Shamanka

by Jeanne Willis

  John had made a valiant effort to heal Christa. He’d put aside his cynicism and drawn on everything he’d learnt on his mission. He’d tried using herbs, but those didn’t work. He’d tried the laying on of hands. He’d sprinkled her with holy water – despite the chaos he’d caused at Lourdes, he’d slipped some into his pocket because he liked the shape of the bottle.

  He’d tried chanting, but words failed him. He’d sat with a pencil and paper in the hope that the spirits might send him a prescription via automatic writing, but the psychic surgery was shut. He tried qi gong, pranayama – you name it, he tried it. But Christa remained in a coma.

  Unable to feel her pulse, John became more and more desperate. He prayed to Jesus, Mary, all the saints. He prayed to Allah, Shiva and Buddha. He prayed to sun gods, sea gods, every god he’d ever heard of, but none of them returned the favour.

  He even summoned Lucifer, and when the devil didn’t reply, he called upon the spirits of his ancestors. Like my elderly relatives, they were hurt that he hadn’t been in touch for so long and didn’t see why they should help him out in a crisis.

  Christa lay lifeless in his arms. He took out his magic wand, waved it over her body and cried, “Abracadabra! Abracadabra! Abracadabra!”

  Nothing happened; he hurled the wand into the sea. There was no such thing as magic. It was all an illusion; that was the reality. He’d lost Sam, his wife, his twins, his father, his orang-utan and his home.

  He felt like throwing himself into the sea after his wand. The only thing that stopped him was the thought that he’d have to face his father in the Lower World, and he’d be even more disappointed in his son than he was already. So he picked orchids instead.

  John gathered great armfuls and arranged three of the best blooms in Christa’s hair. Then he placed her in the magic box and covered her with the rest of the flowers. Satisfied with the arrangement, he felt in his pocket for the list Christa had copied from the witch doctor’s notebook, took out his pen and scratched an angry line through each person.

  It was only when he came to the last name that John hesitated. This was the name Sam had never seen; it was ripped when she first opened the notebook – the pages had been stuck together if you remember.

  It just said Shamanka. There was no portrait, just a rough map of San Jorge. All credit to John Tabuh, he’d managed to find everyone his father had asked him to visit so far – and that was without the benefit of his copied list ever glowing hot like the one in the genuine notebook. He could find this Shamanka if he wanted to.

  Did he want to though? Christa was dead. None of the people he’d seen had convinced him that resurrection was possible – quite the opposite in fact. He sucked the end of his pen, cursed his father and scribbled out the last name furiously.

  Only it refused to be obliterated. The ink from his pen wouldn’t stick to the paper; it formed little blue beads, which popped and vanished. Perhaps there was a drop of grease on the page. He felt with his thumb, but the paper was clean.

  He reached for his pencil instead, and pressed so hard he almost made a hole. He blanked out “Shamanka” with dozens of thick black strokes, and when he could no longer see the name, he shouted, “There!” as if to imply that no one could make him do anything he didn’t want to any more.

  He was about to rip the list out of his notebook and screw it up when he noticed something very odd: his pencil strokes were moving. He blinked, but they were definitely moving. They were forming a fuzzy queue and were sliding off the page. He snapped the book shut to trap them, but they were too quick; they slipped out and escaped across the sand.

  John’s immediate thought was that he must be seeing things; he hadn’t eaten or slept for days. It was a possibility. He took a deep breath and opened the book again.

  SHAMANKA!

  It was still there, as bold as ever, as if it were screaming at him. The witch doctor would be heard – he would be obeyed, because he was John’s father. But John didn’t believe in the old magic. There had to be a logical reason for the ink and pencil marks to disappear, possibly to do with the texture of the paper and the reaction of sunlight on pigment.

  The Dark Prince told himself this but something in his subconscious said otherwise. Before he knew it, he was reaching for his knife and looking for a suitable log to turn into a dugout canoe big enough to carry him and his magic box to San Jorge.

