Shamanka

by Jeanne Willis

  “I will guide you. We will pass through the Tree of Life. There are three levels. In the branches is the Astral Temple where the gods and spirits reside. Here you will learn about the future and meet your guide. The Middle World – the trunk – is the Here and Now, where you learn answers to everyday questions such as ‘Will it rain?’”

  Ruby begins to drum. As she drums, Sam remembers Professor Farthy’s temporal lobe and how it has been scientifically proven to be affected by drumming, causing a floating sensation, and as she finds herself drifting away, she hears a tiny voice – her own – calling out, “I want to know what is real, what is magic and what is illusion.”

  “The answers lie in the Lower World,” whispers the drum, “where the dead reside, where lost information is retrieved. Where we learn what ails usssssssss…”

  Was it the hiss of the drum or the rush of the human soul as Sam slips out of her head like a dragonfly shedding its skin. She can see her body still sitting beneath the tree, but it’s getting smaller and smaller – neither dead or alive – an empty vessel; all that is vital has been sucked up into the branches. Ruby Featha’s chant whirls around her ears:

  “The souls of the children perch in the trees,

  Like birds, like birds.

  The souls of the children perch in the trees,

  Waiting to be born.”

  Something calls Sam’s name. It’s not Ruby Featha; it’s a deep brown voice, old as the earth. It’s coming from the uppermost branch and it speaks in Motu. It’s a crow, but it isn’t any old crow.

  It’s a Torresian crow.

  NUMBER MAGIC

  The masked magician asks you to think of a number between 1 and 10 and write it down so it can’t be seen. Say your number is 6. First of all you will be asked to double it (12), then add ten to the answer (22), and divide by two (11). Now yell out your final number (11). The magician will then reveal that your secret number is indeed 6! But how?

  THE SECRET

  It’s not magic, just a little-known mathematical law. No matter which number you choose, all the masked magician has to do is subtract five from the last number you shout out: 11 - 5 = 6

  The trick works every time.

  THE SIGN OF THE TRIANGLE

  Someone is holding Sam’s hand. Strange, because surely to have her hand held, she must have a body – yet her body is still sitting under the tree next to Ruby Featha. If Professor Farthy’s mother had given him a better microscope, maybe he would have cried out, “Yes, it is scientifically possible to see the soul!”

  If he had a decent set of binoculars, perhaps he could see Sam’s soul sitting on the bough of the Tree of Life. Maybe the invisible hand she is holding is just a hey-lucy-nation, but it feels warm and alive; Sam calls out, “Is that you, Lola. Are you my totem animal?”

  It might be a dream orang-utan. Or it might be Freya, the spirit guide; Freya the grandmother. Whatever it is, it’s a comforting presence.

  Sam feels the draught of wings and the weight of the Torresian crow on her shoulders. As it lifts her off the bough, she feels no pain. She soars through the blinding brightness of the sun – not flying, but being carried and still holding someone’s hand. The crow is carrying two souls; to do that, he must be powerful. He must be her power animal, this crow.

  Above the tree, on the edge of space, lies the Astral Temple. It’s made from clouds unknown to meteorologists – but you have seen them. You’ve been here before you were born, but you’ve forgotten. There’s a reason for that. If you could remember how beautiful it was, you’d be in too much of a hurry to come back, like Conchita and Consuella.

  The crow releases his passengers. Sam falls back onto a soft, furry cushion – it’s Lola. She gets to her feet. She turns to face the Torresian crow, but all that’s left of it is a bracelet of blue-black feathers around the wrist of an old man with tusks through his nostrils who stands with his arms outstretched.

  “Come, little daughter of Tabuh.”

  In the Astral Temple, it doesn’t feel awkward to be held. For the first time, Sam feels it might be possible to bear the embrace of another person. She runs forward. She allows herself to be folded into her grandfather’s arms and there she stays until the icy lump in the pit of her stomach melts. The relief is phenomenal.

  “Grandpa, is Grandma Freya here too?”

  He nods and his hornbill necklace rattles like machine-gun fire as he points to the orang-utan. “Grandma is Lola. Lola is Grandma.”

