Conchita smiled at her husband, but her joy quickly faded when she noticed his hand was bandaged with leaves and bamboo twine. She asked with concern, “What happened?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he answered, wanting to forget the whole thing.
“Let me see it.”
He reluctantly held out his injured hand for inspection by the shaman’s daughter.
She balanced the baby on her hip, then used her free hand to examine the patch job, sniffing to detect which herbs had been used, flipping his hand over to study the other side, finally conceding, “Father did a good job.”
“Yes, he did.” Zachary glanced around the hut. “Where’s Eva?”
“Outside. See.” Conchita pointed out the doorway at the sunlit center of the village where the young children were having fun with a Capuchin monkey, which jumped from one child’s shoulder to the next, playing a game of catch-me-if-you-can. Four-year-old Eva ran toward the scampering rascal with her hands outstretched, only to have the monkey leap over her sun-bleached curls, landing on top of another child’s shoulder. The children squealed with delight.
Zachary laughed at their antics until he glanced up at the sky. Remnants of the shimmering plane trail still lingered.
Conchita noticed his troubled expression. “What is wrong?”
Zachary decided to shake off his worries. After all, what could he do about the plane trail? So instead of answering, he smiled, brushing his wife’s long hair away from her face, kissing her neck, softly saying, “Nothing’s wrong. Sit with me.” He sat down on the palm leaves that covered the floor, patting them with his uninjured hand to encourage her to join him. Conchita handed Zachary the baby, then settled beside him, giving her son a quick peck on the forehead to assure him that she was still nearby. The infant gurgled with elation.
It was times like these that caused Zachary to remember why he had come here.
During the night, Pahtia hobbled through the rainforest using his staff to steady his steps. In his other hand, he held a burning torch to light the way. The moon and stars were hidden behind the dark storm clouds forming over the jungle’s canopy. Thunder pounded in the distance, causing the old shaman to quicken his pace.
He made his way across the quiet village where everyone was safely tucked inside their huts, sound asleep. He peered inside his daughter’s dwelling, past the lattice gate made out of bamboo poles that protected the doorway from night-roaming predators. Pahtia whispered, “Conchita…” She stirred, but did not wake. He held onto the doorframe, poking his staff through the gate, nudging her.
Conchita opened her eyes and saw a silhouetted figure standing outside the hut. She wondered if she was dreaming. It wasn’t until a gust of wind threw the torch flames past Pahtia’s face that she recognized him. “Father?”
He tersely responded, “Come with me.”
She drowsily got up, quietly opening the gate, stepping outside, careful not to disturb her loved ones.
Conchita trailed behind her father, passing the outskirts of the village, continuing down a barely visible path. Branches and vines, flailing in the storm’s gusts of wind, hindered their progress. She glanced behind herself, feeling an overwhelming urge to return to her children and husband. The farther she went, the stronger the urge became. She came to a standstill, asserting herself. “Father!”
Pahtia stopped walking and looked back at her.
She said, “I am not going. Not tonight. I will come tomorrow.”
He solemnly responded, “I have something to share with you, but it must be tonight.” He continued along the path. Lightning crackled, flashing through the trees.
Against her better judgment, Conchita followed him. “Why not morning?” she asked, her voice nearly drowned out by the rolling thunder.
Without turning around, he declared, “Morning is too late!”
They reached Pahtia’s hut. The flames in the fire pit burned brightly, welcoming them home. Conchita sat near the fire in her usual spot, combing her windswept hair with her fingers while observing the storm brewing outside, its ardent breath huffing through the slatted walls.
Pahtia went to his workbench, reverently picking up a leather medicine pouch. He returned to sit beside his daughter. With sentimental eyes, he said to her, “You have been a good apprentice. Learned all I had to teach.” He set the medicine pouch on his lap so he could use both hands to remove the amulet that hung from a leather cord around his neck. “This was my father’s, and now it is yours. Shaman to shaman.”