  The moon is up. A group of Melanesians are waiting for John Tabuh. They don’t know who he is, but they’ve been sitting at the edge of the coral reef for hours, reading the waves. They know the ripples are caused by a small craft with a heavy cargo. By studying the distance between each wave, they’ve estimated that he’ll arrive any minute.

  Here he comes now! The Melanesians greet him noisily. They jump into the water and help him drag the mwa sawah onto the sand, which is littered with pale pink shells. They’re fascinated by the ornate, coffin-shaped box; what’s in it? John Tabuh clutches his heart.

  “My wife.”

  “Ah!”

  They can tell by his face that she lies dead inside the box and are bemused. They don’t put their dead in boxes here; they leave them on the reef for the sharks to take and they suggest to John that this would be a most charming ending for his woman.

  Or why not leave her body to decompose in the canoe? That’s another tradition of theirs. He could collect her bones when the birds had picked them clean and make a nice shrine. There are many such shrines on the island, some with complete skeletons of their great, great, great grandfathers; would he like to see them?

  John thanks them but says he has other plans. He has come here to find someone. Is there a Shamanka living on this island? At the mention of the name, the Melanesians let out a unanimous shriek, cover their eyes and fall to their knees. Terrified as they obviously are, John persists.

  “Could your Shamanka bring my wife back to life?”

  They beat their breasts in anguish. Don’t even think about it! If you ask Shamanka to bring back the dead, you will incur the wrath of the spirits; they will seek terrible revenge on you!

  John tries to picture what form this revenge might take. He conjures up several images that make his eyes water, but as he doesn’t believe in spirits, he says to the Melanesians, “I will sacrifice my soul if Shamanka can resurrect my wife.”

  He’s joking. It isn’t a very funny joke, putting himself up for sacrifice, but he’s feeling frivolous. It’s the kind of euphoria that often creeps up on mourners after a funeral. They catch themselves laughing, yet moments ago they swore they’d never smile again. Grief is so two-faced.

  John is certain Christa’s resurrection won’t happen anyway. She’s dead; death is final. But now that he’s here, he might as well see Shamanka and get the whole nonsense over with. Afterwards, he will find a beautiful spot and bury his wife the western way. Having done that, he has decided to Live Life Dangerously. He will swim three times a day in shark-infested water. He will eat puffer fish. He will visit the frozen wastes without a coat and while he’s there, he will stroke hungry polar bears.

  According to Bart Hayfue, if you live this dangerously, statistically you’ll soon be killed. It’s hard to say how soon though, because luck always comes into the equation. The sharks might be vegans. You might be immune to puffer fish poison. The polar bears might be friendly.

  John hopes his luck will run out soon. He can’t see the point of living any more, and if he’s killed by sharks, poison or polar bears, his father can hardly accuse him of suicide. If he bumps into Yafer in the Lower World, he can tell him with a clear conscience that he suffered a fatal accident whilst engaged in Manly Pursuits. Maybe they’d be able to patch things up in the afterlife and do some bonding.

  Please excuse the Dark Prince’s mental ramblings; he’s grieving, remember. The Melanesians realize this and eventually they dust the sand off their knees and help him carry the magic box out of the canoe.

  Women and children arrive with flaming torches. They
have heard about the man who has come to sacrifice himself and, as they have no television, this promises to be a most exciting evening. They bring him roasted fish wrapped in leaves. Grubs in honey. A potent drink made from fermented fruit. The elders beat their drums. The magic box is hoisted onto the shoulders of six strapping youths and John Tabuh is swept along by a procession of wailing dancers.

  They are taking him to Shamanka’s lair.

  MAGIC ALPHABETS

  Many alphabets said to have magical properties have existed through the ages. They are still used by witches and shamans to write secret notes and to empower their spells.

  This Celestial Alphabet contains images believed to have been sent by messenger angels.

  SHAMANKA

  “Shamanka! Shamanka! See the man willing to sacrifice his soul to you. Come out of your cave. Work your big magic. Bring his woman back to life. Come, Shamanka, come!”

  The Melanesians are chanting. The elders are drumming. The strapping youths lay the box down by the mouth of the cave and back away. John Tabuh, intoxicated by the rhythm of the drums stands with his hands clasped behind his back to stop them trembling.