  Make what you will of that remark. Is he saying that the spirit of his wife has possessed an ape so that she can protect her granddaughter? My instinct says no, but we’re dealing with a witch doctor whose reputation is second to none, so I’m going to ignore my instinct.

  “What now, Grandpa?” asks Sam.

  The witch doctor removes his headdress – the one with bird of paradise feathers two metres high. “We swap hats!”

  It’s a fun thing to do and harmless enough. Yafer looks ludicrous in the ringmaster’s hat – it’s far too small for his hairdo, which looks like a flaming ginger bush. Sam doesn’t look much better; Yafer’s headdress is so large it slips over her head and lands on her shoulders.

  “You’ll grow!” he laughs. “But you still have much to put into that little head of yours. You must go to China, to India, to the Antipodes, then you must say goodbye to your old self.”

  “Can’t I stay here with you?”

  He shakes his head. “Now where have I heard that phrase before? Ah, yes, from my son, the wanderer.” He looks at his wrist as if he wore a watch. “I thought he would be back by now.”

  At the mention of her father, Sam begs the witch doctor to tell her where he is – she’s sure he knows.

  “Please tell me. I’ve looked so hard, but he always seems to be just over the horizon.”

  It’s no good pleading with Yafer Tabuh. No matter how much he loves his granddaughter, he will not give in to wheedling; he has his plans and he will not deviate from them. He puts a kindly arm around her and they walk up and down.

  “Number One Daughter, the more you look for your father, the more you will find yourself. When you know who you are, he will come to you. He will find himself and his father. Then we can all go home!”

  He stops walking. Using his forefingers and thumbs, he makes the sign of a triangle.

  “There is magic in numbers, child. Your magic number is three: father, mother, daughter. Heart, body, soul. The power of three will show itself to you again, again, again.”

  “I’m one of three sisters,” says Sam.

  The witch doctor counts on his long fingers.

  “Three is Big Magic. One guides you. Two harms you. Three loves you beyond the grave. You must experience all three in equal measure.”

  “Must I? But what does—?”

  The witch doctor presses a finger to Sam’s lips. “No buts! It’s up to you to work it out. Grandpa knows you can do it.” He presses his thumb against her forehead, between her eyebrows. “Here is your third eye. The insects have it. All mankind has it. Mostly they are blind, but you possess great vision. By the power of three, you will see what is illusion, what is real and what is magic!”

  As he says it, he chants and waves his arms and the faster he waves them, the more they blur into wings and the more he turns back into a crow. Sam is lifted back into the air. She doesn’t feel ready to leave, but Yafer has decided it’s time…

  Down.

  Down.

  Down.

  The Torresian crow drops Sam on the top of a hill. It’s so steep, she can’t stop running – it’s the kind of running that’s almost flying and if Kitty hadn’t rushed forward and caught her, I think she would have launched herself into the air and flown back to the crow for ever.

  HOW TO WALK ON HOT COALS

  A bed of volcanic rock is alight on the ground. The masked magician summons the gods and walks across it barefoot – yet the feet are not burnt. How?

  THE SECRET

  Fire
walking has nothing to do with faith, willpower or the paranormal.

  1. Air has a low heat capacity and our bodies have a high heat capacity, so even if the coals reach 1,000 degrees, a person with normal soles won’t get burned if they walk quickly.

  2. It’s safer to use fuel that has a low heat capacity such as volcanic rock and wood embers.

  3. It helps if your feet are insulated with sweat or water.

  WARNING: DON’T TRY THIS AT HOME. AT THE VERY LEAST, YOU’LL BURN THE CARPET.

  UP TO YOUR NECK IN ANTS

  “Am I back, Kitty?”

  Kitty holds Sam by the shoulders and waits for her to catch her breath. “You never left.”

  “I did. Lola came too. I saw my grandfather. He was as real as you are!”

  Ruby Featha stops drumming. “Real? Not an illusion then? Not magic? Are you sure, Sam Khaan?”

  Did she have the answer to the three questions? Had she visited the Lower World to retrieve the long forgotten truths? No, she hadn’t. Sam’s elation turns to melancholy. She’s confused.