Conchita lowered her head to accept the gift. It was a great honor to be declared a shaman. She looked down at the amulet resting against her chest, picking it up, holding it between her fingers, still not believing the shiny stone her father had worn since she was a child was now hers.
He continued, “I will ask my helper spirits to be your helpers. All that I have is now yours.” Pahtia opened the medicine pouch’s drawstrings, reaching inside to take out an amethyst cluster. He held it up between his bony fingers. “This has magical powers. Hold out your hand.” He placed it securely in her palm. “This stone holds the vibrations of Mother Earth. Keep it safe.” He pulled out a jaguar’s curved claw. “Not Taslia,” he clarified, referring to his totem animal, which also happened to be a jaguar. “This was my first kill. I was brave and used only a spear. Very dangerous. Very strong energy.” He handed it to Conchita before he once more dug into his bag, removing a dried plant root. “This is a wise root. It knows the secrets of the rainforest.” Pahtia placed it in Conchita’s hand beside the other sacred articles. Next, he extracted a human tooth, staring at it as if he was remembering how he acquired it so many years ago, then, without an explanation, he returned it to the pouch.
“Father, why are you giving me these things?”
“I had a vision, a prophecy. And in this vision, I saw blood-red skies and a snake slither out of its hole, standing like a man with a gold crown on its head. I heard the moaning of men, women and children in pain, lying on the ground. Too many to count. The snake took joy in their sorrow, eating them.”
“Stop it. You are scaring me.”
Pahtia became angry. “No daughter of mine is afraid!” His harsh tone made Conchita regret coming here. His demeanor softened. “Forget what I said. I know you are strong. Let us journey together one more time. I need to ask Maka for guidance.”
Outside, the storm unleashed its heavy rains.
Conchita believed in her father’s prophecies, but that didn’t mean this one would happen tonight—maybe not even in their lifetimes. However, he was more riled up about this one than usual. All she wanted to do was return home and sleep with her family, but the downpour made her hesitant to leave. Besides, she knew her father would prod her until she relented, so she reluctantly said, “I will journey with you.”
“Good. Let me get the herb.” The shaman used his staff to stand up, stiffly hobbling across the floor.
Conchita noticed for the first time how much her father had aged. His frame was frail, and his hair was almost entirely gray. She looked away before he returned.
Pahtia sat beside his daughter once more. He said a prayer while bringing the herb close to his face, honoring it before dropping the sacred leaves into the fire. Smoke burst out of the flames, billowing all around them. The pair closed their eyes, breathing deeply, letting the smoke fill their lungs.
The shaman called for his totem animal, “Taslia, please come!”
From out of the storm, an ethereal black jaguar padded through the doorway, entering the smoke-filled hut. The ghostly feline stood there swishing her tail, her golden eyes reflecting the flames.
Pahtia acknowledged Taslia’s presence, “Thank you, old friend, for coming. I need to speak to Maka. Will you please take us to her?”
Taslia nodded.
Pahtia’s spirit rose out of his body and climbed onto the jaguar’s back. Conchita’s spirit joined her father’s, sitting behind him. The totem animal carried the pair out of the hut, e
ntering the mystical realm of the jungle. Rain dripped from the shadowy leaves as they moved through the trees. Conchita held tightly onto her father. Even if they weren’t in mortal danger, she knew spirits surrounded them—most were benevolent, but some were malicious. Pahtia, on the other hand, was enjoying the ride as if it might be his last, listening to the jungle sounds and taking in the sights. He breathed deeply, smelling the humus aroma the rain brought to the surface. The faint sensation of wet leaves dragging across his face and exposed skin didn’t irritate him as it normally would have, instead the cold austere contact made him feel alive.
They moved through a blanket of fog, and the rain stopped.
The totem animal strolled out of the trees. In front of them was a roaring waterfall. The cascading water reflected the moonlight as it fell into an ebony lake. Pahtia dismounted, then ambled through the dense ferns. He stood at the edge of the dark water with his daughter by his side, calling to his spirit guide, “Maka, please come!”
