They Called Us Shaman

by Corinne Beenfield

  Suddenly the lights come on, and my exposed retinas protest to the unexpected brightness. Looking up, I see Ramose, sitting straight up, waiting for me to meet his eyes.

  His voice is controlled—it must be, for the listening devices have surely kicked on by now—but with absolute surety, he answers me. “We are not wrong. I’ve seen it. I know what I’ve seen, and I will not pretend I didn’t.”

  With that, he gets up and walks to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him, leaving me to wonder what exactly he has seen.

  For in his eyes, surfacing beneath his determination, there is an unmistakable black fear.

  ___

  “You’re gonna love him—he’s hilarious. I saw him last time he toured through here, and the tickets were worth every penny,” I’m telling Gadian and Madison. My girlfriend just slipped off to use the bathroom, and I watch her flowing blonde ponytail with its single blue streak until she has disappeared into the crowd.

  “Speaking of tickets . . .” Gadian turns to Madison. “We’re getting close to the front. You’d better pull them out.”

  Jerking back, panic fills her eyes. “I don’t have the tickets! I thought you did!”

  Surprise covers Gadian’ face. “What? No, I gave them to you at home to keep in your purse.”

  She shakes her head, adamant. “I’ve never even seen them, I promise.” She turns to me, shoulders sagging. “We’re gonna have to run home and find them. I’m so sorry. We’ll be back as fast as we can.”

  Lowering his voice, Gadian softly rests a hand on her arm. “Honey, you know how your memory can be. Why not at least check your purse before we drive all the way home and miss half the show?”

  She clenches her jaw, her face turning nearly as red as her hair, but she opens her purse toward him. “I’m not some old lady. I know—” Her words snag suddenly as if caught in a net. Her hand flies over her mouth as with her other hand she reaches in and pulls out their two white tickets. “I can’t believe it. This is crazy.”

  “Ready?” My girlfriend bounces back in line with us, grinning at each one of us.

  Taking the ticket from Madison, Gadian matches the smile tooth for tooth. “Crisis averted. Ready.”

  As we take our seats, my mind keeps replaying one moment. I’ve known Gadian since high school, and though he acted surprised when Madison said she didn’t have the tickets, that’s exactly what it was. An act. Surprise is the hardest emotion to fake, and his was too measured, too perfect.

  But no. This is Gadian we’re talking about. Every girl wants to be with him, every man wants to be him. Sure, the guy can be a bit of a control freak, but there’s a massive difference between being a diehard vegan and the kind of sick that this would mean.

  I force myself to brush it from my mind, and try not to notice how in the dark audience, Madison alone doesn’t laugh.

  SEVENTEEN

  The Californian Remains, August 2048 A.D.

  Ramose’s eyes scan the restaurant. I stand, then wave him over, smiling. As he makes his way through the maze of elegant tables, I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, attempting to seem as tranquil as the piano music in the air. I have spent the day lost in constructing scenarios for this dinner, which of course is a foolproof way to make sure I don’t act natural. But I simply could think of nothing else.

  “Joanna!” He feigns pleasant surprise. “You look lovely this evening!” I flush as he gently touches my elbow. He wears his usual Egyptian garb, meaning each of his arm and ab muscles shows beneath his thick gold necklace. Dear earth, don’t those Egyptians ever wear shirts? It does nothing to settle my nerves, but Ramose doesn’t seem to notice his effect.

  He turns and gestures behind him. “I’d love for you to meet my friend, Wild Dove.” To Wild Dove, he simply introduces me with, “This is her.” I flush, thinking of him speaking of me to others, and remind myself it was only regarding the rebellion.

  She could be old enough to be Ramose’s mother, and the skin tone isn’t that far off. Nodding, she gives me a soft smile. Though I know nothing about her, and though she chooses to dress less lavishly than everyone else at the Academy, she seems to me to have all the regality of a kingdom’s most noble line.

  Her eyes look at me knowingly, perhaps remembering me from the day of the incident, though something tells me she looks at all people like this. Like we are open books. Though it isn’t a judging look, it isn’t one to keep your conscience comfortable. I imagine most people hate it—no one likes being so transparent.

