Keir’s heart lurched. He’d entered the world of his mother’s coffin, fabricated by the nightmare spirit—Adara’s dark playground. She’d been the one challenging him in that mind game. Panic sucked air from his windpipe. He gasped, suffocating.
“Keir! Are you okay?” Aggie’s soft voice filtered down to him. “What you’re doing is working. Give me your hand.”
Her warm touch curved his fingers around something smooth, a rod.
“The coyote tip of my wand is humming. Can you hear it?”
Grateful to be relocated, rescued from Adara’s clutches, he tightened his focus around the wooden shaft, even though he couldn’t hear anything. At once, he detected the strength of the coven’s matriarch sycamore: a new portal to the spirit world. Her roots threading across the entire Hollow grounded him, supported him as he climbed the wand’s trunk. The air grew crisp. A breeze blew against his face, whined and yipped in his ears. Encouraged by the sound, he shinnied farther until his body wavered to one side from what must have been a precarious perch, then paused there to listen.
The wind howled like distant animals—coyotes accompanying nature in song. Heartened, Keir worked himself a bit higher and detected the inflow of the wand’s three powers—he was nearing the terminal divisions. His weight now swaying, he dared not rise higher. But there was more to know, more to be revealed from the three twigs. He followed the direction of the howling. With a groan, he extended an arm overhead and reached until his side ached from the stretch.
The moment his hand latched onto the sycamore’s smooth wood, his mental vision exploded with a panorama of stars and night sky. Myriad astral bodies formed a river across a midnight sea. Beside him, softer fae lights glowed along the white web-like filaments he’d seen in the apple tree. With Nannan’s assistance, he’d passed into the Middle World of Spirits.
The Upper World had to be close. If he could get there, a teacher would be waiting. He reestablished his intention, in hopes it might boost him higher: I seek the knowledge of Waapake’s ancestors to tell me how to save him.
Amid the river of stars, one shined brighter and whiter. Its rays widened into lobes of a flower—a windflower. Unole’s clear voice sang overtop the coyotes’ wails: I will be your bridge, so your heart may open to teachings of the old ones, the Coyote Stars’ lineage. The intoxicating scent of white night phlox punctuated her pauses.
Tears clouded Keir’s vision. How could this young woman possess such strength, such goodness? And a desire to help him?
The mist in his eyes seeded a dense fog all around him. He blinked and the vapor had vanished with his passage to a new dimension. Only he and the Coyote Stars filled the Upper World. Unole’s presence had disappeared, but her invisible grace still tethered him on this journey and he was grateful.
The teaching of the Coyote Stars transcended the language of words, the message transmitted into his being as pure light, pure emotion, pure knowing: Waapake would remain whole and healthy only long enough for Keir to do what was right, wasting not one moment on wrong-thinking or wrong-doing.
Keir remained long after the teaching ended, listening to the chattering chorus of yips and howls growing distant.
At last, he climbed down the wand and opened his eyes to Jancie’s and Rowe’s etched brows and Logan’s blue eyes darkened with storm clouds. It was Aggie’s smile that Keir reached for. Through her wand, she’d been with him. He pulled her into a quick hug, then announced to the others, “Waapake is safe for now, and will be long enough for me to visit Unole and Chuquilatague. I must find a way to stop Adara from harming Waapake and anyone else.”
Chapter Nine: New Moon
The next morning Keir rescheduled the rest of his client appointments for the week. He locked the house and hurried toward his already-packed car but paused at the apple tree, now unadorned and silent. Although needing to get on the road, he squinted at the skim of ice coating its branches, tried to discern a trace of last night’s magic. What made him hesitate—did he need proof his shamanic journey had been real? He chided himself for requiring reassurance; Chuquilatague had trained him to question but not doubt.
By the time Keir drove from the Hollow heading toward the highway south to Louisville, the meditative lull of the car’s engine crystallized his goals: he did want validation. Not of Unole’s methodology but, instead, of how he could be succeed using those skills. And of why she championed him.
