They Called Us Shaman

by Corinne Beenfield

  But no amount of smiles will fix this. The repercussions will come back in more than just the mirror. Wild Dove is going to die, I realize. And with her, our best hope of saving the rest of the shaman. But in the meantime, they lift their glasses and spray their bodies with fake tans, either oblivious or ignorant that just like the injured man, death is upon them as subtle yet as steady as an IV drip.

  When I enter our room, Ramose’s back is to me. He turns, and though I thought my dejection had me thoroughly drained, the look in his eyes wrings the despair in my heart down to the last drop. He smiles, every bit of his face smiles—the soft corners of his eyes, the gentleness of his jaw. He knew I could do it, I realize. He believed in me wholeheartedly. I can hardly bear that look in his eyes and turn away before they can shift to the only thing worse. The disappointment when he understands that I failed him. Failed us all.

  Two steps forward and I collapse on the couch, eyes wide, hands curled up to my chest as though I could plug up the gaping hole inside me. Though I stare blankly at the coffee table in front of me, I see faces. First, the careful smiles of the shaman here, but then Mama comes. Mama with her arms open, greeting the sun that first day of spring. Then she turns and those arms would reach out to me, scooping me up.

  On her coattails is Leo, the truest friend I have ever known. Even in my imagination, I can only face him by picturing forgiveness in his features. He gestures with his head for me to follow him—to our hills, the road carved out of sunlight.

  I will never see them again.

  All I had wanted was to go home, but I had put even that aside if it meant saving the shaman. Yet our best hope had disappeared between our fingers like steam. Did I think I could grasp it? When there was a higher cause, I wouldn’t let myself think of it, of how they truly were gone, gone five hundred years and then some. But now I can only stand here with empty hands, nothing to offer, nothing to return to.

  There is a shuffle, and then Ramose is sitting next to me on the couch. “Huna, airfue rask,” he says gently, and though I don’t understand his words, they seem smooth and bright, like water flowing over pebbles, and somehow soothe me. Carefully, he lifts my head and places a thin pillow underneath, then I feel his fingers start at my temples and thread into my hair. Next, the bristles of the brush from my nightstand meet my scalp, and I close my eyes, relishing in the touch. Without a word, he plays with my hair. Somehow he understands that there is no better way to calm a woman.

  For a moment I imagine him home, in Egypt. His mother sitting at the window, worrying over the twins long dead, her body bruised and shaking from the aftermath of her husband. Almost imperceptibly, she rocks back and forth, and her breathing is haggard.

  Young Ramose would go to her dresser and retrieve a comb, then quietly sit behind her at the window, the teeth of the comb gently picking out any knots until her dark hair shone smooth in the sun coming through the window, and slowly her rocking would slow to a stop. Perhaps it’s not the exact memory he has, but something burns within me telling me it is true. He can only treat me as well as he once learned to treat his own mother.

  Shifting my head, I meet his eyes. “Mi dispiace,” I choke on the words. “Non potevo farla ascoltare.” I’m sorry. I couldn’t get her to listen. Still, I wish I could tell him something else—he deserves more than fragile hope. Sweet Ramose, who has always given up his peace for the sake of others, comes running into the fire for you, never mind the burns. And whether a father who threatened his mother or the Academy who threatens his people, he has taken those lasting burns.

  He nods, more or less understanding, then smiles softly, no blame in his features. For a moment we just look at each other, not needing words even if they were available. Surprisingly, I do not see my hopelessness reflected on his face. There is still a surety there, a refusal to give up. A refusal to give up on me. Whether or not I deserve that, I don’t know.

  “You are so good to me,” I whisper in Italian, but know that while that’s true, it’s not entirely accurate. It’s not just to me. He is good. He is kind. And he is looking at me as a shipwrecked sailor does to a shore. With one hand, he clears the hair from my forehead, and bending over, he closes his eyes and kisses my forehead—all give, no take. My own eyes drift nearly to a close, and I sigh, his touch steel and flint, sparking happiness again inside me.