  “A pleasure.” I give a slight curtsy, then immediately reprimand myself in my mind. It’s too Italian. I should have shaken hands as most people here do. Too late now, though. I plow forward with the plan. “Won’t you join me? Maitre d’? Will you grab an extra chair? Thank you so much.”

  Ramose had said we couldn’t be seeming to have planned the meetup, as Wild Dove is watched closely, yet I feel as though my terrible acting will give us away. We sit, and as I find my seat, I’m grateful that I didn’t need to rely on my shaky knees for too long. This evening, I’m very aware, could be the difference between years spent in captivity and my ticket home.

  For, as Ramose had carefully told me, Wild Dove has begun to gather those to her who would rise against the Academy.

  At the thought of home, my hands tremble with excitement, and I pull my glass to me, starfishing my fingers around the cup, hoping doing so will steady them. But with a rebel leader on one side and Ramose’s bare chest on the other, calming myself seems impossible. My heart beats mutinously at a rate it was never designed to reach.

  “So . . .” How does this conversation begin? “I hear you’re leading a rebellion. Can I join?” Or how about, “Last time I saw you, we were standing over a dying man.” That seems certain to throw cold water on dinner.

  “Ramose has spoken highly of you,” I stutter. That’s safe enough, right?

  “Yes, he has told me of you as well. Watching a murder of one of our kind woke you from the stupor our captors would put us under. I’m glad my raw fruit could be of assistance.”

  Well, so much for being safe.

  Of all the scenarios I had constructed in my mind, this was never one of them—to speak openly, the maitre d’ only feet away! Any preparations I had flee my mind like startled children, and my eyes dart after them to all the onlookers surrounding us.

  A muscle twitches in Wild Dove’s cheek, then when she lets herself laugh, it’s more luxurious and warm than the food in front of us. It’s humanizing to see someone so proper and regal laughing, and I find myself smiling back though I don’t know why. Ramose chuckles as he explains.

  “Wild Dove is the most powerful Master of Tongue at the Academy.”

  “How powerful?” I tilt my head and chuckle, though confused by it all.

  “Well,” she answers this time. “There are eleven others, most of whom can break down the language barriers in a large room or two. I . . .” She lowers her voice not out of secrecy, it seems, but more out of humility. “. . . can influence the remainder of the Academy.”

  “What our ‘mentors’ have yet to realize is that she is so skilled, she can selectively remove her ability from an area. At this moment, she is confounding the understanding of any near us. They believe they are hearing an entirely different conversation. We must use this to our advantage only rarely, for when they discover the level of her skills, our planning will become much more difficult.”

  “And the raw fruit you gave me—they allow you to have it, right? So that you will help us all communicate despite our language differences?” I’m piecing it together now. “Is that how Ramose uses his abilities? You sneak him food?”

  This time, they shake their heads. “I wish. That would be much easier for me,” Ramose says.

  “To say that the raw food is closely monitored would be an understatement. Only because of the chaos that day was I able to get some to you, my dear.”

  “So how—” I begin, but my sentence is cut off.

&nbs
p; “Darling!” For the first time ever, my heart plummets to hear Alessio’s voice.

  Looking up, we see him sauntering toward us, smiling warmly at first, but his grin stiffens when his eyes fall on Ramose. It strikes me that Ramose sat closer to me than social norms would allow. Ramose, in turn, has turned to all bristles and hard angles. It does nothing to ward off Alessio, though. He grabs a chair from an empty table nearby and pulls it over. His face flickers to the small space between Ramose and me, no doubt wondering if he can squeeze between, but to do so would be painfully awkward, so instead he succumbs to placing his chair between Wild Dove and myself. My mind searches for how to shoo him away, but there simply is no tactful way of saying, “I’m sorry, my love, but I’d rather sit by a dangerous rebel leader than you.”

  Yet perhaps, my heart flickers with hope. This could be a good thing. Yes! Maybe Wild Dove and Ramose could help Alessio see the Academy for what it truly is.