A ball of light appeared from out of the starry sky, hovering above the lake. It expanded into the form of a beautiful woman, who wore white-fringed animal skins decorated with colorful feathers and beads. Her black hair hung down to her knees. She gave the visitors a warm smile. “Greetings! It is good to see you again.”
Pahtia bowed his head out of respect. “Greetings to you as well, Maka. Thank you for answering my call. We need your help. I believe the end is near.”
“The end of what, dear Pahtia?”
“The end of this life—for me and my tribe.”
“Pahtia, you know there is no death. Only change. Why do you falter now?”
The shaman bolstered his chest, touting, “I do not falter! I came for help.”
“I understand your concerns, but keep this in mind: That which seems to be the end is always the beginning. Remember, for the caterpillar to become a butterfly is a difficult process—one that requires a tremendous amount of trust before the metamorphosis completes itself. But never does the butterfly mourn the loss of its former self, although, for the caterpillar, the transformation feels like death. To take away the impending change would hinder your spiritual growth. This I cannot do.” Maka stopped speaking. Her body glowed brighter and brighter until she was lost in the brilliance, splintering into a thousand sparkling lights, dissipating into the night.
Curator’s House
HIGH IN THE misty foothills of the Ōu Mountains in Japan, built on the grounds of an ancient temple, stood a one-room curator’s house that had been crafted out of stones excavated from the mountainside. A 200-year-old rose bush clung to its southern wall, dotting the stonework with thorny canes and yellow blossoms.
Inside the dwelling, the morning sunlight peeked through a gap in the faded cotton curtains, the warm rays falling over the futon where a man and woman lay together. The man, a Native American named Billy White Smoke, had made his living by working construction and odd jobs back in the States until he ventured across the ocean to find the woman beside him. Her name was Haruto. She was an Earth Sentinel, like Billy, but also a Miko like her mother, grandmother and great-grandmother before her—a tradition dating back thousands of years to when female shamans mingled with Japan’s ruling class, acting as healers, mediums and ritual dancers. Her flowing black hair, tinged with a few grays, was sprawled across the pillow. Billy held her close, kissing her forehead before rubbing her pregnant belly with his calloused hand.
Haruto wistfully said, “I wish this moment could last forever.”
His deep voice tenderly responded, “But then the baby would never come.”
“True.”
“Still think it’s a girl?”
She nodded.
“We’ll have to think of a name for her. Maybe your mother’s?”
“Maybe.”
Billy hesitated, then said, “I was thinking, before the baby comes, we could get married.” He waited for her response.
Haruto frowned. “We’ve talked about this before.”
He turned away, lying on his back, clasping his hands behind his head, trying to remain calm.
She said, “We are in love and have a baby on the way. I don’t understand why that’s not enough for you.”
Billy answered louder than he intended, “Because I’ve traveled around the world to be with you!” He immediately regretted raising his voice. “I just thought you’d meet me halfway.”
“You know I want to be with you forever, but—”
“But what?”
“I just thought that you, of all people, would appreciate not conforming to society’s expectations. To its patriarchal controls—”
“God knows, no man would ever control you.”
Haruto shrugged. There was some truth to his words. “We can talk later, but, right now, I have to get ready for an appointment.”
Billy wasn’t happy at where the conversation ended, but he was old enough to know you have to pick your battles, so he said, “Fine, I’ll walk with you.” He flung the duvet off himself, getting out of bed to rifle through his clothes piled on top of the dresser, putting on a pair of work jeans and a black t-shirt. He snatched his black-brimmed hat decorated with silver conchos and turquoise from a peg on the wall, placing it on his head, adjusting it to make sure the tilt was just right.
