by Alyson Noel
I shake my head, start to protest, but she’s quick to silence me. “Trust me, nieta—all the knowledge you need is already within you. It’s your ancestral legacy—it’s in the blood that flows through your veins, it’s the pulse in your heartbeat, and it’s my job to help you discover it. It won’t be long before you move between the Upper and Lowerworlds as easily as you move through this Middleworld. You will learn to navigate all the various dimensions until you know them quite well. When the time is right, you will make the trip physically, but for now there are several steps that must first be completed. So this journey, your first journey, will be a soul journey. It will feel like a dream, though I assure you it’s real. It will prove to be both profound and revelatory, and one you will not easily forget. Its purpose is for you to connect with your spirit animal—the one you will grow quite close to and come to rely on. He will show himself three times, that’s how you’ll know it is him, and so you must pay very close attention. This is the first and last time you will drink this brew, and the things you see and experience are never to be revealed to anyone but me. This is imperative in ensuring your safety. So tell me, nieta—how are you feeling? Are you ready to make the journey?”
I struggle to answer. Struggle to slog through the words. My head’s filled with fog, my mouth stuffed with cotton, allowing nothing more than a muffled groan to creep forth.
And the next thing I know, my fingers fold around the small black stone, my face meets the table, and my soul leaps from my body, traveling faster than sound.
fifteen
I stand before a tree—a very tall tree with a large, gaping hole gouged in its trunk. A tree that I recognize from the time Jennika and I went zip-lining in the Costa Rican cloud forest.
But this time, instead of climbing the inside ladder to reach the platform above, I duck into the hole and tunnel deep into the earth. Careening along a root system so far-reaching and complex, it reminds me of long, spindly, tangled-up fingers with no conceivable end.
I’m enveloped in darkness—a dank wind slapping hard at my cheeks, stuffing my nostrils with the scent of rich soil that churns out before me, providing passage for my journey. And while at first it’s kind of fun, reminding me of the times I went sledding as a kid, it’s not long before I grow anxious, claustrophobic, my breath becoming panicked and labored in such a cramped space.
I dig in my heels, flop onto my front, and claw at the dirt in a fight to scrape my way up. I’m not fit to be a Seeker. If this is what it entails—being buried alive with insects, and worms, and roots swirling about me—I want no part of it.
My fingers continue to shovel, digging deep into the loam, but it’s no use. I can’t fight it, can’t get any traction.
There is no going back.
Not when the tunnel behind me closes the second I’m through.
Not when the tunnel before me continues to open and yawn—churning faster and faster to hasten my fall.
I flip onto my back, refusing the scream now lodged in my throat. Telling myself to keep calm, to preserve what little oxygen I have left—when I swoosh into a field of light so bright, I’m forced to clamp my eyes shut and reopen them slowly, allowing enough time to adjust.
My body jamming so hard into the sand I’m like a runaway truck. And after a few dazed moments, I rise to my feet and take a good look around. Finding myself in pretty much the last place I expected—a beautiful white sandy beach with clear turquoise waters, a postcard of paradise.
I head for the shore, thrilled to find myself free of my wounds, free of my cast. Allowing my toes to inch into the water, and smiling when the foamy spray rushes over my feet, soaking the hem of my sweatpants before slipping away and leaving a faint trace of bubbles that pop on my skin.
There are dolphins at play in the distance, along with a small pod of breaching whales, their sleek, broad bodies diving and lifting—and closer still, several schools of tiny shimmering fish racing circles around my ankles and feet. Though not one of these beings is my teacher—of that I am sure.
I abandon the shore in favor of the place where the coast transitions into a beautiful forest sheltered by trees with wide, sturdy trunks bearing branches so thick with leaves they block all but the faintest glimmer of light. The colors so vibrant it appears more like an oil painting than an actual place. The blooms bigger, the moss springier, the cocoon of silence broken by the rush of wind dancing among the leaves, causing them to rustle and sway and chime softly together—a whisper of song urging me to keep going, keep moving on.
I follow the wind. Taking Paloma at her word when she said everything has a life force, a way to communicate—I follow it all the way to a clearing I know from my dreams, and I’m not at all happy to find myself here.
