They Called Us Shaman

by Corinne Beenfield

  “Let me see if I understand.” The doctor squints at the notes on her iPad. “Your fiancé claimed he started the bath for himself, though you thought you had. He insisted you bought four pairs of identical shoes, and the proof was on your credit card, though you had no recollection of doing so. He pointed out that the oven had been left on broil an hour after dinner was done, even though you could have sworn you turned it off. You were certain you left your keys on the hook, but found them in your coat pocket. Is there any chance he might have ‘misplaced’ them?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, but lowers her voice slightly. “Has anyone else ever noticed these ‘mental gaps’?”

  Through my murky thoughts, I understand what she is implying. My mind searches back in time and finds nothing. My hands, rather than steadying, only tremble more violently at what this would mean.

  “No,” I whisper, slowly lifting my head and meeting the doctor’s eyes. “No one.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  The Californian Remains, August 2048 A.D.

  Perhaps there is nowhere lonelier than in a crowd, no place more depressing to be than surrounded by laughter without it reaching our souls.

  Walking through the Academy, I remember this feeling too well. It takes me back to a memory just a couple of days after the moment in the garden with Leo.

  We sat in the theater, Alessio’s arm around me, the comedians on stage causing everyone’s faces and sides to hurt with guffaws. Everyone but me. To me, the stage seemed only a mirror, a vivid reflection of my reality. It was one of Aristophanes’ comedies, where he suggested that all people used to have two heads, four arms, and four legs. But after angering the gods, man was divided asunder, forever forced to search the earth for the half that would make them whole. It was a ridiculous concept, of course, but I felt the grip of truth. For well over a decade, I faced the world with Leo’s friendship as the other half of my whole, yet now I felt his absence as sharply as if I were missing my limbs.

  Alessio turned and grinned at me, assessing how I liked the play, and I mustered up a smile in return. Though Leo and I never had an ounce of romance between us, we had something that even a sweetheart couldn’t replace. Alessio, as wonderful and handsome as he was, had only just stepped into my story, while Leo’s was built around my own. No cobblestone or hillside in my childhood seemed untouched by his fingerprints. Since the lake months ago, I’d only seen him that once in the garden, and I wondered if Leo knew that the passage of time may dull many things, but never what he meant to me. Did I do the right thing? The question forever lingered like a sword above my bowed head.

  The play ended, the actors shedding their characters and becoming simply people again, the audience waking from their happy dream. They all dawdled in the theater, not yet ready to walk home and face the nuisances of life, the draft under the door or the hard bed at night. In front of the stage, Alessio pumped an actor’s hand, and two minutes later they were laughing as Alessio clapped him on the back as if an old friend. Alessio lived for this, for the surge of life that flows from the stage and through the aisles. I saw it on his features each time we came, which used to confuse me as he has always known the finest things in life. What escape did he need? But as I came to understand him better, I saw why.

  He never once brought me to a tragedy—we never once left without our neatly packaged happy ending handed to us. Something is coursing through Alessio’s veins that tells him life should be more than pain and drudgery. There are adventures to be had, an excitement that as the sixth child to a bureaucrat, he has yet to be able to experience. But oh, he will experience them someday—he knew it. Everything he did built toward it. In the meantime, he would sit in the theater with rapt attention, wide-eyed at this glimpse of a world more alive than our own.

  When we finally walked from the theater, though Alessio’s arm remained slung around my shoulders, it seemed that the higher he climbed, the lower I sank. His eyebrows knitted ever so briefly in concern that he knew something was wrong with me. But he didn’t ask. Perhaps he didn’t want to know, didn’t want anything tarnishing the golden evening. Instead, his excitement climbed higher and higher, as if we were each an end of a stick and he hoped that by lifting one end, the other would have to rise as well.

  We walked under a window spilling with magenta bougainvillea blossoms, and Alessio plucked one that had strayed away from the flock. “Per te, tersoro mio.” He bowed low with a playful grin and handed it to me. For you, my treasure.

