by Dan Millman
Then, with a shock, I sat up again, and nearly passed out as a woman limped into the room and turned around.
“Ruth Johnson?” I said through cracked lips. I tried to sit up then thought better of it. This was no dream; the pain was real. The woman who had sent me out on the surfboard was standing over me now.
“You almost killed me!” I yelled.
The old woman set her cane against the wall, fluffed up my pillow, and gently pushed me back on the bed. She wasn’t smiling, but her face had a tenderness I hadn’t seen before. She turned to the young girl. “You’ve done a good job taking care of him, Sachi; your parents will be pleased.”
Sachi smiled and left us alone.
“Who are you?” I asked the woman. “What’s going on here?”
She didn’t answer right away, but as she massaged another salve into the skin of my face, she said quietly, “I don’t understand—you don’t seem like a foolish young man—why did you ignore my directions? Why did you go out without any sunscreen, or food, or water?”
I pushed her hand away from my face and sat up again. “What directions? Why would I need sunscreen at night? Who takes food and water out on a surfboard? Why didn’t you tell me what I would need?”
“But I did tell you,” she interrupted. “I wrote it down—told you to be sure to take three days’ supply of water, food, and sunscreen, and—”
“There was nothing about any of that in your note,” I interrupted.
She paused, puzzled and thoughtful. “How can that be?” she asked, staring into space. “On the second page I wrote down everything—”
“What do you mean, ‘second page’?” I asked. “All you gave me was the newspaper clipping, and a note. You wrote on the front and back—”
“But there was another page!” she said, cutting me off.
Then it dawned on me: “The note,” I said, “It ended with the words, ‘Be sure … ’ I thought you were just telling me to be certain.”
As she realized what must have happened, Mama Chia closed her eyes; a mixture of emotions passed over her face for a moment, then disappeared. Shaking her head sadly, she sighed. “The next page told you everything you’d need and where the currents would take you.”
“I—I must have dropped the other page when I was putting the papers in my pocket.”
I lay back against the pillows. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “And I assumed, out there on the ocean that you were just from ‘the hard school.’”
“Not that hard!” she replied. We laughed, because there was nothing else to do, and because the whole thing was so ludicrous.
Still laughing, she added, “And when you’re feeling stronger, to finish the job, we can throw you off a cliff.”
I laughed even louder than she; it made my head hurt again. And, just for a moment, I wasn’t sure whether or not she was serious.
“But who are you? I mean—”
“On Oahu, I was Ruth Johnson. Here, my friends, students, patients—and people I’ve almost killed—call me Mama Chia.” She smiled.
“Well, Mama Chia, how did I get here?”
She walked over to the island map and pointed: “The currents took you across the Kaiwi Channel, around Ilio Point, and eastward along the north shore of Molokai, past Kahiu Point, toward Kamakou, and you landed—ungracefully, I might add, but right on time—at Pelekunu Valley, just as I knew you would. There is a trail, a stairwell known by few people. Some friends helped carry you here.”
“Where are we?”
“In a secluded place—a forest reserve.”
I shook my head, then winced as it throbbed. “I don’t understand any of this. Why all the mystery?”
“All part of your initiation—I told you. If you had been prepared …” Her words trailed off. “I acted carelessly. I’m sorry for what you had to endure, Dan. I intended to give you a test of faith, not get you deep-fried,” she apologized again. “But like Socrates, I suppose I have a flair for the dramatic.”
“Well,” I said, “can I at least consider myself initiated?”
She sighed. “I should hope so.”
After a pause, I asked, “How did you know I was coming to Hawaii? Until a few days ago, I didn’t even know. Did you know who I was when we met, outside the bank? And how did you find me in the first place?”
Mama Chia gazed out the window for a moment before she answered. “There are other forces at work here—that’s the only way I can explain it. I don’t often read the local papers, and I almost never read the ‘Personals’ column. But I was staying at my sister’s house on Oahu, for Victor’s party, when I found the paper on her coffee table. We were going out, and while I was waiting for her to get ready, I picked up the paper and skimmed through it. When my eyes somehow locked onto your message, a surge of electricity passed through me, I felt a sense of destiny.”
I lay very still, but chills ran up and down my spine.
“When I read that ad,” she continued, “I could almost see your face, as clearly as I see you now.” She tenderly touched my blistered cheeks. “I was so glad you had finally arrived.”
“But why would you be glad? Why would you care?”
“When I read the ad, it all came back to me—what Socrates had written about you.”
“What did he write?”
“Never mind that now. It’s time you ate something,” she said. Reaching into her backpack, she pulled out a mango and a papaya.
“I’m not really hungry,” I said. “My stomach has shrunk. And I’d rather hear what Socrates wrote about me.”
“You’ve eaten nothing for seven days,” she gently chided.