  Is he afraid? No, but here is a magician who suddenly finds himself not on stage, but in the audience. He’s not used to being in this position. What’s more, he’s the only one who doesn’t know what’s going to happen next.

  You’d think that the Dark Prince – who understands the psychology of an audience better than most – could avoid reacting along with the crowd, but it’s proving impossible; the mood is contagious. He waits wide-eyed and breathless for Shamanka to appear.

  The moon slips out from behind a cloud and creates a white spotlight on the sand. On cue, the drumming and the chanting stop. A hush falls over the audience, its many eyes mesmerized by the circle of moonlight. Keep watching … keep watching. The sea holds its breath, listening for the ominous rattle that heralds the arrival of the one who can hold back the tide.

  Tsss … tsss … tsss … like the hiss of a serpent slipping out of the theatre wings.

  Tsss … tsss … tsss … invisible against the velvet-black backdrop of the night.

  Tsss … tsss … tsss … nearer and nearer. Nearer, nearer and nearer…

  Aiyeeeeeeee!

  Everyone jumps back, afraid to look yet unable to avert their gaze, like rabbits entranced by a stoat. Shamanka is materializing on stage in a whirl of blinding sand. She appears without footsteps or wings, as if she’s neither human nor angel: so what is she? She isn’t a ghost, yet she wears the luminous mask of a lost soul; are we staring Death in the face?

  She’s the height of two men. She towers over the crouched figure of John Tabuh. She leaps on impossible springs. Is she subhuman, superhuman? He can’t say; he can’t speak.

  She swoops around the magic box casting a circle, thrusting her fists in the sand. At each point of the compass, flames bloom like cactus flowers. She stamps on the ground. She throws her head back, her spine arches over and her headdress brushes the floor.

  She stamps with her hands and her feet, harder and harder. The vibrations shunt the audience backwards. They cling to the sand with their fingers but they can’t hold on – they’re shifting backwards … backwards … towards the sea – all except for John Tabuh, who wraps his arms around the trunk of a palm and hangs on.

  Shamanka stamps and stamps, and as she stamps, the magic box shakes and the lid scrapes and shifts. The islanders grab their children and shoot off into the darkness like rockets, leaving a trail of fading screams in their wake.

  Only John remains. The performance is all for him now. As he clings to the tree, watching the box bump up and down all by itself, he tells himself it has to be an illusion. But he can see no strings, no mirrors. Is there a trapdoor hidden in the sand under the box? Is there a man in the trap, making the box move? Maybe the Melanesians are her stooges. Maybe they told Shamanka he was coming and devised this show together.

  This is the most rational answer, but John is wrong. Perhaps Shamanka has misdirected him. She sent the Melanesians screaming and while he was watching them, his eyes were diverted from the box; that’s when she put something under it to make it jump.

  Wrong again. Shamanka is innocent. She didn’t put anything under the box; the turtle did. She crawled out of the sea one night, laid her eggs and buried them on the beach. The box was placed on top of her nest, and now the eggs are hatching. Hundreds of little leathery wings are pushing up through the sand, rocking the box.

  Was it a coincidence that the box was laid over the turtle’s nest the night the eggs would hatch? It seems unlikely, but maybe there were lots of nests, in which case it wouldn’t have mattered where the box was placed. The baby turtles would have shifted it soon enough. Right now, they’re flapping across the beach like birds trying to fly through apple crumble. They’re racing towards the navy blue blanket of sea, and as the last wave of turtles breaks out from under the box, the lid flies open.

  Shamanka stops stamping and stoops so low over the magic box her headdress touches her toes. She stares inside. She stares and stares. The sea spray whispers, “Mother?”

  John Tabuh lets go of the tree. He watches as Shamanka kicks off her red fur underskirt and casts it away. It rolls into the shadows. John watches it melt into the darkness… Misdirection! When he looks back, she’s half the size, as if she’s stepped down from someone’s shoulders. Now that she’s taken off her headdress, she’s no taller than a girl. As she removes her mask of death, a sliver of moonlight reflects in her dark hair – but it’s not the moonlight; it’s a blonde streak.