  “Waiter? A Lambrusco.” He turns to me, smiling, any traces of discomfort gone. He now holds himself with the utmost confidence as he drapes an arm over the back of my chair. There’s almost a spark of humor in his eyes as if this is a game and he has no intention of losing. “Introduce me to your friends, darling.”

  “Sweetheart.” I tread carefully so as not to destroy the other’s trust. “I’m so glad you’re here. I was just about to tell them about the most horrible thing I witnessed two days ago.”

  “You mean the suicide.” He says it casually, as if he were commenting on a flavorless meal, while he takes his wine from the maitre d’. “Gadian told me you were there.”

  “Suicide?” I ask, looking to the others, the word new to me.

  “No.” Ramose speaks up, his voice firm. “He did not take his own life.”

  Oh. My inhale seems to frost my lungs at this concept, at the idea that he had meant to leave his daughter.

  “That must have been terrible for you.” Alessio ignores Ramose and turns to me, dripping sympathy.

  “I don’t understand.” I push my plate of food away, disoriented.

  “Nor do I. Why would anyone choose death over life here?”

  “Really?” Any amusement Wild Dove had previously shown is gone. Her face now looks like it doesn’t even know how to laugh. “You cannot think of any reason?”

  Alessio only blinks at her, no doubt caught off guard by the aggression in the voice of someone he never met. Two seconds, and then his usual smile is back. Again, he shrugs Ramose and Wild Dove off and turns to me.

  “Oh, Joanna, we’re not back to this again, are we? I thought you were going to give the Academy a chance.”

  “I’ll give it the exact chance Gadian gave that man,” I whisper and look Wild Dove in the eyes, hoping she’ll see in them what I wish I could say. I’ll see it ended.

  She nods respectfully, and it strikes me that while that man was the first casualty, the battle has only begun.

  Alessio clears his throat, displeased. “You’ll excuse us,” he finally speaks to the others for the first time as he grabs my elbow and begins to stand. “My sweetheart and I should find our own table.”

  “I’m not leaving.” Childishly, my feet instinctively twist around the legs of the chairs, putting down roots. “But you are welcome to.” I try to say it kindly, but I know I’ve just pushed our relationship to a cliff’s edge. I’ve chosen something above him.

  Alessio’s jaw sets firm. He sits down again and pulls in close to me, an attempt to speak privately. “Darling, I don’t believe these, uh, influences are good for you.”

  “That is for me to decide.”

  “And this is what you want? Anger and unhappiness? Joanna, life is about fun. Finding happiness. If you can’t let yourself be happy here, then when? Nothing is ever going to be completely golden. But this is pretty close.”

  “Would you do her thinking for her?” Ramose’s tone surprises me, and I turn to look at him. He doesn’t look at me, though. Everything in the room seems to have faded but Alessio and the pure rage Ramose is targeting at him. His face is red with suppressed fury, jaw set, and he takes in each heavy breath with a control that shows he is forcing himself to exercise restraint. The degree of his wrath surprises me—it far surpasses what the moment calls for.

  “Ramose, it’s fine—” I try to calm him down, but he interrupts.

  “Nothing he has done is ‘fine.’ He doesn’t deserve to be defended.”

  Alessio looks at this complete stranger with disgust on his face. “You have me confused with someone else.”

  “There is no mistake. We are all here because of you. If it weren’t for you, none of us would be captive. Our people are all but extinct, and you can’t even manage to be ashamed—”

  “You’re a lunatic.” Alessio pulls me away from Ramose.

  Ramose stands fast, his chair scraping the floor loudly. Reluctantly, Wild Dove comes to her feet as well.

  “I think it’s best we be going.” She sets down her glass and gives me a farewell nod.

  I nod back, then plead to Ramose. “We’ve only been here a few weeks,” I insist. “The Academy has been here for years. Don’t blame him—”

  “He knows.” Ramose doesn’t look at us. He cannot even seem to see through his rage anymore. “He knows what he has done.” He thrusts his napkin to the table and stalks off, Wild Dove only a step behind him. She glances back over her shoulder at me, and my stomach is sick. This is not how I hoped the night would go.