  I wanted to throw my arms around him, kiss those sweet lips with the fervor that Alessio practically breathes, yet I couldn’t. Taking the flower, I felt my chin quaver, and I pulled it close to my chest as though its delicate petals were strong enough to hold down the aching there.

  At last, Alessio stopped. Folding his arms around me, he kissed the top of my head and stroked my back slowly.

  “How can I help you be happier?” he whispered, his cheek resting against my hair.

  What I needed most, I couldn’t ask for. I wanted Leo’s freckled face and paint-stained hands back in my life, but I knew that was my own doing. Only I had the power to fix what was wrong. Yet the question remained—was I wrong?

  Leo’s last question to me, our last moments together, echoes in my thoughts. My lack of an answer had haunted me, as it clearly had him.

  “Darling.” I tilted my head up. “Can we go visit your grandfather?”

  He looked at me, confused. “You know Nonno’s gift is for physical healing. He cannot take this away.”

  “Perhaps,” was all I answered, my eyes looking past him to the direction we must go.

  “Well, we had better try it.” Alessio smiled at me and squeezed me tightly in his arms.

  Fifteen minutes later, Cristoforo was pulling out a worn wooden chair for me in front of his hearth, something red and meaty boiling in a cast-iron skillet over the flames.

  “Cristoforo,” I dove in without prompting. “You told Leo that you saw a rare greatness in him, that if anyone could learn to fly once grown, it was him. Do you still believe that?”

  It didn’t escape me how a shadow passed through Alessio’s eyes. He folded his arms and leaned back against the mantel, his usual stance, but something was different. All of his clapping, bowing, joking energy from the theater had evaporated faster than snow before fire, and what remained of him was unnervingly still.

  “Of course.” Cristoforo pulled his seat up to the table and clasped his aged fingers under his chin, giving me his undivided attention.

  “Why him?” Alessio cut in, and we both turned to face him, surprised at his input. He shrugged coolly. “I’m sorry. I just don’t see what makes him so different.”

  I tilted my head, confused. How could he not see what Leo is? Could he truly not recognize jewels when they sparkled right in front of him?

  “It may be that you have greatness misunderstood,” Cristoforo admonished his grandson. “It is not status, strength, or even intelligence. It certainly isn’t looks.” He paused and Alessio raised his eyebrows, clearly assuming his grandfather’s remark to be pointed at his handsome face. But Cristoforo only smiled softly, no malice in his eyes. “Continuous effort. That is where potential lies, and where Leonardo’s greatness dwells. I have yet to meet anyone who tries as deeply as that young man does. He banishes from his mind all reasons why something won’t work, and chooses only to believe the reasons that it can.”

  “Cristoforo, I’m afraid I’ve made a terrible mistake.” With my fingernails, I picked at a piece of lip. Softly pulling, I tasted blood. “I withdrew my support—it was getting too dangerous. But he’s going to keep trying, I know it, and no one will be there to save him. He could die, alone. I should be there.”

  Alessio scoffed loudly. “No mistake has been made. You can’t condone his risky behavior. Unless he wants his ‘greatness’ to sink to the bottom of a cold lake, he needs to be more cautious. It’s not your fault if he chooses to be reckless.”

  “Darling, that’s fairly aud
acious.” I could tell that something black and deformed lies contained inside Alessio’s words, yet perhaps as foolishly as Pandora with her box, I probed further, lifting the lid. “Is it so wrong to ‘condone’ hope?”

  “If it is false hope.” Alessio’s answer came out fast and sharp, a blade. “You want to go to him, to save him? What would you do? Have you so soon forgotten the lake, when he nearly had you both killed? Neither of you would have survived on your own.”

  “So come with me,” I implored.

  Alessio firmly shook his head before I even finished my plea. “I’m done with him.”

  I slid out my chair and stood, facing him. “But how can we just look the other direction? He’s our friend!”

  “No, he’s your friend.”

  Years of friendship pulled at me as forcefully as ropes, urging me to come to Leo’s defense. “You saw it in him—I know you did! You saw the same greatness!”

  “Oh.” For the briefest moment, the shadow passed from Alessio’s eyes, and I saw not anger that he was hiding, but pain. “If only you thought as highly of me as you do of him.”