  “It is normal to feel that way,” says Ruby. “Sometimes it takes a lifetime to understand the questions, let alone find the answers.”

  “What if I die never knowing?”

  “Nobody dies never knowing,” says Ruby. “The dead have all the answers.”

  Right now that’s no comfort to Sam. She’d felt so far from death, so energetic, so happy, after talking to her grandpa. Now all she wants to do is sleep.

  Ruby takes her hand. “Your mind is full, your stomach is empty. Let’s eat.”

  It’s impossible to feel miserable for long sitting around a campfire with a blanket around you to keep off the night chill. Especially when you’re sharing the experience with your totem animal and a woman who can catch fish with her bare hands.

  Lola isn’t keen on salmon, but she’s happy to stuff her cheeks with berries and nuts. Sam leans back and uses her soft belly as a pillow. “Ruby, how did you get to be a midiwiwin?”

  “Some inherit the title – but to inherit is not enough; you must prove your skills.” She pauses to poke the fire. “You have to suffer a trauma or an affliction. Suffering provokes your psychic abilities.”

  Kitty taps her mask to draw attention to herself. “I’ve suffered! I tripped over a cot on the stars and binged my hat when I was a little grill. Then the whorehouse caught fire and my farce was destroyed by the flans. Then I fell into a wharf and almost drained to death. Then I lost my mammary, didn’t I, Sam?”

  “Yes, and you muddle up your words, especially when you’re tired.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You do. You just said mammary instead of memory.”

  “I did not. There must be something wrong with your earring, Sam.”

  Ruby interrupts; it would be a shame for an argument to break out and spoil the evening.

  “Kitty, the fact that you have suffered greatly explains your ability to communicate with the spirits. I believe they contact you through automatic writing?”

  How Ruby knows this, I don’t know. Maybe the spirits wrote and told her. It doesn’t matter; at least Kitty feels better for having her skill and her suffering publicly acknowledged.

  “I’m glad someone recognizes my pain,” she mutters.

  Sam feels it’s only fair to remind her that she’s not the only one who’s suffered and reels off a list of dreadful things she’s had to endure.

  1. Being told that her mother had died in hideous circumstances.

  2. Being told that her father was a no-hoper called Bingo Hall.

  3. Not being allowed to perform magic.

  4. Not being allowed to bring friends home.

  5. Having to wear circus clothes to school.

  6. Being threatened with a teapot.

  7. Being locked in an attic.

  8. Being made to eat scraps.

  9. Being forced to cut Aunt Candy’s toenails.

  10. Having to sleep in a knicker drawer.

  11. Having her orang-utan sent to a laboratory.

  12. Never having any birthday or Christmas presents.

  13. Having frying pans thrown at her.

  No matter how dreadful your own life is, at least you’ve never had to cut Aunt Candy’s toenails. It is no doubt true that suffering shapes us. It may even trigger seemingly paranormal abilities. But could you or I ever possess the wisdom of the midiwiwin; a wisdom so powerful it masquerades as magic?

  “What would I have to do to be like you, Ruby?” asks Sam.

  The medicine woman smiles to herself. “Learn to leave your body at will and travel anywhere on, above, or under, the earth. Then there’s the initiation ceremony, of course.”

  What initiation ceremony? It all depends which tribe you belong to, but here’s a selection of tasks you might be asked to attempt. Do not try them at home – they are dangerous. By the time the ambulance arrives, it will be too late, which will be an appalling waste: I need you later on.

  Initiation ceremonies:

  1. Being buried up to your neck in an ant’s nest.

  2. Walking on hot coals.

  3. Diving through a hole in the ice.

  4. Spending three days in a smoke-hole.

  5. Going out into the snow for a week with a wet sheet around you.

  6. Being strung up from hooks threaded through your skin.

  7. Climbing a rope and staying at the top for nine days.

  8. Sitting in a sweat lodge.

  9. Wrestling a tiger.

  10. Cutting off your little finger.

  Years ago, Ruby had gone for initiation ceremony number ten – she only has three fingers on one hand. Much as Sam wants to be like her, she doesn’t like the idea of cutting off her own digits.

