of it and every now and then I would show her the form of a new creature I had learned in the warm glow of our hearth, it made us different, unrelatable. Just as it did for me with everyone else.

  I would watch other children laughing, clustered, leaning against each other like kindling ready to be lit, and sometimes the pull to be part of them was so strong, I would swear off flight and transformation. Months of being socially acceptable would go by—happy enough days, I would tell myself. But each time I saw a bird fly or deer run, I felt a traitor. A traitor of the worst sort—to myself. Eventually I’d sneak out, as though the eagerly waiting world was ready to pounce, and once again I’d soar. Never did it satisfy my inner longing as I had intended it to do, but instead, it only fueled the fire inside me. It was intoxicating, feeling the wind run its fingers through my wings, feeling the earth delight at the touch of tiny paws. How could I ever keep away? Yet like all secrets, it grew, a wedge of memories meant to be shared between myself and everyone one else I dared care about.

  So the hills became my sanctuary. I would huddle in nests and scurry down fox holes, curling my back against the loneliness.

  It was there that I met Leo.

  The first time I saw him, he was just off the path, crouched in a tree that had traded its summer greens for an exquisite gown of scarlet and gold. I was hidden in deer form and could have easily passed him by, but then I saw what was in his hands.

  A partridge, its wings spread under his thumbs. Concealed behind a tree, my anger burned through me as I found my young girl form again.

  I spun out from the tree and his head jerked at the sudden movement.

  “What do you think you are doing?” I demanded, hands gripping my slim waist with a determination that is unique to nine-year-olds.

  The bird struggled to get away, and the boy glowered at me. “You scared her!” He immediately tur
ned his attention back to the partridge and spoke to it gently. “Shhh, calm down now, girl. Shhhh, I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I got you, girl. You’re such a pretty girl.”

  I squinted my eyes, not liking being ignored. Clearly, this boy didn’t realize I was the designated spokesman for the birds, and I decided to inform him. “She doesn’t like you holding her like that!” Gripping the tree, I heaved myself into the branches until I was at eye level with them. Up close, I saw that his hair was a reddish-brown and long, tied back at the nape of his neck. His pants must have been tailor-made for his thin body, and whoever paid for that fine tailoring would no doubt not appreciate the fresh tears at one knee. His face was slender and his build thin but athletic, making him seem to all the world to be completely ordinary. It almost makes me laugh to think of it now.

  “Oh, no?” He smiled, giving me the slightest glance before turning back to the small creature. Her body had completely stilled in his hands, except for her smooth head which gently nibbled at his fingernail. “Look at this.” He slid a finger along her underwing. “The shape of her wing is what gives her the ability to fly. And here—she uses these muscles to flap her wings. Feel how strong!” He edged her toward me, and for once I hesitated before reaching out a steady hand, as though I didn’t already know more about birds than he could ever imagine.

  I stroked the tiny friend and then felt his eyes watching my reaction. “She likes you,” I granted him, lips pinched begrudgingly. His face split into a grin, like a child handed a strawberry.

  Pulling her back toward him, he turned her in his hands until she sat upright. “There you are, girl. Off with you now.” He lifted her to open air, and as he watched her fly off, I peered at his face. Pure longing etched on his every feature as he watched the small wings beat up-down, up-down.

  “I’m Joanna.” I interrupted his thoughts.