  Cristoforo stepped toward his grandson and gently placed his hand on the young man’s arm. “Do you think that we don’t see you? I see you. I’ve always seen you.” For a moment, they were quiet, a young man and an old man, and just the strong bond between them. Quietly, Cristoforo continued. “I see how this jealousy is a toxin, changing you. Don’t let it. There’s no need for it to dim your light.”

  “Lovely.” Alessio shrugged his grandfather’s hand off him. “Now he’s the ‘great one,’ the supreme example of what man can become, and I’m the one with a black soul.” He walked from the mantel to the door. As he opened it, the view filled with the grandeur of his father’s home. He turned to face us, his hand still on the knob. “Don’t you worry about me. I won’t let him dim what I can become.” He leaned forward, sure we would catch every word. “And when I become that, it will not be on the coattails of anyone else. I will not live in Leo’s shadow, nor my father’s. People will know me as more than ‘Medici’s youngest’ or ‘DaVinci’s friend.’ Being Alessio will mean something.” He locked eyes with just me. “Perhaps then, you will see a greatness in me.”

  With that, he turned and strode out the door, slamming it behind him.

  ___

  “We’ll call you with the results,” the doctor said, but I heard in her voice what she predicts the outcome will be. They won’t be able to find anything wrong with my mind.

  She has stepped out, leaving me to get dressed again. I feel as though I’m standing on subway tracks, looking down tunnels with no light on either end and both directions equally dangerous. On one side, I see myself lost in mental illness while still in my twenties. But at least down those tracks there is a loving husband, who rushes to meet my every need.

  Down the other tunnel, I am legally bound to a sick, controlling pervert who spent months figuring out how to pull the wool over my eyes. A man who would rob me of my self-worth, my confidence, my memories. But I still would have my mind.

  For now.

  How many years could I resist him? How long until the subtle questions of the doctor are buried under the delusions he builds?

  No! My thoughts scream, and I crouch over, grabbing the sides of my head. He is everything I have looked for! He is kind—never once has he raised his voice to me! He loves me. If I know anything, I know he loves me! And I love him! I’m supposed to marry him in two months!

  I crumple into myself, body racked with sobs, the papery gown sticking to my sweat.

  Then, comes a voice of sanity from somewhere inside of me, I don’t have much time. I have to get away.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The Californian Remains, August 2048 A.D.

  “Don’t hate me,” I whisper to Alessio. We sit on the sofa in Alessio’s room, our knees an inch away from touching. How I want to close off that inch, close off all space between us, but right now, the distance seems like a chasm.

  When I had walked the halls remembering that day at Cristoforo’s, I felt a hook digging into my gut, knowing what I was about to do. I do see great things in Alessio. But that doesn’t mean I can be with him.

  With each step, with the knock on the door, with him motioning me in, the hook tore up my insides more and more. When I told him it was over, I thought that hook would finish me off, but somehow a broken heart still beats. When I made up my mind to end things, it seemed rash until I realized that for months, I have been inventing any excuse to stay with Alessio. It’s as though I’ve been standing in a street trying to ignore a runaway carriage coming at me full force. I don’t love him any less, but our paths twist out of sight in opposite directions. He can never fully be mine, just as I can never fully be his, as long as half our hearts war against each other.

  “I could never hate you. I don’t even see how I could ever stop loving you.” He looks at me for a moment like I am home, but then he looks away, preferring to watch the steam as it rises from platters on the table nearby.

  “I suppose that’s why I’m worried you’ll hate me.” I swallow the hard lump of sorrow in my throat. “I don’t think love easily dies—it just evolves. If it can’t grow, it turns into pain. And like so many other emotions, pain is too difficult to face. So we let ourselves hate instead.”

  Alessio shakes his head, the muscles in his face tense. “If you knew me at all, you wouldn’t say that. If you had any idea how I feel about you.”

