Shaman's Moon

by Sarah Dreher

  Cutter saw her puzzled frown. “That’s the guys from Korea,” he explained. “The Philadelphia Phillies are playing the Brooklyn Dodgers. They’re really into it.”

  “Cutter, what sort of place is this?”

  But he didn’t hear her, running on ahead to a tent perched under a clump of trees.

  Burro gave a little snort and drew back.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Over there. He pointed with his muzzle. Civil War soldiers. They used to eat us.

  “They ate you?”

  Twice. Once at Antietam, and once after the war, out on the frontier.

  “Oh, Burro,” she said, “I’m so sorry.”

  Usefulness comes in a lot of different packages. Watch your step.

  “They don’t look very hungry now.” She put an arm over his back. “Anyway, I’d never let anyone harm you. And I’m very powerful.”

  So I hear, Burro said.

  Cutter came running up, pulling another young soldier along by his belt. “This is my Dad,” he said. “Dad, meet Stoner.”

  They shook hands.

  There was a resemblance, but this man was much too young to be anyone’s father.

  She said as much.

  “He wasn’t my dad when he came here.” The two men beamed at one another. “In fact, I wasn’t even born yet. But he was here when I got here, and he’s my dad, all right. The spitting image, only nicer.” He gave the other young man a poke in the ribs. The other grabbed the back of Cutter’s neck and they wrestled for a moment like puppies.

  Stoner ran her hand through her hair in confusion. “I wish someone would explain this to me.”

  “When you’re in a war,” Cutter’s father, who told her his name was Dave, said, “and you see the Beast, then a part of you has to leave. This is where we go.”

  It made sense. They all seemed to be young. And probably idealistic. Like Cutter, thinking they were off to do something glorious and life-affirming. And then reality hit them between the eyes.

  She looked at Cutter. Such a like-able kid. Laughing. Optimistic. He had a scrubbed look about him. Add him to the Cutter she knew, and he’d be charismatic. “When I finish here,” she said, “you can come back with me.”

  “I can’t go back,” he said, shaking his head. “Not ever.”

  “You came here with me, didn’t you? I can’t let you…”

  He interrupted her. “I came here on July 17, 1970, when all my friends were killed because I made a mistake. When I saw the Beast. You don’t go back from this place.”

  “Not ever?”

  “Not ever. But it’s not so bad. Not bad at all. I have my Dad, and we’re really good friends. And all my buddies from ’Nam.”

  “They all saw the Beast, too?”

  “They felt him.”

  So this was what happened in war. This was why they returned so silent, why the light was gone from their eyes. This was what they wouldn’t talk about. They’d seen the Beast, and the Beast was human evil. The evil in the enemy, the evil in their friends, and ultimately the evil in themselves.

  “Cutter, that place we were in back there, the Place of the Dead?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you happen to see Aunt Hermione in there?”

  “Nope.” He glanced at the sky. “You better get moving. Time’s moving, and you have a long way to go.”

  “Cutter, I—”

  He touched her lips with his finger tip. “Don’t. Just go. And tell Marylou I love her.”

  He turned away.

  “Why is time moving?” Stoner asked.

  It’s hard to tell. It usually means you’re about to be called back. I think we’d better keep our minds on our business. Burro looked at her steadily and sympathetically. No more diversions, if you know what I mean.

  She knew. Moving time meant time running out for Aunt Hermione. “We don’t even know where to look,” she said.

  Call her with your mind.

  She did, but there was no answering call, no sense of someone present, not even a feeling she should go in this direction or that.

  You give up too easily, Burro said. I’ll bet when you phone someone you hang up after four rings.

  Not usually.

  Burro said, Humph, and plodded on.

  “Will I ever see you again after this?”

  If you want to. He began to hum, “You just call out my name, and you know wherever I am…”

  Stoner had to laugh. “Are Power Animals ours for life?”