Recognizing the niggling sensation of doubt, he slapped a hand to his forehead. A lesson from Chuquilatague on that topic would also be welcome. Keir chuckled. Chuquilatague would teach more than he wanted to hear—though maybe as much as he needed.
Along the seven-hour route, Keir took limited stops. He had to arrive by late afternoon to be present for the short window of time when the tribe would observe tonight’s new moon. Winter’s sun set early, which left only about forty minutes for the blessing.
Luck was with him, the roads clear of snow and ice. He had made good time and, by four o’clock, turned into the wooded lane leading to his reserved rustic guest cabin.
Awenasa still worked as the Cherokee hostess for the reservation’s special guests. When he called last evening, she immediately remembered him and promised to ready the lodging he’d called home for a summer five years ago.
He turned into ice-skimmed gravel tire tracks that led to his cottage. It hadn’t changed. Rough-hewn round logs, not the squared variety used around Bentbone and the Hollow, made the cabins seem more alive, almost a different but distinct species, amid the maples and oaks of the dense forest. He climbed out and stretched road-weary legs while walking to Awenasa’s larger family house a few yards away. The silver patina of its weathered cedar siding beckoned with homey comforts.
The minute he stepped onto the porch, the door swung open, and the hostess popped out with a smile covering much of her broad face. “Keir, we’re honored to have you visit us again.” She handed him a key. “Word spread fast of your coming; the new moon observation should be well-attended.”
“That’s great. I’ll stow my things inside and hustle over to Chuquilatague’s.”
“We’ll have a place set for you at breakfast tomorrow.” With a backward step and wave, she set him on his way.
Keir hurried across the lane. His long-as-a-boat, thirties-style sedan dwarfed the tiny guesthouse, appearing smaller without its summer-lush bushes. He grabbed a knapsack and small suitcase from the car and headed toward the screened porch. A new coat of red paint on its trim dispelled some of the evening’s approaching chill. He stomped off ice and dried leaves, then opened the front door. A rush of familiar products Awenasa used for cleansing soul and home—burnt white sage mingled with lemon-pine soap—revived good memories.
On long summer nights, he’d joked and laughed till his sides ached with Awenasa, her husband, mother, and grandfather, as their children chased fireflies. When the family retired, he followed a circuitous glowing path, bug to bug, back to his lodging, studying well past the witching hour.
He placed his heavy bags of winter clothing at the foot of the bed and surveyed the adjoining sitting room. Everything looked the same, tidy and spartan, save for a few new additions. A bright wool throw hung from an arm of the comfortable bentwood rocker—his favorite reading spot—now turned to face the laid fireplace. The wood box brimmed with logs, while a handmade willow basket overflowed with kindling. The cozy atmosphere made him wish he was here under happier circumstances, not on a rescue mission for Waapake.
His gaze drifted onto a clock, which jolted him into motion—he recalled the message of the Coyote Stars: not a moment to waste on wrong-doing. He scurried to his car and sped along the backroad’s twists he knew by heart.
Though hidden during summer, his mentor’s cabin peeked through bare-limbed trees as Keir turned down the short lane. He parked near the back stoop, which was simple and utilitarian as always.
The home’s front faced away from the driveway to take in the vista of tree-lined hills
sloping to the distant valley. Chuquilatague had built the place as a young man, orienting it to full advantage for his meditations.
Keir walked around the side, where the collection of hanging talismans, charms, and wind chimes had multiplied several times since his last visit. He suspected many were payment for the shaman’s services. Chuquilatague, always receptive to negotiating fees, never turned away a person in need. During Keir’s three-month training, he couldn’t afford the entire sum and paid a portion in labor for the reservation, working at everything from spiritual guidance to planting vegetable gardens.
As he rounded the front corner, he found his mentor seated in a porch rocker and covered with thick fur hides. Motionless like a heron waiting and watching for fish, only the glitter of his brown irises revealed the extraordinary activity of the man’s vast intelligence.
Keir understood not to interrupt his teacher’s mental preparations.
