I Am Called Shaman
Copyright © 2012 by Rebecca Reeves. All Rights Reserved.
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Spring Creek Publishing
P.O. Box 1094
Cottonwood, AZ. 86326
ISBN: 978-0-9847568-2-7
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This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, locales, establishments, organizations, products, or events are used fictitiously, and are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All other names, characters, places, dialog and incidents portrayed in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination.
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For my mom,
who let me stay up an hour past my bedtime,
so long as I was reading,
and never seemed to notice that it was I
who always ‘found’ the misplaced flashlight.
And, in loving memory of
Sugar Bear, the Sundara of my heart, and
Booda-Boo, the Heart of sundara.
The spring of life’s force surges
from the depths of our experience
to lend us a whisper
that beckons each individual spirit
to that path
which in our hearts
is only for us.
STEVEN DALE DENNIS
1957-1995
Prologue
Sunday, March 20
I sat on a stack of rough cut flagstone, and drew circles in the mortar dust with the toes of my pink-stained Reeboks. I tried to look as miserable as I felt.
My dad pointed a gloved finger at another pile of rocks we’d carried into the house this morning. “We need a piece of red sandstone next.”
“But I want to stay up here with you,” I said, placing the slab in his hand.
“School comes first, Abra.” His forehead furrowed as he concentrated on the exact placement of the rock that would become one of many in the new jigsaw puzzle fascia of the fireplace.
“It’s not fair.” I hated going to school with those cold cavernous rooms, fake lights, and hordes of unpredictable kids.
“I know it feels that way.” He sat back on his heels and gave me the smile he reserved for those times when I reminded him of himself when he was my age. “I felt the same way at your age, but, trust me, one day you’ll be glad you did.”
“But it’s all just stupid stuff, Dad.”
“Ah, but you’re learning how to learn, and that is the point,” he said. “Now, do you suppose you can get me another flagstone before this mortar dries out?”
The conversation was over. I hadn’t expected to win, but I could still make him feel bad about it. I heaved a sigh and grunted when I lifted the next rock.
He placed the stone and stared at it for a moment. It must have said something I couldn’t hear because my dad nodded at it, flipped it over, set it down, and announced, “Perfect.”
“Can I get a dog for my birthday?”
“Your birthday isn’t for another six months, Abra.”
“I know, but you said I could have a dog when I got older,” I reminded him. “I’ll be thirteen, that’s old.”
“Almost ancient.” He chuckled as he dipped the metal spatula into the bucket of concrete batter. “If you could have a dog, what kind of dog would you want?”
“A wolf,” I said.
“Abra Rachael Forrester!” I hadn’t heard my mother come in the room. “Stop it with that dog business, and you,” she pointed at my dad, “stop encouraging her.”
“But mom — ”
“I said no.” She spoke to the imaginary audience that always hovered somewhere over her head, “I swear she has an unnatural obsession with animals.”
“You’re the one who gave me initials that spell A.R.F.” I liked to rub that in whenever I could.
“Don’t sass me, young lady.” She swiped a manicured hand over her white Capri pants. “Honey, why won’t you just hire someone to do this fireplace, you’re making a mess.”
“Pride of workmanship,” my dad said without looking up.
“You and your little projects. If the maid quits, you’ll find the next one.” She checked the time on her diamond studded watch. “The Anasazi Gallery is showcasing a new artist out of Santa Fe, I’ll be back in an hour or two, Abra, you be cleaned up and ready to go when I get back.”
“Yes, mother,” I said to the floor.
Her Jaguar spit gravel as it climbed up the steep driveway. My dad and I didn’t speak until the roar of the throaty engine faded in the distance.
“You know, Abra,” he said, “you’ve been a big help this morning, but I can take it from here if you want to say goodbye to your friends before you go.”
“Yeah, okay.” I shuffled toward the back door.
I’d been studying the verbal dialects and body language of the animals in this canyon for a long time. I’d seen clear evidence of missing and mourning, but as far as I could tell, they had no word for goodbye. It seemed a human concept, and a sad one at that.
“Hey, Abra,” my dad called.
I turned to face him.
“I love you, kitten.”
My heart lightened and I grinned back at him. “Love you too, Daddy.”
I hopped off the back deck and trotted down the hill toward the creek, whistling my perfected Sparrow’s Midday Song. I didn’t want to spoil my last precious moments here with the sadness of goodbye, and I didn’t dare start following animal prints because I always lost track of time when I did that. Instead, I would savor this peaceful place for as long as I could. It would have to tide me over for a while.
At the water’s edge, I took off my shoes. After the jolt from the initial cold plunge, my body temperature adjusted, and I floated in the silky creek water. It felt so much better than the chlorinated water in the pool at our house down in Scottsdale.
A parade of clouds danced over the towering cliff wall that grew out of the far bank of the creek. The clouds’ shape shifted, revealing their inner spirit before disappearing