My gaze darts, searching for a rock, a stick, something I can defend myself with should this go wrong again—when I hear a low, deep croaking sound and turn to find the raven hovering in the space right before me.
I narrow my eyes and stare hard at the enemy—the raven with the piercing purple eyes, the one that led me to the horrible scene with the demon boy.
I stoop toward the ground, curl my fingers around a small solid stone, but before I can so much as take aim, he’s gone.
I turn, casting about, until I hear his calhing cry once again and find him perched on the ground just a few steps behind me.
Rock still in hand, I raise my fist high—my aim careful, more deliberate this time but just like the last time, before I can release the rock, he’s vanished from sight.
My heart races, my breath goes ragged and quick as I spin on my heels, stopping when he appears just before me again—his curved bill yawning wide as he emits a deep croaking sound and his eyes flash on mine.
I tighten my fist. Raise my hand high. Eyes narrowed on my target when I say, “Third time’s a charm!” Seeing him blink as I let go of the stone, my aim wild, way off—as Paloma’s words replay in my head:
“He will show himself three times, that’s how you’ll know it is him, and so you must pay very close attention.”
“You!” I stare. A whispered accusation directed at him.
And the next thing I know, he lifts into flight. Pointed wings spanned wide as he flies a perfect circle over my head, before soaring ever higher and trailing the wind.
Paloma’s hand on my shoulder, coaxing me back to the comfort of her warm adobe home, her voice no more than a whisper when she says, “Come back, nieta. It is time to return.”
sixteen
I lift my head from the table, tousled and blinking as I push my hair from my eyes and secure the loose strands behind my ear. Marveling at how clear my head is—not at all soupy and thick like my meds made me feel.
“How long was I out?” I stretch my neck from side to side, muscles pulling, loosening, as though waking from a nice, long nap.
Paloma smiles. Places a glass of water before me and urges me to drink. “About thirty minutes—though I suppose it felt quicker for you. Your journey was successful, I hope?”
I take a sip of water, then push it away. Tugging my sleeves until they cover my knuckles as I try to come up with some kind of reply, not realizing at first that I still hold that small black stone in my fist.
Successful?
Not really the word I’d use. Still, I look at her and say, “I met my teacher, if that’s what you mean. Though I’m not sure it’s a good thing…”
That last bit spoken so quietly it trails off completely, but even though I’m pretty sure she heard it, she moves right past it and says, “Which direction did you travel? Up, down, or sideways?”
I pause for a moment, remembering the tree, the roots, the tunnel, the worms … “Down,” I say. “I journeyed deep into the earth.”
“The Lowerworld.” She nods. “It is almost always the Lowerworld on one’s first visit. The Upperworld is much harder to reach—even for the well-practiced Seeker. It took me many years to get there.” She looks at me. “So, tell me, how did you find him?�
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I glance down at my hands, two cloth-covered mounds, saying, “I followed the wind.” I kick a leg up under me, squirm in my seat, feeling more than a little ridiculous for admitting such a thing.
“And your teacher, he showed himself three times?”
I nod. My fingers curling tighter, pressing the rock so hard it makes my hand ache. “He did indeed. But just so you know, it’s not the first time we met. He came to me in a dream that didn’t end well. No thanks to him.”
Her eyes grow dark and serious in a way that prompts me to continue.
“Long story short, someone close to me, someone I really care about—or at least in the dream anyway—well, he died. And my teacher’s the one who purposely led me to witness that death. It’s the dream I told you about when we were in the graveyard—only I guess I failed to mention that part.”
Her gaze grows wide as her hand flutters over her heart like a hummingbird searching for nectar. “Nieta, this is wonderful!” she says, her eyes beginning to glisten. “This is more than I ever could’ve imagined—more than I ever dared hope! And you say the wind led you there?”
I frown. Pull my shoulders in. More than a little put off by her excitement, my failure to make myself clear. “Someone died, Paloma.” I level my gaze on hers. “Murdered by a demon. And my so-called teacher is the one who’s responsible for leading me there. It may sound dumb to you, but the dream felt so real, I haven’t been able to shake it no matter how hard I try.” I stare at her, pleading to be heard, but despite all the emphasized words, she still doesn’t get it. I can tell by the way her face softens, as her eyes grow increasingly misty.
