They Called Us Shaman

by Corinne Beenfield

  Her lip was swollen, the side of her face bruised, and there was dried blood in her hair, but in her eyes I saw power and control. Inside the man’s mind, I heard the thoughts, Normally by now, they’re either fighting off demons or crying for their mothers! He fumed, obviously seeing that was not the sort of woman who stood before him. This was a woman who could not be caged.

  He spat an expletive in her face and shoved something toward her. A bowl that he pinned against her collarbone. “Eat, you stupid woman! Would you prefer death? If so, it won’t be on your terms—that I guarantee you.” He let go of the bowl, but Wild Dove didn’t move to catch it, and lush, beautiful strawberries nearly as large as apples tumbled down her filthy dress to the white tile at her feet.

  “Don’t eat and die by your hands, Gadian,” she answered calmly, as though speaking to a child. “Or eat, and die by your hands anyway.” She chuckled, not at all the maddened laugh of someone losing their mind like he would have preferred. “You don’t like anyone messing with your games, do you? But surely you must see by now. We are doing this on my terms.”

  “Do you know who you are dealing with?” Gadian’s voice became lethal, his spittle landing on her face, his fists balling up her collar.

  “Do you?” She had met his eyes and whispered before the memory faded away, and somehow I knew she wasn’t only talking about herself.

  Ramose had shown me that yesterday. “Portala fuori,” he had managed to figure out how to say in Italian. Get her out. I had only nodded, unable to ask the thousand questions to come to mind. Where is she? Get her out, and then what? Take her where? How could we hide her? Why is she refusing food anyway? But all these words only dry up on my tongue. After all, he is right. I don’t know how freeing her would ever be possible, but we cannot turn our backs on someone who needs us.

  I will never do that again.

  The memory of the last time I turned my back on a friend lives with me like a shadow. I cannot escape it, for in an incredible smack of karma, I have come to live in its repercussions. Literally. Self-disgust churns sour in my stomach as I remember being inside Leo’s head, and I ache for his pain.

  “Ramose,” I had said that morning. “I have to know what happened to my friend. To Leonardo. Will you show me?”

  He couldn’t answer right away, but minutes later, he reached out his hand and guided me to the couch. Setting his hands palm up on his knees, I knew he understood what I needed to see.

  Now, I look away from Ramose and try not to show how the memory disturbed me. Though I know he doesn’t understand, I find words tumbling from my mouth. “It wasn’t his fault. Do you resent him? You shouldn’t. He was a great man. A great man and a good man. All that greatness we’d talk about—it never went to his head, it never stopped him from being good. You can’t find someone better. Everything you’ve shown me doesn’t change that. He didn’t do any of it out of hate—Leo didn’t know how to hate. He was just hurt.” I pause before continuing. “Sometimes good people make bad decisions. We mess up. We let other people down. We all make mistakes.” I stop, realizing I’m not talking about Leo anymore. “That doesn’t make them bad people, does it?”

  For a second, his dark, soft eyes just look at mine, and then he reaches out and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Do not. Blame,” he manages to communicate. “Hurt. Not. Hate.” He nods, understanding the basic idea of what I was trying to say. I can’t help but wonder—is he only referring to Leo, or could it be that he sees the bruise of blame that I now face whenever I look in the mirror? Could he be talking to me too?

  A rap on the door pulls our attention away, and I jump to answer it, grateful for the excuse not to have to think of Leo anymore.

  In utter irony, I open the door to find Alessio standing there. “Joanna,” he greets me—no hello, no chitchat. Just my name, as though I’d been lost at sea. His arm is up against the doorframe, seeming to hold himself steady there. Stepping out, I close the door behind me, wondering if Ramose realized who is here.

  “Hi.” I smile softly.

  His eyes are glassy and droop at the corners, like a puppy. I always did have a soft spot for puppies.