  It depends, Burro said. Some folks are most comfortable with a spirit they can get to know and make part of the family, like the family doctor. Others want a different spirit for every occasion—a specialist, you might say. Some, like your Native peoples, name a clan after you and you’re stuck with that assignment for generations. That takes a Power Animal who’s really not afraid of commitment.

  “Have they ever named a clan after you?”

  He snickered. I can just see it. The Burro Clan. Going into battle for the Burro Clan. They’d be laughed out of the Nation.

  “Burro Clan sounds just fine to me,” Stoner said. “I’d join in a minute.”

  Well, that’s mighty nice of you to say. I’ll take it as a compliment and thank you for it. He nodded his head in a little bow.

  “I mean it.”

  I believe you, he said. I’m having a self-conscious moment, that’s all.

  Stoner laughed. “For a spirit, you’re awfully…human.”

  We can be, said Burro. For all my griping, I do enjoy your race.

  “And I admire yours,” Stoner said.

  The trees thinned out, and soon they entered a field of cropped and harvested wheat. There was no visible path.

  “Excuse me,” Stoner asked a little apprehensively, “but how do we know we’re going in the right direction?”

  How do we know we’re not? I’ll let you in on a secret: when the chips are down, just lay back and put your faith in the Big One.

  “God?”

  Personally, I prefer Great Spirit. Less gender bias.

  “I don’t believe it,” Stoner said with a laugh. “A politically correct Power Animal.”

  Comes from spending too much time inside human heads.

  The wheat stubble grew higher and thicker as they walked along. First to her calves, then her knees, then her hips. Her anxiety grew with the wheat.

  “Burro, tell me the truth. Do you really know where we’re going?”

  No, I don’t know. But it feels right.

  Stoner groaned. “Just like a man.”

  The wheat had reached her waist. It swished and crackled with every step. She couldn’t see the ground any more, and tried not to think of what else she might be walking on.

  When it began to prickle her chin, she had to stop. “This is making me really nervous. It’ll be over my head in a minute.”

  Burro turned around and came to stand beside her. Hop on. I’ll carry you.

  “No,” she said, her imagination conjuring up visions of large, heavy men straddling the little animals, their feet nearly scraping on the ground. It was supposed to be funny. She’d never found the humor in it. She’d always felt sorry for the donkeys, being forced to undergo that humiliation. “It wouldn’t be right.”

  Why not?

  “I’m too big and too heavy for you.”

  We carry heavy loads. That’s why we’re built this way.

  “I can’t do it.”

  It was good enough for your Jesus.

  There was no arguing with that. Still she hesitated.

  What?

  “I’m kind of afraid of horses.”

  I’m not a horse. Am I gigantic like a horse? Am I a thousand hands high like a horse? Am I a speed demon like a horse? Am I arrogant like a horse?

  Against her better judgment and to avoid hurting his feelings, she climbed onto his back. With a long-suffering sigh, he plodded off into the lengthening wheat.

  This wasn’t so bad. Burro was sturdy,
and careful, and sure-footed. And she didn’t have to think about what might be underfoot that she wouldn’t see until she’d stepped on it. Birds wouldn’t suddenly fly up in front of her face. Snakes wouldn’t slither out from under her feet in their startling, sudden way. There was just the nice, slow, rocking motion.

  “So,” she said after a while to make conversation, “have you been a Power Animal for many people?”

  Now what? You want references?

  “I was just curious.”

  Thousands.

  “Did they treat you well?”

  You bet. I have the power to disturb their dreams.

  The wheat was so high now it nearly blocked out the bit of cloud and blue sky she could see. And it was still growing. Some of the awns at the tips of the wheat heads were already touching.

  She watched, darkly fascinated, as they began to knit together.

  “Burro?”

  Uh-huh.

  “Are we going to be trapped in here?”

  Maybe.

  “Then shouldn’t we turn around and go back out?”

  And which way is ‘around,’ please? Show me ‘around.’

  She was silent for a moment. “You don’t know where you are, do you?” she asked in a small voice.