  My eyes don’t open, my lips part, and I wonder if he will take my invitation. Does he understand that it is more than an invitation for a kiss? That something has opened in my heart, that when I’m around him, the setting of another day and the cold night that followed are forgotten—he ushers in the dawn. Where moments before I felt surrounded by black, he now brings light and life. I need someone like this beside me. Exhaling, I twist my fingers in his, a silent plea for him to come to me.

  Instead, I hear the click of the door opening.

  Only our mentors have the keys to our rooms.

  I bolt to sitting, grabbing Ramose’s hand as if he is hope embodied and I can’t let him go.

  Azure knocks as she slowly opens the door and peeks in. Normally her face would light up to see us this close, some witty aside quick on her lips, but today she doesn’t even seem to notice. Her eyes are red and moist, as though she’s only just gained her composure. Pulling myself from Ramose, I rush to her.

  “Azure? What is going on?” I ask in Italian, knowing it’s one of several languages she understands.

  “I have to go,” she answers. “Judd—” She cuts herself off, her nose flaring in and out to control her emotion. “I may not have much time.” She lifts a folded piece of paper—her rough drawing paper, I recognize. “I wanted you to have this. I did it of you that first day we worked together. I don’t know when I’ll be back.” She thrusts it in my hand, and I realize there is something else, something smaller than a thumbnail that she is hiding with the paper. It rests on the edge inside, and she gives me a clear cautioning look as she hands it over.

  I nod. I’ll hide it, I try to communicate with my eyes. “Grazie mille.” Thank you so much. I place my hand on her arm. “You’ll make it to him in time. It’s going to be okay.” Perhaps it is a false hope, but if it keeps your head above the surface, cling to it, my friend. Cling to it.

  She nods, then to my shock, she leans forward and gives me a brief hug, and I can feel the dampness of her face. Pulling back, I wonder if I will see her again, and am surprised how sad I am to see her go. Shoulders stooped and head hung, she slips out the door as quickly as she came.

  I turn to Ramose, opening the page in my hands.

  “Ma hdha?” he asks, placing a hand on my arm. The expression on his face tells me well enough what he is asking. What is it?

  I step close to him and show him the drawing of my own face, sketched with skill. In the bottom right corner where she has signed her name, I notice something. The name doesn’t begin with an A.

  Rmthreeofive, it scrawls. Room 305. That’s where Wild Dove is.

  Then rolling the hidden item on the corner of the paper under my thumb, I dare peek at it, and want to cry for joy.

  It’s a single ripe blueberry.

  ___

  A soldier becomes a soldier that first day they put on their armor and take up their weapon, then step out to the fight. Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I seem completely exposed. I have no breastplate, no helmet, and certainly no sword.

  But I have the earth on my side, someone to fight for, and a new hope. Together, they all may be enough. Together, I believe there’s a magic in them.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The Californian Remains, November 2048 A.D

  I lay in the dark, the blueberry cupped under my palm against my heart. Fortunately, the rotation for a Master of Tongue to come to this section of The Academy began at midnight but that meant Ramose and I had to stay awake until then in order to communicate and begin our plans. We finished hours ago but I still haven’t been able to sleep, for fear of crushing the small fruit as I rest. Though the
bedside table may be safe enough it seems unwise to let go of something so important. But eventually I must sleep, for the blueberry won’t stay good for long. Tomorrow, we set out to find Wild Dove.

  But right now, my mind spins, always coming back to that blueberry, its fragile skin against my own. That alone is enough for me to feel a power spread across me, wet and colorful, like oil on water.

  Perhaps there is another way.

  I’ve never contemplated using the earth to time travel, not truly. No more than I’ve ever plotted how to commit a murder. Yet I can’t help but wonder—with the powers I’ve regained with Ramose’s help, aided with the connection to the earth from the fruit, could I harness enough magic to go back in time? Back to that day in the garden, back to when everything started to spin off course and out of our control?