“I’ve done that before,” I replied. “Besides, I needed to loose weight.” I pointed to my waist, now much leaner.
“Perhaps—but this fruit has been blessed, and will help you heal more rapidly.”
“You really believe that?”
“I don’t believe; I know,” she answered, cutting open a fresh papaya, scooping out the black seeds, and handing me half.
I looked at the fresh fruit. “Maybe I am a little hungry,” I said, and nibbled a small piece. Its sweetness melted onto my tongue; I inhaled its aroma. “Good. And it has healing properties?”
“Yes,” she said, handing me a slice of ripe mango. “This, too.”
Eating obediently, I asked between bites, “So how did you find me—back in Honolulu?”
“Another twist of fate,” she replied. “When I found your ad, I decided to somehow make contact—or perhaps observe you for a while, to see if you could find me.”
“I never would have found you—you don’t even work at a bank.”
“Not for six years.”
“I guess we found each other,” I said, taking another bite of mango.
Mama Chia smiled. “Yes. And now it’s time for me to go and for you to rest.”
“I’m feeling much better, now—really—and I still want to know why you were so glad I arrived.”
She paused before speaking. “There’s a bigger picture you don’t yet see—one day you may reach out to others … and find the right leverage and make a real difference. Now close your eyes, and sleep.”
LEVERAGE, I thought as my eyes closed. The word stuck in my mind, and pulled me back to an incident years before, to a time with Socrates. We were walking back toward the Berkeley campus after a breakfast at Joseph’s café. As Soc and I neared campus, a student handed me a flyer. I glanced at it. “Soc,” I said, “will you look at this. It’s about saving the whales and dolphins. Last week,” I sighed, “I got one about oppressed peoples; the week before it was about starving children. Sometimes I feel so guilty, doing all this work on myself when there are so many people in need out there.”
Socrates looked at me without expression, but kept walking as if I’d said nothing.
“Did you hear me, Socrates?”
In response, he stopped, turned, and said, “I’ll give you five bucks if you can slap me on the che
ek.”
“What? What does that have to do with—”
“Ten bucks,” he interrupted, upping the ante. I figured it was some kind of test, so after a few feints, I took a swing—and found myself on the ground in a painful wrist lock. As Soc helped me up, he said, “Notice how a little leverage can be quite effective?”
“Yeah, I sure did,” I replied, shaking my wrist.
“To really help people, you first need to understand them—but first understand yourself, prepare yourself; develop the clarity, the courage, and the sensitivity to exert the right leverage, in the right place, at the right time. Then your actions will have power. History,” he added, “holds many examples of individuals and nations who acted without the wisdom to foresee the consequences … .”
That was the last thing I remembered before falling into a deep sleep.
THE NEXT MORNING, Sachiko arrived with some fresh fruit and a pitcher of water. Then, with a wave, she said, “Time for school,” and ran out the door.
Soon after, Mama Chia entered. She rubbed more of the clean-smelling salve on my face, neck, and chest. “You’re healing well—as I expected.”
“In a few days, I should be ready to travel.” I sat up and stretched, carefully.
“Travel?” she asked. “You think you’re ready to go somewhere? And what will you find when you get there—what you found in India?”
“How do you know about India?” I asked.
“When you understand how I know,” she said, “you’ll be ready to continue your journey.” Mama Chia gave me a piercing stare, “Abe Lincoln once said that if he had six hours to chop down a tree, he’d spend the first five hours sharpening the axe. You have a great task ahead, but you are not yet sharpened. It will take time, and require great energy.”
“But I’m feeling better all the time. Soon I’ll have enough energy.”
“It’s not your energy I’m talking about,” she said with a sigh. “It’s mine.”
I lay back down, suddenly feeling like a burden. “I really should go,” I said. “You have other people to care for; I don’t want to impose.”
“Impose?” she responded. “Does the diamond impose on the gem polisher? Does the steel impose on the swordsmith? Please, Dan. Stay a while. I can think of no better way to use my energy.”
Her words encouraged me. “Well,” I said, smiling, “it may not be as hard as you think. I’ve trained as a gymnast; I know how to work. And I did spend time with Socrates.”
“Yes,” she said. “Socrates prepared you for me; I’m to prepare you for what follows.” She closed the container and put the salve on the bureau.
“What do you have in mind? What do you do around here, anyway? I don’t see any banks in the vicinity.”
She laughed. “I play different roles, wear different hats for different people. For you, no hat at all.” She paused. “Most of the time, I help my friends. Sometimes I just sit and do nothing at all. Sometimes I practice shape-shifting.”
“Shape-shifting?”
“Yes.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, becoming different things—merging with the spirits of animals, or rocks, or water—that sort of thing. Seeing life from another point of view, if you know what I mean.”
“But you don’t actually—”
“I need to go now,” she said, cutting my question in half. “I have people to see.” She picked up her backpack she had set down near the bookcase, grabbed her cane, and walked out the door before I could say another word.