  Of course I do. He took a few more plodding steps. On the other hand, if you have any suggestions...

  “Burro!”

  He gave a snorting, inhaling laugh. It sounded like marbles being sucked up into a vacuum cleaner.

  “I AM NOT IN THE MOOD FOR PRACTICAL JOKES!” Stoner shouted.

  Sorry, Boss.

  “Stoooo-ner.”

  The voice came from a great distance, but she knew whose it was. “Aunt Hermione!” She sat upright, straightened her shoulders. “Burro, it’s Aunt Hermione!”

  Son of a gun, Burro said.

  “Well, go to her. Hurry.” She grabbed a handful of his mane.

  Burro set off at a trot.

  “Come on, faster.”

  Calm yourself, he said, and drew a wheezing breath. I’m not Man o’ War, you know. But he did manage to do an awkward imitation of a gallop.

  Stoner wrapped her legs around him and buried her hand in his mane. We must look like a couple of puppets in a high wind, she thought, flying in every direction.

  Just doin’ what you asked, Boss.

  “And very well,” she granted him.

  Her aunt’s voice came again, closer this time, and stronger.

  They broke through the wheat and into a clearing of sorts. It was no larger than a living room, with brilliant green moss underfoot and walls of cattails and wild grasses. Two benches faced each other across the clearing. One was empty. On the other sat Aunt Hermione, holding a small child.

  Chapter 14

  Stoner was stunned. Her aunt looked healthier, more vibrant than she had seen her in years. Her eyes sparkled, her skin was like peaches. And she was smiling, a smile of pure delight.

  The child took one look at Stoner and buried her head against Aunt Hermione’s chest.

  Aunt Hermione stroked her hair and whispered to her soothingly.

  “Is she afraid of me?” Stoner asked.

  “It’s the two of you. Together, you’re rather large.”

  Burro snorted as if he were tremendously pleased.

  “I’m sorry.” She slid off his back.

  The child sneaked a peek at her and hid her head again.

  Stoner ached to run to her aunt and throw her arms around her. But it was clear the child was very shy. “Is this her? The one we were looking for?”

  “It is. She was hiding in the Void.” She kissed the child’s head. “Weren’t you, sweetie?”

  The little girl nodded into Aunt Hermione’s shoulder.

  Stoner went and knelt in front of them. “How old is she?”

  “Just three.”

  She touched the child’s wrist with one finger, lightly. The child held as still as a whisper.

  “What’s the Void?”

  “A place some soul parts go, to run away from pain. It’s very dark and very empty. And very, very lonely.”

  Stoner felt tears come to her eyes. “And that was better than what she left behind?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  The child ventured another glance in Stoner’s direction. This time she didn’t turn away but gazed at her curiously. She was tow-headed, with deep aquamarine eyes and eggshell skin. Her forehead was creased in a small worried frown, as if she’d looked at life and found it unsafe.

  “Do you have a name?” Stoner asked softly.

  The child nodded.

  “Would you tell me what it is?”

  The child looked up at Aunt Hermione, as if to ask if it was all right to tell. The older woman nodded.

  “Tony,” the child said.

  From deep inside her, Stoner felt anxiety awaken. There was something… something familiar... Not dejá vu, exactly, but familiar.

  “Say her name,” Aunt Hermione suggested. “She likes to hear her name.”

  Stoner said, “Tony,” and felt even stranger.

  “They won’t call me that,” the child said. “They don’t like it. But I don’t care because then they can’t ever take it away from me.”

  “What do they call you, then?”

  The child pursed her lips together tight.

  “She won’t say the name,” Aunt Hermione said. “She thinks, if she does, she’ll be giving in and her parents will get control over her.”

  “Good, don’t say it,” Stoner said to the child. “Don’t ever, ever say it. Stay with the people who really, truly know you, Tony, the people you can trust. They won’t hurt you.”

  Tony turned and looked at her again. She was the most precious child Stoner had ever seen.