She lowers her lids, keeping them closed when she says, “Dreams cannot always be taken literally, nieta. Sometimes death is really just a metaphor for rebirth. Allowing the old version of one to slip away so that a newer, better, stronger version can stand in its place.” Her eyes meet mine. “If your teacher led you there, then I’m sure there was a reason. Though there is only one way to be sure that he is your teacher—do you still have the stone that I gave you?”
I uncurl my fingers and present it to her. Watching in dismay as she carries it over to the burner and motions for me to join her as she drops it back into the pot, sets the water to boil, and stares into the cloudy mixture of herbs with an infinite patience I can’t even fathom.
She murmurs in Spanish, her hand fisted, pressed close to her heart. And though I stare into the pot right alongside her, I can’t, for the life of me, determine what she’s so excited about.
A few moments later, she reaches for the strainer and drains the hot water into the sink. Then lowering the pot onto the counter, she turns to me and says, “Is this what you saw? Is this the teacher you met on your journey?”
I lean over her shoulder, not expecting to see much of anything, and gasping in shock when I find that the small black stone morphed into the shape of a raven. Its wings clearly etched, its eyes glimmering purple.
“Is this the teacher you saw?”
I gulp. Nod. It’s all I can manage. The sight of it has rendered me speechless.
I continue to stare at the stone-turned-raven, knowing there’s no way it can be true, and yet there it is, sitting right smack in front of me. Reminding me of the stone animal fetishes I once saw in a tourist shop in Arizona—so shiny and intricate, hand-carved by the Zuni tribe, bearing a close resemblance to the one in this pot.
“We all have an animal guide—each and every one of us.” She gazes upon the stone replica. “Though sadly, most people live long full lives without ever realizing theirs. Different animals bear different purposes, different meanings. And as it just so happens, yours, the raven, is a very fortuitous one indeed. He represents magick, a change in consciousness, and the power of stunning transformation.” She looks at me, eyes shining with pride when she adds, “He soars into darkness only to return with the light. He will whisper the secrets of magick—though those secrets must never be revealed. Raven’s arrival heralds the fulfillment of prophecy.” She presses a hand to her mouth, overcome by a rush of emotion I can’t quite grasp. “It also appears that the wind is your element. Oh, nieta!” she cries, her voice hoarse, thick. “I didn’t expect you to determine that so quickly, which is why I didn’t bother to mention it. That sort of thing usually comes much later in the training. This is very unexpected, to be sure.”
“Is that … good?” I ask, still trying to make sense of the rock and her words, but feeling more confused than ever.
“It is more than good!” She smiles, hands clasped together. “It is wonderful! Though I suppose I should have guessed. You come from a very strong bloodline—a bloodline that contains powerful magick on both sides. And, in addition, you’re infused with Django’s untapped potential, it had to go somewhere, so it found its way to you,” she says, her words triggering a question I didn’t think to ask until now.
“When you say ‘a very strong bloodline with powerful magick on both sides…’”
Paloma shoots me an apprehensive look, as though she already senses the question to come, which she probably does.
“What does that mean? Who is Django’s father—my grandfather?”
She sighs, her voice as resigned as her face when she says, “His name is Alejandro.”
I lean toward her. “Is—so he’s still alive then?” Brightening at the idea of having two living grandparents.
“No, nieta. Sadly, he is not alive in the way that you mean. Though, like Django, his presence is everywhere, which is why I refuse to refer to him in the past tense. Alejandro and I were brought together for a purpose. His family hails from a long line of very powerful shamans—Alejandro was known as a Jaguar Shaman of the highest order. Our match was arranged by our parents in the hopes that our union would result in offspring bearing the kind of gifts I’m seeing in you. Though it wasn’t long before we grew to love each other, which is why I was devastated when he was called back to Brazil on a family emergency only to have his plane crash shortly after takeoff. It wasn’t long after when I learned I was pregnant—not unlike what happened with Jennika and Django. I’m afraid Seekers aren’t known for their happy, long-standing unions, nieta. That’s a part of the legacy I hope you’ll escape.”
