Shaman's Moon

by Sarah Dreher

  Hermione felt tears well up from somewhere deep inside her. Not tears of sadness or fear, but the tears that always came when she thought of her niece’s sweet face and loving eyes. Tears of gratitude for the time with her. She knew there’d been other lifetimes with her, and would be again, but this one was so very special. Tears of longing for it to be forever, this moment of seeing her and feeling her and loving her. Hermione let them flow.

  “Grace is here,” Stoner said softly. She stroked Hermione’s hand.

  “So early?”

  “It’s after eight. She’s been here since six. We had dinner. We didn’t want to wake you.”

  I ought to get up, she thought. I’m being a terrible hostess.

  She couldn’t find the energy to move.

  “You must be hungry,” Stoner said. Her eyes were puffy and sore-looking.

  “Have you been crying?”

  Stoner nodded in an ashamed way. “I couldn’t help it. I’m scared, Aunt Hermione.”

  Hermione forced herself to smile. “You’re going to be fine.”

  “But what if I’m not? What if I make a mess of it? If something happens to you, it’ll be all my fault, and I can’t bear that.”

  “Whatever’s going to happen has already happened, don’t you know that?” she said reassuringly. “This is only a shadow of the future. And you’re going to do just fine. Spirit wouldn’t have picked you for this unless you were the right one.”

  Stoner was silent for a moment, then blurted out, “What if you die?”

  “If I die, I’ll see you later, Alligator.” She had said that to Stoner a hundred times when she was a child. Every time she visited her sister, as she was leaving, the terror would engulf the child. Hermione understood. There wasn’t much love for little Stoner in that house, with both her parents absorbed in their own self-interests and what they wanted her to be for them. Hermione loved the child for the singular, extraordinary little soul she was. Partings were wrenching for them both.

  She made a gesture with her hand. “Come here,” she said. “Lie down beside me for a minute, then we’ll go act like adults.”

  She smiled as Stoner snuggled up against her, head on Hermione’s arm, the way she used to as a child. “Do you remember, when you were very little, I promised you I’d never lie to you?”

  She felt Stoner nod.

  “Well, I’ve never broken that promise, and the rules are still in effect.”

  “Okay,” Stoner said.

  “Now, I want you to listen to me, I’m telling you the absolute truth. I am not going to die. Not now. I’d know it if I were. I always know. It just doesn’t feel right for dying.” She held Stoner tighter so she wouldn’t interrupt. “But I want you to know, in case I’m too addled to tell you when the time comes, it’s been an absolute joy and privilege to have been loved by you.”

  Stoner was silent for a long time. Hermione could tell she was either crying or trying not to cry. She let her do whatever she needed to do, kissing her lightly on the top of her head. After a while, she said, “We’d better go, dear. Before they come looking for us. You know Marylou, she’ll decide we should all cuddle here and have a picnic.”

  Stoner sat up and scrubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands. She looked about nineteen.

  “How can I do this?” she asked miserably. “Siyamtiwa wants twelve virgins. I don’t even know twelve virgins.”

  Hermione laughed. “Of course you do. Your entire softball team.”

  Stoner stared at her. “That’s what she meant?”

  “No doubt. She’s an old fox, that one.”

  Stoner ran her hand through her hair. “God, I feel so stupid.” She thought for a moment. “Wait a minute, there are fourteen women on the team.”

  Hermione smiled and raised one eyebrow. “I don’t think that’s any of our business, dear.”

  He’d never seen so many hungry ghosts all at one time. They surrounded the house, clinging to the walls, covering the ground floor with darkness like old ivy. But they didn’t move, only sat and waited. The power of the High Priestess bound them.

  Mogwye hung her black dress in her makeshift closet and slid the old bedspread across the rope to close it off. Almost over now. Tomorrow would be hard, but she’d tackled harder things than this. The girl was a pushover. She’d already drained her with nothing more than a look. As for Hermione Moore… well, that witch had about as much power as a double-A flashlight battery.

  She slipped into bed and reached for her new romantic novel. Her cat jumped up and stood on her chest and stared down at her, trying to get her attention. Trying to remind her there might be something she’d overlooked.

  Mogwye laughed and shoved him aside.

  Grace lit the candles and incense. “If you feel you’re up to it,” she said to Hermione, “I think we should call on the Goddess for help.”

  From her bed, Hermione nodded. She didn’t feel up to it, but she knew Grace was right. Drawing all of her energy to her, she got up and went to stand beside her lover. She could feel the strength of Grace’s aura, and drew on that force as they went through the ritual of blessing.