  “Cover your ears,” Aunt Hermione murmured to the child. “I’m going to tell her what they called you, and I promise you she’ll never use it. Okay?”

  Tony thought it over for a long minute, then raised her hands and pressed them against her ears.

  Aunt Hermione covered Tony’s hands with her own, pretending to help her block out the words. “They called her Antonia,” she said. “It’s not her name at all. Never was.”

  Her anxiety quickened. “Antonia? I think I once knew someone named Antonia. A long time ago. It must have been grade school.”

  But something told her it wasn’t.

  “She’s so tiny,” she said, to divert her attention from her inner prickles. She turned to the child and smiled.

  Tony put her hands in her lap.

  “What made you have to come here, Tony?”

  “Auntie Her told me to come.”

  “Auntie Her?”

  Tony pointed up at the bottom of Aunt Hermione’s chin. “Her,” she said.

  “Hermione’s too much of a mouthful for her.” She looked down lovingly at the child. “Isn’t it, sweetie.”

  The child nodded with great seriousness.

  Something about this was making Stoner increasingly uncomfortable. She tried to pin it down, but couldn’t. “But this is such a lonely place,” she said.

  “Not now,” the child said happily.

  Aunt Hermione rocked her. “She’s an unusual child,” she explained to Stoner. “She hears voices in the trees and grass, and talks to spirits. She senses things most other people don’t. She knows what magic is. At first her family merely ridiculed her for it, if you can call ridicule mere. They called her odd and told her she’d end up locked away in a mental hospital. They even took her to one of the worst state hospitals and made her look at the patients and the locked wards. They told her this was where she’d end up. When that didn’t work, when she still insisted the spirits were real, they beat her. It was only a matter of time before she’d believe them, and think she was bad. The light was fading out of those beautiful eyes. I couldn’t bear to watch it, and there was nothing I could do. There weren’t many laws to protect children in those days. I told her to leave, to come here, and
I’d come back for her when the coast was clear.”

  “So,” Stoner said. She felt sick and there was a funny buzzing in her head. “This is your missing soul piece.”

  Aunt Hermione and the child looked at one another and giggled.

  “But why couldn’t she come back sooner? You’ve always believed in magic, as long as I’ve known you. And all those other things. You aren’t afraid of them. Surely she could have come back before this. And...” The buzzing increased, and she began to get a cold, creepy feeling. And Aunt Hermione told the child... So she couldn’t have been the child.

  Stoner’s chest felt tight. “This isn’t you, is it?”

  The child and Aunt Hermione shook their heads together, very slowly.

  “Oh,” Stoner said. And that was when she remembered. Their cruel laughter, the terror of that trip to the mental hospital, the smells of urine and vomit and disinfectant. The beatings, her parents’ refusal to call her by her real name, the name her Auntie Her had given her and which she loved. They called her Antonia. Taking the name Tony, privately and to herself, because that could stand for ‘Stoner,’ too, and if she accidentally told someone ‘Tony’ was her name, no one would guess. Other people could call her Stoner if they were safe people, but she’d never, ever let her parents call her that again.

  But she couldn’t make the spirits go away. They were real, and they had feelings, and she couldn’t bear to hurt them.

  So Auntie Her had told her to come here, where she’d be safe. She forgot about the spirits, and magic, and Tony. After a while, her parents stopped calling her Antonia. They didn’t call her anything at all.

  Stoner burst into tears, putting her head on her aunt’s lap while Tony patted her and tried to comfort her.

  She cried for a long time, for the years of emptiness, of knowing there was something missing in her life and in herself, of wanting but fearing to believe the world could be a magic place if you looked beyond the obvious. That it could be beautiful beyond all the beauty she knew.

  She cried until she thought her body would turn inside out with the shaking, then rested and cried again. With her aunt stroking her arm and the child patting her head.

  After a long while she couldn’t cry any more. Not now, though she knew she would again many times. She got up, scrubbing at her eyes with her hands, and walked over to lean against Burro’s warm, solid, comforting side.