It takes a moment to digest—three grandparents lost to a plane crash—Paloma discovering she was pregnant just after losing him—what a strange way history has of repeating itself.
“It’s no accident, nieta.” She addresses the thoughts I failed to speak. “The dark forces are responsible for these tragedies. It’s their attempt to prevent us from producing offspring who will one day join the fight against them. But both times they were too late, a child was already well on the way—one of them you.”
“So, that’s why you think I’m advancing so quickly—because of all this untapped potential that’s finally unleashed?”
Paloma’s face lifts, her sadness easing when she says, “To heed the call of the windsong on one’s first journey…” She shakes her head as her gaze travels a very long distance. “It is virtually unheard of. You know this makes you a Wind Dancer, nieta? Which means the wind is your elemental teacher. If you honor it, follow its song, it will never steer you wrong. The wind is a powerful force, one to be reckoned with, for sure. And as it turns out, soon, much sooner than I thought, you will be a force to be reckoned with too. You have surpassed all my expectations. You have accomplished in one single journey far more than any of your ancestors before you.”
I pick at the ribbed hem of my sweatshirt, wishing I could drum up the same kind of excitement but unable to get there.
She’s wrong about the dream. No one was reborn. Nor were they transformed. The boy was slain pure and simple—left for dead in my arms. And Raven’s the one who forced me to be there.
“I’ve been having that dream for a while now.” I pause, my eyes meeting hers. “The first night I came here, I had it again, and that was when I watched the boy die. The other times were more…” I strugg
le to find the right word, a grandmother-friendly word. “Well, the other dreams were more playful … more romantic. But the last one was more like an expanded version. It had an actual beginning, middle, and a very unfortunate end.”
She nods, her gaze urging me on.
“I saw the boys that night at the Rabbit Hole, and then, just now, I saw one of them when I was at the gas station with Chay. It’s the eyes that give them away. In the dream they’re a strange icy-blue—and while one boy’s eyes reflect, the other one, the evil one, his absorb like a void—and it’s the same in waking life too. I don’t know why I’m dreaming about them—about real people I’ve never actually met. I don’t know what any of it means, but the thing is, the boy who died in the dream—he didn’t transform and he wasn’t reborn. His soul was stolen, pure and simple. So if this dream is supposed to be prophetic, I want nothing to do with it. It was horrible to watch, there was no way to save him, and I can’t help thinking if I hadn’t followed Raven, it never would’ve ended that way. So excuse me if I’m unable to be as excited about Raven as you are!” My voice breaks, I can’t help it, and as much as I try to blink back the tears, one still gets away.
I mash the heel of my hand hard against it, obliterating it and all the others that follow. Paloma’s voice gentle, her hand on my shoulder, she says, “You are on the verge of a very important transformation. Make no mistake, nieta, you will return to the Rabbit Hole. You will meet the boys again. And yes, you will even learn to trust Raven, for his wisdom is far greater than yours. But first, we must get you prepared. It is time to skip forward in your training and get you started on your vision quest.”
seventeen
“Make no mistake, nieta, your powers will be great—greater than you can comprehend at this point.” Paloma flies down the hallway in a bustle of activity it’s all I can do to keep up with. Charging into my room, she grabs jeans, a white tank top, a black V-neck sweater, my olive-green army jacket, and some dusty old tennis shoes that belong to someone else. Thrusting them into my arms, she tells me to change, while she retrieves a small, black bag from a high closet shelf she needs a step stool to reach. Then she bolts from the room and heads down the hall, storming toward her office when she says, “You must never forget that great power comes with great responsibility.” She glances over her shoulder, making sure that I heard. “You will gain much knowledge. You will discover the healing powers of herbs, along with a variety of songs and chants that contain powers that must never be underestimated or abused. Some of them can harm, most of them can heal—though it’s absolutely imperative that you always hold your skills in the highest regard. You must never use them for trivial things. And, more important, you must learn to overcome any and all small-mindedness.” She leans against the arched doorway, her eyes meeting mine in a serious stare. So caught up in her talk, she fails to notice the small trickle of blood that drips from her nose. “If someone does you wrong, you must learn to turn your cheek. Your powers must never be squandered on protecting your ego—rather they must be channeled toward the greater good of all.”