  “I . . . I heard a song,” he begins rather loudly, and for the first time I notice the lingering of a musky scent on him. “It made me think of you. It goes—” He shakes his head, cutting himself off. His train of thought derails, but he plows on. “I’ve been replaying everything, trying to figure out when it all began to change. I go through it all, a hundred different ways. What were the right words to say? I don’t know.” He shallows and pinches his eyes shut. “I don’t know.”

  He pauses, and for a moment I’m not sure if he’s going to go on.

  “What—”

  “I want you back,” he cuts in again, rubbing his face with his hand.

  “Alessio.” I place my hand on his arm. “You aren’t well.”

  He drops his hand and looks me in the eyes. “I’m going to marry you, Joanna. You’re the only one for me. I love you. You need to know that hasn’t changed.”

  I want to say that I love him back, for it’s the truth and I know that’s all it would take for his spine to straighten and the smile to come back to his eyes. But I can’t.

  “Alessio.” I pick at the button of his jacket that hangs open toward me. “I know what happened that day at the cathedral. With Leo. I know what you told him. What you did.”

  His jaw clenches shut, and silence is the only answer I get. But I know from the look in his eyes that he is with me, back on the streets of Tuscany, standing over Leo, words of rage spilling out of him.

  “That is why we are all here, hundreds of years later. He started a movement so people would put less faith in magic and more in science. Back then, he couldn’t have imagined how it would gain momentum, how it would become a very real war.” Where our love became a casualty, I think but don’t say. “None of us would be here if it weren’t for that. We would still be home if it weren’t for that.” Together.

  Alessio turns away, and I wonder if somehow my words sobered him up a bit, or at least made it through the fog of his mind with some ray of clarity.

  “He stepped off the scaffolding—” he begins, defending himself, but the rest of the argument dies away.

  I slip my hands along his waist, holding him close enough that he has to look at me. “I don’t blame you. My hands are not clean of this either. I abandoned Leo as well—I’m also part of the reason why he started the movement. I forgive you,” I whisper, wondering if I can do so and still be loyal to Leo. Yet how can I hold Alessio guilty when I have knotted my own noose?

  “What will it take to be with you, Joanna? I’ll do it.” His eyes blur, and immediately my own follow suit. He runs his hand through his deep brown wavy hair, just as he used to do at home before hair gel came into his life. This simple action reminds me that my old Alessio is still in there. My heart churns with excitement and passion to have this question laid before me. Not to have to choose, but to get all my heart’s desires.

  “Okay.” I feel myself smile. “Give up all these distractions that the Academy puts under your nose. You could be our spy against Gadian! He thinks you are his little pet—we can use that against him!” I whisper, pulling him close, close enough for the sensors not to pick up. “Help us right what you and I did wrong! Help us find a way to free the shaman!” I’m smiling now. I can see it—the image of us outside the Academy, lifting off the hard ground and soaring together. Two black silhouettes, one of a man, the other a swan, against a sky as white as milk.

  I meet his eyes, but my smile fades as I find my answer there. He can only look at me for a moment before stepping back, his arm falling from the doorframe.

  “You say you love me.” I gulp hard as he turns so I can only see his profile. “But what do you love more?”

  He places a hand on the back of his neck as though there was a weight about his shoulders, and when he shakes his head, it is barely perceptible.

 
; “You ask more than you realize.” He looks ahead to the hallway that is empty except for a couple of drones delivering food. “How can you ask this of me?” When I don’t answer, he shakes his head again. “I’m sorry.” He looks at me for just a moment, then turns and walks away.

  I watch him go, knowing I could run after him. I could agree—it is simply asking too much. This isn’t just asking him to give up riches—it’s asking him to discard his dream. All he has wanted for his life.

  But my question rings in my own mind, and with a last look at him striding away, I turn back to my door. I let him go.

  I know what I love more.

  ___

  My wet hands press into the gray clay, the wheel spinning at my knees. As I slowly squeeze my fingers inward, the pot begins to take shape. There is a human need to create that reminds me there is always happiness to be found in life. That even amid destruction, something new and good can begin.