  I could stop all of this from ever happening.

  All the people who have been murdered, all their loved ones left waiting for them, straining their eyes through the dark years for some sign that their sweethearts would return . . . Maybe it would only take lifting this tiny fruit a few inches, piercing the indigo skin with my teeth and letting the sweet juice sparkle across my tongue, for the deaths of hundreds never to have happened.

  I’d lose magic forever—such is the price of time travel—but it’s a price I wouldn’t even hesitate to pay. No question. But still, I haven’t raised the fruit to my lips, for there is a heavier price still.

  My soul.

  Time travel is akin to murder. It is pure evil in its very act. How can I do such a thing? If I do it, am I so different from Gadian? I can justify my actions, but doesn’t he do the same? Does it truly make it any more right?

  My thoughts war with one another, charging with swords drawn.

  Yet how can I not partake? Thousands of lives could be saved, even if it means damning myself. There’s should be no question, no pause. This is the price of a soul.

  With a slow exhale, I lift the fruit and set it on my lips like a deadly kiss.

  “Joanna, wait.” Ramose’s words sound muddled and groggy, as though still caught in a dream.

  I freeze, then yank back my hand as if caught stealing. “How . . .? Can you see me?”

  Ramose sighs deeply, pulling himself from sleep. “The earth…” His voice trails.

  “Yes?”

  “The earth showed me what you were about to do.”

  The hairs on my arms rise. “What are you talking about?”

  There is silence from the other side of the room for a moment before he answers. “My gift has always been to ask the earth a question, and then it would answer me. But somehow with you, it’s different. Like the earth needs to tell me something.”

  I don’t respond, unsure how to feel about this.

  “The first time, it was a memory of you when you’d first been captured and were waking from the drug they’d shot at you. It came while I was sleeping, and I thought it was just a dream. Until later that day. When Azure brought you here.”

  “And tonight?” I ask, fingers curling again around the small fruit.

  “The earth put me inside your head. I know . . .” He pauses for a heartbeat. “What sacrifice you were going to make. Don’t do it, Joanna. That can only be why the earth showed me that memory.”

  “But . . .” I swallow hard, a rock hardening in my throat. “If I could go back, none of this would have ever happened.”

  “We don’t even know if you could go back. Neither of us has any experience with time travel, via science or magic, and a blueberry and the abilities you’ve harnessed here may not be nearly enough for something so large. Don’t waste the fruit—we need that for our plan. And even if we could time travel . . .I don’t know. I just feel like the earth doesn’t want us to do that. Not that way.”

  “But if I do it, everything will be as it was,” I argue, even though more than anything I want him to be right. I’ve grown rather attached to my soul.

  “We don’t know that. Hundreds of years have still passed. Who knows how the relationship between magic and science would have evolved without you and Leo?”

  “I just . . .” My chin quavers. “I just feel like, how can I not do this? It would save so many people.”

  “There are other ways to give magic a second chance.” His voice sounds both calm and demanding, like flames that crackle in the hearth. “The earth showed me that memory for a reason. We need to trust the earth.”

  In the dark, my mind goes back to that night in Cristoforo’s cabin when he explained time travel to Leo. I’d always understood that time travel showed no regard for the passage of life, but Cristoforo phrased it in a way that stuck in my mind. No respect for the past, no patience with the present, no trust in the future.

  Does even a past that is black and marred deserve respect?

  Yes. Few things require such a depth of respect.

  Patience with the present, trust in the future. That’s what the earth asks.

  “I don’t have to sell my soul to make things right?” I whisper to myself.

  “I don’t think that’s a price the earth would ever want from us,” Ramose answers, his voice steady.

  “Okay.” A single tear slides from the edge of my eye and onto my pillow.

  “Okay?”

  “Yes, okay.” I slowly exhale and then gently reach over so as not to stir the motion sensors, and crack open my bedside drawer just enough to drop the blueberry in. “There are other ways.”