Haruto grabbed her scarlet-colored silk pants off the chair in the corner, pulling them on, wrapping the ties around her protruding stomach. She looked forward to this small act every morning. It helped her to measure the baby’s growth as the pant ties seemed to become shorter and shorter with each passing day. She let the white silk blouse fall over her head, sliding her arms through the draping sleeves, leaving the hem untucked so it would fit over her rounded belly.
Ready to face the world, the couple stepped out of the house. They strolled along one of the stone paths that meandered through the meditation garden filled with bonsai, cherry, apple and pear trees; lavender; wisteria; and cultivated roses.
As they walked, Billy admired the view until he noticed several overhead planes leaving iridescent trails in the sky, hatch-marking the atmosphere. He stopped walking, and cursed, “God, damn it! I thought we were done with that shit!”
Startled, Haruto glanced back at him, then followed his gaze, solemnly noting the unusual plane trails. “Was it all for nothing?” she questioned.
“Maybe. Maybe it was a fool’s journey to even try.”
Discouraged, she let out a deep sigh before offering Billy the only advice she could think of, “Just let it go…”
He gave her a reluctant smile.
Haruto stretched out her hand, opening Billy’s clenched fist, slipping her fingers between his, leading him through the garden toward the temple. “Everything looks wonderful,” she complimented him, hoping to brighten his mood.
“Thanks. It’s coming along.” Billy was being modest. He had transformed the neglected garden into a thing of beauty by reinvigorating the trees, resetting the stone paths, and patching the numerous steps that had become hazardous. His favorite improvement was the addition of the medicinal herbs planted throughout the grounds, which introduced an element of untamed wildness and balanced the vibrational qualities of the landscape.
They moved toward the ancient temple at the forefront of the property. The three-story structure sat on top of a foothill overlooking the road below. It had originally been built for Buddhist monks, who had abandoned the place due to a lack of parishioners and dwindling financial support. Its distinct gabled roof was a combination of Chinese and Japanese architectural styles, which, at one time, were used exclusively for those in power.
The couple stopped at the rear of the temple. Here, steps led to an expansive landing that supported a wooden pergola holding an enormous bell—seldom rung these days.
Haruto faced Billy. “See you tonight,” she said, standing on her tiptoes to give him a quick peck on the lips.
Two Mikos, who happened to be strolling along a nearby path, gave them disapproving
glances.
Most of the women here had not adapted to Billy residing on the grounds, despite the passing years. Men traditionally weren’t allowed to live with Mikos. But in Billy’s case an exception had been made, allowing him to dwell in the curator’s house in exchange for his gardening and maintenance services. This exception spoke of Haruto’s status—one that had risen considerably after her participation in the Earth Sentinels’ group.
Billy ignored the other women’s disparaging looks, tipping his hat to Haruto. “See you tonight.”
She went inside the temple, passing through the foyer and bypassing the stone staircase that led to the upper floors. Haruto entered the common area where a few Mikos mingled with the city dwellers, who wore workout clothes and held rolled mats while they waited for the yoga class to begin in the Great Hall. A plastic banner with the words “Sign Up for Yoga Classes” hung above the fireplace mantle, but it seemed out of place in this age-old building. On a narrow table, pressed against the wall, were jars of honey for sale.
“Haruto!” a young Miko called out, gracefully moving toward her. “A priest is here. Should I send him to you?”
“Yes, please.” Haruto always enjoyed a visit from the local Geki—the male version of their sect.
But her anticipation was squashed when a young Catholic priest strolled around the corner. The Japanese man wore the traditional black robe and white collar, and held a Bible in his hand. The gold crucifix hanging from his neck was centered over his heart. His eyes glanced at Haruto’s pregnant belly. If he held any judgments, he concealed them well.
The priest bowed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Haruto hid her displeasure at what she considered to be an intrusion, mostly because she assumed he was here to convert her as so many others had tried before. She politely bowed. “The pleasure is mine. How may I help you?” Being polite was the Japanese, and Miko, way.
Earth Sentinels Collection Page 17