  I turn to Alessio, my eyes filled with questions.

  “Don’t look at me like that. He’s completely mad.” He swigs from his wine.

  “Do you know what he’s talking about?” I lean in, my head tipped.

  “I have absolutely no idea.”

  ___

  I stare in the mirror at a face I hardly recognize. My red hair hangs limp around my collarbone, my makeup running in streams. Looks like someone hosed down a clown. Reaching up, I cup my hollowed cheeks in my hands, and a shaky sigh comes out. It used to be that my nails were never unmanicured. Now they look like the scrapped end of artichoke leaves.

  This isn’t me.

  Opening up the drawers, I search for the scissors, but like so many things these days, I must have misplaced them. I walk to the kitchen and take the cooking scissors from the drawer, then walk back to the bathroom.

  I stare at the hideous woman in the mirror and raise the scissors to my throat.

  Snip.

  It didn’t happen all at once.

  At first it was just dates I remembered wrong, could have sworn I’d heard Sunday instead of Saturday. Snip. Then came comments from friends that something seemed a bit off, but they couldn’t put their finger on what. Snip. Month after month, a bit more of me was gone. Snip, snip, snip. Where once stood a confident young woman now stands only a shadow of her. Weak, weightless, powerless. Snip, snip, snip!

  There.

  Setting down the scissors, I see disheveled layers, the tiled floor at my feet littered with red, like flowers cut from their roots.

  The girl in the mirror looks like someone you wouldn’t trust. Well, okay then.

  Neither do I.

  EIGHTEEN

  The Californian Remains, August 2048 A.D.

  The memories of Leo and Mama always came to me like a goldfinch at the first of spring. While all else at the Academy feels gray around me, suddenly beauty erupts, flashing before me on wings of nostalgia. Then, just as suddenly, the memory flies from me, leaving me to this bleak world and the knowledge that they aren’t really here. Will this winter never end? Will they ever be part of my story again, to stay? I ache for them more than anything else. How is it that Mama and Leo can mean even more to me than sunshine? But they are. I think, on days like this, that I could live in a world of black if it meant I could feel their hands reassuringly in my own.

  I want to fight the Academy, but I am not ignorant of the cost. My only hope of seeing Leo and Mama again is to comply, to let myself be a passive pawn. But is
that even a promise they would keep? I believe we are being lied to. I saw what happened to the man. But it was one man, an unusual situation . . . How can I give up what I love most in this world for paper beliefs? I could be wrong. Leo and Mama are waiting for me, and yet I’m letting the goldfinch go. I’m letting their deaths be final, our story end. How can I do this?

  “Ramose,” I whisper in the darkness of our room. “You said you’ve seen how They won’t keep their promise to send us home. What did you see? Please, tell me about it.” I hold absolutely still so as not to lose a word he says.

  He pauses. “I can’t. I could never capture it in words. It was horrible.”

  “Then . . .” A thought occurs to me. “Can you somehow show me?”

  “I can’t put you through that.” His voice sounds strained. “It haunts me.”

  “Ramose, I’m sacrificing my home, my family, all I love most for this.” The darkness in the room seems so much more than nighttime. It seems to want to wrap me up and never let me go. I can’t let that happen. “I have to know what I’m fighting. I’m stronger than you realize. I can handle it, I promise. Show me,” I beg.

  He doesn’t answer. I give him a full minute before throwing back my covers and walking to his side of the room. The motion sensors flick on. As I come to his bed, he looks at me with curiosity in those dark eyes. Pinching my lips, I throw his covers off and give him the most determined look I can muster.

  “Show me,” I repeat.

  “Shhh!” His eyes widen and he reaches for my hand, pulling me to him in haste. “Not another word until the motion sensor goes off,” he whispers into my hair.

  We lie in silence two minutes, longer than I’ve ever been with any man besides Alessio. Tucked up against Ramose’s strong brown body, I watch his breath rise and lower, and feel like I am resting on the banks of a river—calmer just for being near him.