Spine straight, silver head held high and proud, Chuquilatague gazed toward the dusk as it embraced the horizon. Atop the chair’s wide arms, his wrinkled hands, with palms still broad enough to accept the problems of his entire nation, lay relaxed, ready to serve.
As if he received the awaited sign to break his meditation, the wise man acknowledged Keir, not with a greeting but a meeting of eyes. Silent recognition was bestowed as a way of paying reverence to another: thought must come before speech. Keir respected the custom and tried to emulate it in his own practice as a shamanic healer, taking time to see his clients prior to any discourse.
At last Chuquilatague spoke, his baritone a few gravelly notes lower with advancing age. “The sun peeked out late today, breaking the season’s gray shroud; I knew you had arrived.”
Keir bowed his head. “It is my honor to be in your presence once again.”
The old teacher removed the skins from his lap and rose slowly, as if allowing each vertebra and joint to accommodate. With arms spread wide, those accepting palms turned toward Keir, who stepped into the invitation and joined in an embrace. The muscles of Chuquilatague’s shoulders and back had shrunk, his body revealing the limitations of age. However, his spirit remained sharp and bright, infusing Keir with immediate strength and confidence.
Although their hug seemed to last only seconds, when they separated, Keir was startled to find dozens of tribespeople gathered on the large lawn before the porch. Several men laid a bonfire, while children bounced around their mothers. With animated faces and gestures, elders informed guests about the ritual of tonight’s observance.
Car doors shut and loud conversations echoed from the rear of the house. People filed in, voices quieting to whispers as they formed a fragmented circle in the ceremonial space.
With the bonfire prepared but unlit, the helpers joined those gathered, now silent, in anticipation.
Royal purple ribboned the darkening sky. The last newcomers filled in shadowed spots, leaving an opening nearest the porch where the wise man would soon take his position.
Though difficult to determine, Keir estimated at least one hundred spectators were present. Beckoned by a bonfire attendant, he moved to stand near the circle’s mouth.
Chuquilatague threw off his fur robe, stepped to the edge of the porch, and raised his arms to the heavens. A single skin of an innocent fawn cloaked his shoulders against the cold though he didn’t shiver. He wore light-colored doeskin pants and tunic that captured the last light of day. Many present gasped at his remarkable radiance.
Keir’s breath caught, his heart filled with reverence.
According to previous ceremonies Keir had witnessed, the wise man would remain in that stance until the new moon took its precedence in the sky. The glow shining on the wise man faded, and he closed the circle. Although the black moon lacked visual impact, suddenly its enormous spiritual power blanketed all.
Chuquilatague opened both arms and heart, as if drawing every person close. Starlight reflected from pale, gray dove feathers of his headdress as he turned to face each. “We are blessed to have guests with us tonight to observe this auspicious occasion. I will explain the significance of our ritual for them and for all. The reasons we do things are worth repeating: to refresh our hearts and to plant seeds in our young ones.” Exuberance filled his words. Despite the shadows covering his face, Keir knew his mentor was smiling; there was nothing Chuquilatague loved more than teaching children.
“Everything of importance we do in a circle. The world’s power works in circles. We will remain happy and flourish so long as our circle is unbroken. The boughs we will offer in a fire to the new moon tonight were once parts of a living tree. It was nourished by the circle’s four quarters: the east gave the tree peaceful light; the west provided rain; the south, warmth to foster growth; the north, cold to encourage rest; and the wind taught lessons of strength and endurance.
“All of nature thrives in a circle. Mother Earth is round, as is the sun and moon, all circling along paths through the sky. Seasons follow a great circle in their changing. Our own lives follow from one childhood to the next, generation to generation: a circle. All as the Great Spirit intended.”
As if on cue, the heavens directly above lit with myriad stars, their light twinkling on the tips of Chuquilatague’s head feathers. His dazzling connection to the spirit world made Keir envious.
The wise man lifted his arms to the inky blackness now lining the western horizon, stretching across distant rolling hills. “The new moon brings us a unique gift, the opportunity to cleanse our spirits. Please join me in appealing to the astral body as it rides toward its setting point.”
People turned with him to look over the vista, their spirits open and trusting, ready to receive his prayer.