  Sometimes it distracts me from the lion’s mouth where my head is set.

  Sometimes not. Other times, I can only look at the pots and vases I’ve made and wonder if they will outlast me. If when this war breaks out, will my body be dragged and left to rot in the open desert like those before me, these creations in clay the only pieces of me left behind.

  With that thought, I take extra care with what my fingers do. If these are to be all I leave behind, let them be something beautiful. Something to bring good into the world.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The Californian Remains, October 2048 A.D

  “I can’t find her,” Ramose had whispered in despair, elbows on his knees, hands straining into his wet hair.

  We could talk the day before. The Academy had figured out a “speech schedule” with the remaining Masters of Tongue. Of course, the interview rooms had priority—nothing could slow their research. The few remaining are spread out to different areas of the Academy, leaving several large sections to confusion, but the next day they would rotate. At least one of every four days, we could talk this way, if we stayed in public areas where the Masters of Tongue relax, treated as fragile gods.

  So Ramose and I sat in our pool, submerged in three days’ worth of conversations we hadn’t been able to have. He’s had a headache for each of those days from the effort of trying to get the earth to show him where Wild Dove is being kept. “I’ve tried asking the earth every question I can think of, but all I see is the back of my eyelids. It’s a total block. They must have a Cloud Shaman working with them like we had the day she was taken. That’s the only thing I can figure.”

  It makes me sick to think of a shaman kissing their feet, jumping to help them cover their tracks. It’s one thing for us to help them with research, to share our memories, and another thing to help them bury their secrets and hide their bodies. It breaks the most basic rules of war, but now once shattered, it has sparked an idea in my mind that won’t dislodge.

  So now I sit across from Azure, cold with fear, but reminding myself they drew first blood.

  She sips a coffee, the fingers of both hands intertwined around it, her eyes not fully focusing on me today. There are bags under her eyes that no amount of foundation can cover up, and her typically sexy dress has been changed for pants and flat shoes that look much more comfortable. Something is very wrong when Azure isn’t in heels.

  I feel guilty, knowing I should have compassion, shouldn’t put her in this position right now. But this is about Wild Dove’s life, I remind myself. I have to do whatever I can to get her help. And I know, looking at Azure’s knee bouncing, that these cracked nerves of hers might be just what I need to pry my fingers into her and get to the soft, vulnerable layer underneath. She values the Academy for what she believes it can do for her son, but deeper than that, what she has been through with her son has made her value life. Two absolute beliefs, yet that day with the injured man, she showed me that these values aren’t always in harmony. Just as then, I must force her to choose.

  “Empty.” She stares at her cup, and it takes me a second to realize she’s talking about her coffee.

  “Well, nothing says ‘I need a refill’ like listening to an hour straight of pre-Renaissance memories.” I try to joke, using the time reference they say I come from. I stand, walking toward her. “Here, let me.” I reach out. She looks up at me and hands me her cup without a word.

  I turn to the ever-present steaming machine on the wall nearby and fill the cup to the top, then turn back to her with a soft smile as I sit close. “What’s going on, Azure? You can tell me,” I say, just like a friend would, feeling like a traitor every second. The only reason I’m sitting this close is so I can talk to her without the microphones picking up my words.

  She shakes her head, only looking at me long enough to retrieve her cup. “Oh, just burning the candles at both ends, I guess. I haven’t been sleeping much.”

  I don’t answer, but place my hand on her back, trying to comfort her—and stay close. For a moment, she hardly seems to realize it’s there, but finally she turns her head “Thanks.” She meets me eyes, and I know that just briefly she’s surfaced from the weight of her own thoughts.

  This is my in.

  “Azure.” I lock eyes with her, my hand still heavy on her back. “I know how you feel about the Academy, that you’ve placed your betting chips on it being able to help you. But I also know you value life. I need your help.” Though I whisper, I can see in her eyes how my words have cut straight to the core of her.