  Glass explodes, shattering the peacefulness of the pool. People scream in surprise and look for the source, but Ramose is nowhere near the light bulb that has gone black and smokes behind the broken shards which are left at its base. Hopefully, it will be a while before anyone finds the fragment with Ramose’s chewing gum on it, heated by the light bulb until it’s glass exploded. Before suspicion can point to him we will be long gone. It’s just one of our many “hopefullys” with this plan.

  It’s the cue I’ve been waiting for, hiding behind our waterfall. It’s mad, attempting to shapeshift in a public pool, in the middle of the day, but it’s our best chance. My adrenaline surges so fast, I feel like I might vomit, but the distraction won’t last long, and I need every moment I can get.

  Setting the blueberry on the pool’s edge, I focus my whole mind on connecting with the earth. I’ve been practicing for days, but this is the first time I will fully complete the transformation since learning to sidestep the Academy’s restrictions.

  Closing my eyes, I think I feel the change beginning to happen. Smaller creatures have always been particularly difficult for me, yet I know I can do this. Come on, come on . . .yes!

  I have to beat my swallow wings quickly to keep from falling into the water. Opening my eyes, I see how the world has changed, bigger and in some ways more daunting, but—I remind myself—all the better for hiding in.

  Ramose comes to the pool’s edge, and grabbing the blueberry in my beak, I fly to his cupped hand. He felt that it would be best to hide me in the cuff of a sleeve rather than carrying me. “People raise their eyebrows at packages, and only girls carry purses,” he had said, but I imagine I won’t be the only person who thinks it’s odd to see Ramose actually wearing a shirt for once.

  But I climb into the cuff and Ramose promptly stands and walks out of the pool, where shaman and mentors alike still look curiously at the remnants of the bulb, unsure what happened.

  We jostle through halls, getting as close to Room 305 as we can without attracting attention. As I hide in Ramose’s sleeve, I close my eyes and know that here, with him, I am safe. Too soon I will have to leave his protection, but for now, I drink up the peace his presence gives, letting it fill me.

  “Okay, Joanna,” I hear Ramose whisper under his breath. “There are only mentors here. If I go any farther, I’m sure I’ll be stopped. There’s a light fixture above my head you can go to first. There’s a set of doors, and after that, the room should be at the end of a hallway on your right. Good luck.” I nod to myse
lf. We chose this day to make our move because a Master of Tongue was scheduled to influence rooms near here, making it possible for me to understand Ramose’s basic instructions.

  I take a deep breath and peer out from his cuff, stepping into his palm. With that, I spread my wings, leave the sanctuary of Ramose’s strength, and fly.

  I’ve heard of accidents that leave a person crippled and they are told, “You will never walk again,” but the human will is more powerful than those five defeating words. After ages of practicing, they finally place foot to floor and move one shuffling step at a time, tears streaming down their faces.

  I get it.

  For a moment, fear and tension and the thousand what-ifs deteriorate and I’m filled with only awe inside this tiny body. Yes, I had flown as a bat the day I saw the injured man, but my mind was far too distracted from just witnessing a murder. Plus, that time I had used fruit. Connecting with the earth had come easily.

  This time, it took grit. It took something inside me that was unconquerable. It took my believing in that something again. But like all beautiful things, the effort made it all the more treasured.

  Ecstatic, I land on the light fixture and look around, forcing my mind back to the task at hand. Get to Wild Dove.

  It takes well over an hour to make my way to the room, with frequent pausing for mentors to look away or drones to pass, and minutes spent trying not to quaver in my hiding spots. Carrying the blueberry tires my jaw, and often I have to stop just to make sure I have a good grasp on it.

  At last there it is. Room 305. It’s quiet—even the mentors must avoid coming down this hallway. There’s a heaviness to the air, stale, like hopelessness. Here the walls are bare—the designers of the rest of the Academy apparently kept away from this corner. There is nowhere to hide, and the best I can do is settle on the top of a doorframe.