I sat up again with some effort. I could barely see her through the open front door as she limped, swinging her cane, up the winding path into the forest.
I leaned back and watched the narrow rays of sunlight passing through holes in the drawn curtains, and I wondered if I’d ever feel good about the sun again.
I’d suffered a setback, but I had found her. My body tingled with a rising excitement. The road ahead might be difficult—even dangerous—but at least it was open.
*Chia is pronounced “Chee-ah.”
CHAPTER 6
Barefoot on a Forest Path
The clearest way into the Universe
is through a forest wilderness.
—John Muir
THE NEXT MORNING found me ravenous, glad for the bowl of fruit on the nightstand. I found a knife and spoon in the drawer and ate two bananas, a passion fruit, and a papaya in quick succession, followed by some macadamia nuts and raw sunflower seeds. I reminded myself to slow down and chew, but the food just seemed to disappear.
Feeling better after breakfast, I decided to explore my surroundings. Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I grew dizzy for a few moments, waited for it to pass, then stood. Weak and unsteady, I looked down at myself; I’d lost so much weight, my swim trunks nearly fell off. “I’ll have to write a diet book,” I muttered. “I’ll call it ‘The Surfboard Diet’—probably make a million dollars.”
Still shaky, I tottered toward a pitcher of water on the dresser, took a slow drink, then made my way to some kind of chemical toilet in a curtained-off area. It would do just fine. At least my kidneys were still functioning.
I stared at my face in an old mirror. With its oozing sores and scabs, it seemed like the face of a stranger. Parts of my back were still bandaged. How could that little girl Sachi bear to look at me, let alone touch me?”
Making my way outside, resting often, I stayed in the shade of the cabin and trees. The solid ground felt good under me, but my feet were still tender. Without shoes, I couldn’t go far. I wondered if my backpack, with all my belongings, had been discovered. If so, they might think I had drowned. Or, I thought darkly, maybe a thief had found my wallet, my air tickets, my credit card. No, I’d hidden the pack too well. It was set in a deep thicket, covered by dried brush. I’d mention it to Mama Chia the next time I saw her, which, as it turned out, wasn’t to happen for several more days.
I managed to walk up the trail a little ways until I found a good vantage point. High above me, in the distance, stood the bare lava cliffs jutting skyward in the center of the island, above the thick rain forest. Far below, through the lush trees, I could just make out bits of blue sky. My cabin, I estimated, lay about halfway between the upper cliffs and the sea below. Tired, and a little depressed by my infirmity, I made my way back down the trail to the cabin, lay down, and slept again.
AS THE DAYS PASSED, my hunger returned in a flood. I ate tropical fruit, then sweet yams, potatoes, corn, taro, and—although my diet was normally vegetarian—a small sampling of fresh fish along with some kind of seaweed soup I found on the bureau each morning, delivered, I suspected, by Sachiko. Mama Chia had insisted I eat the soup “to help relieve the burns.”
Early mornings and late afternoons, I started walking farther, hiking a few hundred yards into the lush valley, up through the rain forest filled with the smooth-skinned kukui tree, the twisting banyan, the towering palm, and the eucalyptus, whose leaves shimmered in the sea breezes. Red and white ginger plants grew everywhere among the delicate amaumau ferns, and the red earth was covered with a rich carpet of moss, grasses, and leaves.
Except for the small clearing that surrounded my cabin, everything stood on a slant here. At first I tired quickly, but I soon got my breath back, climbing up into the moist, healing air of the rain forest. Below, a few miles away, sheer cliffs, the pali, dropped to the sea. How had they ever carried me up to the cabin?
The next few mornings, traces of dreams lingered in my awareness—images of Mama Chia and the sound of her voice. And each morning I felt unusually refreshed. With amazement, I noticed that my sores had peeled away rapidly, leaving tender new skin, now nearly healed—almost as good as new. My strength was returning and, with it, a renewed sense of urgency. I had found Mama Chia; I was here. Now what? What did I need to learn or do before she would direct me to the next step of my journey?
THE NEXT DAY, the sun was already rising as I awoke, listening to the shrill cries of a bird
outside. I rose and set out on another short hike. My bare feet were getting used to the earth.
Later, returning from the hike, I saw Mama Chia entering the cabin, probably expecting to find me in bed. I walked quickly down the grade, nearly slipping on wet leaves, slick from an earlier downpour. Thinking I’d have a little fun with her, and proud of my speedy recovery, I hid behind the shed and peered out as she emerged, puzzled, and looked around. I ducked behind the shed again and put my hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh, then took a deep breath and peeked around the corner again. She was no longer there.
Afraid that she had gone away to look for me, I stepped out from concealment and was about to call her when a hand tapped me on the shoulder; I turned to see her smiling at me. “How did you know where I was?”