  “My friend, Wild Dove, is in trouble. I have to get to her. Please,” I beg. “Help me.”

  “Maybe she just finished her work here and was sent home.” Her eyes dart to her hands, not meeting my gaze.

  “And be allowed to leave us all in mass confusion with our languages? No. I don’t believe that for a moment. She’s in danger.” I pause, my head tilting. “And I think you know it.”

  She doesn’t answer, just turns from me and sips her fresh coffee slowly, but I won’t retreat now.

  “Will you just stand aside, knowing that is someone’s daughter? Someone’s sister?” I grab her hand, begging her to hear me out. “She was taken from her parents and abused as a child—did you know that? That’s why she is such a fighter. She watched out for her brother, whispered to him his real name that he had been told to forget. She was told that who she was didn’t matter. Can you imagine that? Doesn’t every human life matter? Doesn’t it?”

  She looks back at me, unable to hide how her soul cracks and breaks inside her like a bottle shattered in a bag. Perhaps, I suddenly realize, it broke long ago, but she has always been skilled at swallowing her bitter pills and putting on an instant smile. That is, after all, her role. Support the shaman, get them to trust you, open up. Make ’em laugh. Make it all about them.

  But then something happened, I see now. Something that made it so she couldn’t just switch on a happy face and mask the hurt anymore. Everything is not all right.

  “I can’t help you.” The words come out strong yet drop to our feet, heavy with regret and grief. She pinches in her cheeks and swallows hard. She licks her lips, then bites the bottom one before standing so I can no longer see her face.

  She’s too far away for me to talk openly, and she knows it. Walking to the door, she opens it for me, then leans back and grasps her coffee mug close to her chest. “We are done for the day. You can go.” She watches me with weary eyes as I stand and come to the door.

  As I’m about to walk through, I pause and lean toward her. I don’t know what else to say to convince her until for a split second, I see past Azure with her jokes and fashion, past her notes and love for science, to the piece of Azure that is suddenly, obviously, the most important piece. The piece I’ve been missing. I see straight to her mother’s soul.

  “What if it were your child?” I ask, looking across my shoulder into her eyes. Then turning, I don’t wait for her to answer. I don’t wait to see if my words cut to a tender red heart. And when I walk away, she lets me go. Walking
slowly, I hope to hear her footprints behind me, but just like when I let Alessio go, Azure knows what she loves more.

  I failed.

  ___

  Cutting the pot from the wheel, I carefully set it on my workspace to dry, attempting not to rush and damage it. Once it’s safe, I step back, but don’t spend my usual moments inspecting it. Instead, I turn and wash my hands as fast as I can. Joanna will be getting back from meeting with Azure soon, and whatever the outcome is, I have to be there for her.

  Drying my hands, I find myself smiling. She can do this.

  Because of her, I find myself smiling much more often lately. Thinking back just to a few months ago, before Joanna came into my life, I knew I needed to fight, but I realize now I didn’t think of the future beyond that. I didn’t believe I would live to see it. Our captors have powerful weapons, none greater than how they have subdued our people into not even fighting. How do you win against an enemy like that? Sometimes those thoughts still come to me, just as they did while I worked the clay, but now there is a spark of light that drives out the darkness.

  There is Joanna.

  Though I don’t dare ask the earth how she feels about me in return, what I feel for her has already given me so much. Someone to love, something to hope for. I’ve never had someone like that before.

  It’s a feeling purer and stronger than anything I’ve felt before. It’s something inside that could win a war.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The Californian Remains, November 2048 A.D

  I walk the halls back to my room aware of every single person surrounding me, the lovers in each other’s arms, the friends pouring laughter over their tables, aware of how I’ve failed them all. Losing a private battle is hard enough, to hide behind closed doors and tenderly touch fresh wounds and old scars. Throw clothes and a quick smile on, and these pains stay hidden.