  “It’s not the pain,” she explains. “But I’m a magician. I need all my fingers to perform.”

  “So wrestle a tiger,” mutters Kitty.

  I’m not sure why she’s in such a snappy mood. Perhaps she isn’t feeling well. She was complaining of chest pains earlier, but then she’s always complaining about something.

  “There aren’t any tigers in Canada,” says Ruby. “Choose again, Sam.”

  Ant’s nest. Hot coals. Smoke-hole … how do you choose between them? Is it worse to be bitten by insects, to have your feet fried or to kipper your lungs? Sam can’t make up her mind, so she asks Ruby to decide for her.

  Ruby Featha touches her third eye and thinks carefully. “Forget the list. You shall have your own special initiation, Sam Tabuh.”

  THE SIGNS OF THE ZODIAC

  Each person is born under one of twelve signs of the zodiac. Each astrological sign is believed to represent a certain colour and stone.

  THE EAGLE’S NEST

  Here are the details of Sam’s initiation ceremony: she must climb the third tree on the third hill at three minutes past three o’clock. There is a bald eagle’s nest at the top. She must spend the night in the nest and bring back a feather from its breast.

  Kitty is worried. It’s not because the tree is tall; Sam is an excellent climber. It’s because bald eagles have an eight-foot wingspan, talons like butcher’s hooks and deadly beaks. They’re flying weapons. She takes Ruby to one side.

  “Can’t she walk on hot cakes instead?”

  “It was hot coals,” says Sam. “Stop fussing. I want to do the task Ruby set me. If the eagle turns nasty, I’ll defend myself with the divining rod.”

  She might as well attack a fighter plane with a lolly stick. But it’s almost three o’clock. It’s too late to back out of it. She remembers Mr Fraye’s philosophy and thinks positive.

  Lola wants to go with her, but Sam’s not allowed to take a friend during this initiation; there are some things you have to do alone. Lola watches anxiously from underneath Kitty’s robe as Sam makes her way to the third hill.

  She reaches the third tree; it’s a pine. It looks easy enough to climb, but as she pulls herself up on the first branch, she feels a sharp pain in her
hand; the cones are covered in cruel spines. Blood oozes from her palms. She has no gloves but she does have her witch’s cord. She loops it around the branches and uses it to haul herself up – that way, she avoids lacerating her skin.

  The tree is higher than the top flat in St Peter’s Square. If you fell out of Aunt Candy’s kitchen window (and once Aunt Candy almost managed to push Sam out) you’d probably break your neck. If Sam slips now, if the cord breaks… But think positive!

  There’s no sign of the eagle yet. It has lost its only chick. The chick leant over the edge of the nest – a dangerous thing to do if you can’t fly – and fell while searching for its mother.

  Sam climbs higher and higher. She hasn’t avoided all the cones. Her hands are scratched and blistered but the pain doesn’t register. This isn’t unusual. In the heat of battle, soldiers are often unaware that they have been shot; it’s only when the fighting stops that the pain starts.

  Sam has six branches to go. The wind is getting up; the tree is swaying. Breathing deeply to overcome her nausea, she clings to the trunk, looping and knotting the witch’s cord with her teeth. Using the movement of the tree as momentum, she lassoes the uppermost branch and, keeping the cord taut, inches herself up the trunk with her feet.

  The eagle’s nest is right above her head – an untidy platform of twigs and branches knitted with bleached fish bones, snake spines and the regurgitated skulls of rodents. Sam flops into it, exhausted. She lies on her back and studies her hands. “Ouch.” She licks her wounds. Her eyelids are heavy. If she loses consciousness she might fall out of the nest like the chick, so she uses the witch’s cord to strap herself in.

  The clouds sail by, shape-shifting into stampeding buffalo. She counts them: one buffalo, two buffalo, three … thirty … three hundred … until she falls into a deep sleep. Far away in Covent Garden, she can hear Bart Hayfue singing: “When the wind blows, the cradle will rock, when the bough breaks—”