  I give him a soft smile and blink back tears to see him. “It’s exactly because I do know you that I’m worried. You are all about being fun, being happy. And I’ve loved that about you. But when it simply isn’t fun or happy, can you let yourself grieve? Can you let yourself feel the pain without it rotting into hatred?”

  “You don’t need to worry about me. Not anymore,” he answers, his features immobile. “I just don’t understand why.”

  For a moment, I can only look at him, knowing he deserves more than the crumbs of a reason I have given him. Sure, I had used the break-up lines that must be centuries old—“We want different things” and “I don’t see how this can work.” But what substance does that give him to hold on to? Do I honestly expect those weak words to be a healing salve to the wounds I’ve inflicted? No, he needs a much stronger medicine. Yet how can I explain how I feel, knowing that our every word is likely recorded? There’s no Wild Dove here to put up walls, and it would be a terrible idea, for Alessio’s sake, to climb into bed and turn off the lights. Yet to risk speaking of my true feelings, where microphones are a mandatory part of the furniture, could be my worst mistake.

  And yet. Perhaps . . . yes. When I had my panic attack after watching the fallen man get murdered, Ramose had held me close and whispered to me. He understood, likely better than anyone because of his ability, what the listening equipment is capable of, and knew that if we were close, we could still speak if we were quite hushed. I have to try.

  Casting Ramose from my mind, I look at the inch-wide gorge between us, knowing I must jump. Steeling myself to cross that enormous bit of space, I turn and lean into Alessio. His arm is up on the couch, and I cuddle into it, placing my hand on his chest. He stiffens, and I feel as though I’m scrambling up the side of this ravine, struggling to reach the peak. I’m sliding, desperate for footholds, when at last Alessio reaches out to me. His arm that was on the couch drops around my waist and holds tight, pulling me to safety. I used to think I would give anything to stay forever in these arms.

  I was wrong.

  Tucking my head against his chest, I whisper to him, trying to keep my voice steady as a buried sob attempts to tear it apart, as an earthquake does to the stoic ground. “From the day we arrived, we’ve felt differently about this place. You've tried to get me to see it through your eyes, and I tried—I did. But no matter how pretty the package, I could never get past what was rotting inside. Toxic. Perhaps science and the Academy aren’t so bad, but Gadian is. And his fingerprints ar
e all over this place—there’s no separating them. When I attempted to show you Gadian as I see him, you couldn’t even consider what I said.”

  “That’s not—”

  “No, just listen. It’s okay.” I softly trace my fingers along his collarbone as I speak. “Because I see now that we can’t change each other’s minds. This goes to the deepest levels of who we are. Our cores.”

  “Meaning….?”

  “Well . . .” I grasp for the words, suddenly terrified that the explanation will cut deeper than the lack of one would have. But it’s too late now. “In your father’s home, you became used to luxury, but you felt like you were always treated second-tier. Unimportant. That’s why you wanted to perfect your magic—to become the right-hand man to royalty, isn’t it? But now that has changed. Here, the head of the entire Academy has hand-selected you alone to mentor. You are given the luxury you are accustomed to, and then some. But even more, you are treated like a somebody. Important. That’s everything you’ve ever wanted. Isn’t it?”

  “Not everything,” he answers, and barely kisses the top of my head. I can’t see his face, but from the heave of his chest, I think he hasn’t been able to keep from crying. It’s the worst realization because unlike me, Alessio is the kind of person you would never imagine crying. He always seemed made of pure strength and charisma. And now I’ve broken him.

  Sadness seeps through my every layer and goes straight to my bones. The tears I had carefully kept checked can no longer be contained by my weakened barriers, and they flow unrestrained. I’m heartbroken. This is the last thing I wanted to do.

  I look up at him, and though both our cheeks are wet, neither of us moves to wipe the tears away. We are the perfect distance for a kiss, and for a moment I am lost back in time, in the reality that had been our lives before we were kidnapped. A part of me still believes in that other life, where we could have grown old and gray together in our Tuscan hills. I fiercely want to believe in that life, believe that we could find love again. But no. That is no longer our reality. And I cannot live in what-ifs. Alessio’s eyes flicker to my lips, only a breath away, but I shake my head.