  John Tabuh breaks out into a cold sweat. It can’t be Sam. It can’t be … unless someone has resurrected her? But that’s impossible. No one had offered him the slightest hope, least of all without a body. Sam was burnt to ashes in the fire; the witch had said so, hadn’t she?

  No! Think back, John Tabuh. Ruth Abafey said all that remained was the silver rattle; she never said that the baby had burnt to death – you jumped to that conclusion. A good witch doctor never jumps to conclusions; he reads between the lines.

  John Tabuh’s daughter is sitting by the magic box staring at her mother’s body. He wants to run to her and hold her in his arms. But he doesn’t. He stays where he is, clutching his head. The Melanesians have drugged him; he must force himself to think straight. So help me, Father.

  He writes in the sand with his finger:

  S-H-A-M-A-N-K-A

  He stares at the girl, stares at the letters. He rubs them out and writes them in a different order.

  S-A-M-H-A-N-A-K

  A breeze gets up. The letters buzz before his eyes like sandflies. He shields them with his fingers, but they’re shifting. He blinks, he blinks again, but there it is, spelled out before him.

  S-A-M K-H-A-A-N.

  Is there magic in letters? Are these letters magic symbols, magic spells? He takes his father’s list out of his pocket. He can barely read it; he’s shaking with excitement and this helps to jumble up the letters. He rearranges them in his head.

  R-U-T-H A-B-A-F-E-Y … YAFER TABUH!

  B-A-R-T H-A-Y-F-U-E … YAFER TABUH!

  H-U-B-E-R-T F-A-Y-A … YAFER TABUH!

  They don’t all fall into the exactly same pattern, but even so…

  F-A-T-H-E-R B-A-Y-U … FREYA TABUH!

  F-E-Y R-A … FREYA!

  Effie Ray? How do you solve that one? Phonetically:

  F-E R-A-Y … FREYA!

  Out of the corner of his eye, John sees that someone has joined his daughter – someone short and stout and red-haired, like his departed mother.

  It’s Lola! Shamanka was not as tall as two men. She was as tall as a girl standing on the shoulders of an ape! John has worked that out for himself, but what he can’t fathom is how his father has managed to orchestrate fate and time to bring Sam back to him – or why.

  Most sons would be impressed at their father’s ability to go against the laws of nature and pull off a trick like tha
t. They’d run home and apologize for pooh-poohing the power of his magic, but not John. Right now, he’s livid. Why couldn’t his father have been a farmer or a tailor or a dentist? Only a witch doctor would send his only son to hell and back in order to learn his trade; only a witch doctor or a psychopath would kill off his son’s wife – and to prove what?

  Christa lies dead. His daughter is bent over the magic box still. Is she crying? It is hard to tell but Kitty had said never to hold back the tears. John can’t bear to watch her grieve alone. He pulls out a silk handkerchief … and another … and another … they’re all knotted together in true magician style. He walks over.

  “Sam?”

  She looks straight through him. “I am Shamanka!”

  There’s an odd expression on her face, almost as if she’s annoyed at being interrupted. John Tabuh shows her the silver rattle. He knows she knows who he is; he’s hoping she’ll fling her arms around him and cry, “Daddy!” But that only happens in his dreams. John assumes she’s angry with him. He assumes she blames him for not bringing her mother back to life, just as he blamed his father. A good witch doctor should never make assumptions however.

  John Tabuh takes a deep breath – it’s all in the breathing – and apologizes to Sam from the bottom of his heart. “Sam, I’d sell my soul if it would bring your mother back, but there’s no such magic. I’ve spoken to the wisest people on Earth, but none of them has the power of life over death.”

  Sam looks at him in despair. How can he have travelled so far and learnt so little? What does she have to do to make him believe in Grandpa? She folds her arms defiantly. “Ah, but you haven’t spoken to me yet.”

  She begins to chant an ancient chant. It’s in Motu but it means the same the world over. It’s the most powerful chant in the universe, because when Sam says it, every woman who has ever loved a child responds as if it were her own little one tugging at her skirts.

  “Mother … Mother … Mother?”