When everyone settled, Chuquilatague again stood, gripping that silence for several moments.
Keir sensed his teacher’s essence mingling, caressing all present. As a student, Keir practiced this technique of reassuring and encouraging those gathered. Something he continued during the sabbat holidays and esbat full moon observances he led in the Hollow.
The shaman spoke, his tone resonant and empowering. “Join me as I cleanse myself and release anything that is no longer of service to me, be it thoughts, beings, or situations. I appeal to the moon of new beginnings to help me reach toward my highest and greatest good: across all planes of my existence, across all universes, and across all lifetimes. I ask all less-than-loving energies be transformed for the purpose of the highest good for all.” He gestured to the assistant beside Keir and continued addressing the group. “The fire will now be lit. When its flames rise and signal the new moon, I will pass the talking feather to anyone wishing to share his or her personal cleansing. Then, another will be selected.”
The man beside Keir, with two others, set the kindling afire then retook their positions.
Chuquilatague once more lifted his arms and attention to the dark expanse above. Moments later, he swept air toward the sky, encouraging the fire higher, beckoning the moon to receive the offering. He withdrew a single feather from his headdress and passed it to a nearby matronly woman signaling with her raised hand.
She clutched the feather between both hands, touched it to her forehead encased in a knit cap and said, “I am so grateful for Chuquilatague’s new moon blessing. It just came to me how my family will cope with roof repairs we cannot afford. We’ll cook up a feast to feed everyone able to donate money or labor. Rather than worry and stress, I’ll look forward to a party with our neighbors. It’s my wish that others here are also blessed tonight with new outlooks.” Her enthusiasm incited many to raise their hands, and she gave the token to a burly middle-aged man.
He took a single step into the circle and proclaimed in a brusque voice, “I am indeed blessed, as we all are, that Keir Sheridan has returned to pay us a visit. During his summer among us, he brought my family immeasurable good will. Because of him, my mother died a happy woman, at ease with her passage. And we can more easily celebrate her life than her final suffering.”
Keir strained to see who spoke such kind words about him, but firelight silhouetted the man’s face. When he moved back in line, the fire revealed Salal. He’d been more than grateful that Keir eased his mother’s mental stresses while suffering with cancer. Though the disease ultimately took her life, she embraced her final months with joy and gratitude rather than despair.
Salal handed the feather along, and a teenaged girl captivated the crowd with her story before passing the privilege to speak to the next. In turn, dozens expressed their gratitude for new beginnings.
Each story reassured Keir: good often eclipsed bad in the world. I will overcome Adara and save my coyote.
When the dove feather passed to the far side of the fire, the voice of a young woman rang clear, though her form remained in shadow. “I, too, am blessed this night. I have learned the coming spring will restore my health and give me a purpose so I may do good for others.” Within her hands, the feather’s gray vane sparkled with starlight, like it did with Chuquilatague, and all noise ceased.
Her tone, high-pitched and angelic—at once familiar to Keir—prompted him to listen more intently.
“The new moon sent me two signs.” Her words flowed in fluid notes upon a melody.
He heard her voice not just with his ears but with his entire being—knew it as Unole’s song.
She continued, her ariose speech danced across the golden flames. “First, I sighted my namesake blossom, a single windflower—the first of the season—pushing strong through snow and ice, as I will continue to do.” Keir wondered what illness she referred to. “And second, a connection to the spirit world’s Coyote Stars, enabled me to help another in need.”
At the word coyote, he flinched. Did she refer to him or to Waapake?
People nodded and murmured encouragements, those near Unole urging her to step forward. The bonfire’s glow caressed the smooth tanned skin of her high cheekbones and broad forehead. She dressed in cream-colored doeskin like her father, but the resemblance didn’t end there. Strands of long hair, hanging to her waist, gleamed with firelight. Alongside her face, narrow braids woven with white ribbons sparkled with starlight that dripped onto silver beads adorning the bodice of her fringed dress.
Witch's Windsong (Coon Hollow Coven Tales Book 5) Page 8