  Twelve Blue Shirts could hardly sleep. Coach had ordered them to a special ‘field trip.’ When she’d explained it first as a ‘kind of religious thing’ they’d grumbled, and rebellion was in the wings. But Coach had explained that the whole thing was being managed by an ancient Indian woman who’d specifically asked for twelve virgins. That had made them giggle and nudge one another with their elbows. Until Coach had explained that Virgins originally meant women who weren’t dependent on men. That excited them even more.

  Two of the Blue Shirts had skipped practice to go out with their boyfriends. They hadn’t heard Coach’s order. They slept soundly.

  Stoner didn’t sleep. Fear and premonitions of doom played a game of badminton in her head. Gwen sensed her restlessness and took her hand.

  In the still darkness of Hermione’s room, Grace said a silent prayer for Cutter’s soul.

  The full moon began to die, turning soft, rotting at its waning edge.

  Chapter 12

  Such a fuss over one person, Hermione thought. They were all there, Grace and Marylou and Stoner and Gwen and Elizabeth and Karen her partner. And the twelve virgins in their freshly washed and ironed uniforms. Even Cutter, though he couldn’t bring himself to come in. Diana had given her sets of crystals for everyone, quartz points for clarity and tourmaline to dispel negativity. Cecilia from PARA had gathered all the psychics—legitimate psychics, of course, Cecilia was adamant about having nothing to do with “Gypsies” as she called them—she could find into her living room and asked them to send healing energy. At one time, Hermione might have taken personal offense at the slur against Gypsies. But that was lifetimes ago and, besides, Cecilia was Italian. Italians, like everyone else, had their prejudices and superstitions.

  There was nothing from the coven. She and Stoner had discussed it, and agreed that the less chance there was of Mogwye finding out what was going on, the better. Even though they’d uncovered nothing that pointed to Mogwye in all of this, Stoner still felt uneasy about her. Hermione’d avoided the Full Moon ceremony, claiming she felt too ill to attend, which was the truth. If Mogwye thought anything about that, it would be that her spells were working. She’d be satisfied, and wouldn’t have any reason to take further action.

  Travis had sent flowers and good wishes. Hermione smiled as she recalled the afternoon last week when he’d stopped by to see how she was doing. She had decided to enter a trance, thinking perhaps she could get a broader view of the situation if she went out of body. Just as she was slipping loose from her earth bonds, she had heard a loud, angry male voice. She had concentrated as hard as she could, to hold onto the trance, but the anger intruded. It had really been annoying. She hadn’t been pulled out of a trance in the past twelve lifetimes, and the time before that it had taken a total eclipse of the sun to do it.

  But the voice was going on and on,
growing louder and more angry. She had let herself slip back to her body just a little, to see if she could make out what was happening. She couldn’t hear the words, but she heard the emotions under them.

  The man hadn’t been angry, he’d been terrified. What if it was Cutter, finally gone over the edge? Taking a deep breath, she dove back into the everyday world. The man was shaking her by the shoulders and shouting, “Come back to me, God damn it! Don’t you dare die on me, old lady!”

  It had been Travis. He’d seen her in trance, and had thought she was dying. He was using every ounce of his CPR training on her. She thought she was going to split something trying to hold her laughter inside. If he didn’t break her ribs first, what with all his pounding and shaking and forcing her to breathe at a pace that wasn’t natural to her at all. It really was unpleasant. She decided to teach him a lesson. “So that’s how you speak to poor dying souls,” she said in a haughty voice popping her eyes open suddenly. “How very nice. The last thing they hear on this side is you swearing like a drunken sailor. Your mother must be so proud.”

  Travis had jumped back as if he’d seen a ghost, which he probably believed he had. “I thought...” he stammered. “I was trying to bring you back.”

  “And what business is it of yours if I come back?” Hermione huffed. “If I want to come back I’m perfectly capable of making that decision for myself. I don’t need some juvenile delinquent yelling at me.”

  He’d looked as if he might sink into a puddle of Silly Putty on the floor, so she relented a little and thanked him—stiffly—for his concern.

  Hermione had suggested he get a grip on himself and sent him home to read Deepak Chopra.

  “Finally,” Grace said into her ear, “a smile from you.”

  Hermione leaned against her lover’s arm. “This is a little overwhelming.”

  “I know. It means you’re loved. That’s never easy to take.”

  Grace was her usual calm, reassuring self, as if there were not a single doubt in her mind that this would work.

  Hermione wondered if she really believed that, or had privileged information from the Goddess, or was just a very good actor.

  Grace started to lead her into the Journey room, but Elizabeth stopped her.

  “We have to meet out here,” she explained. “We’d never fit in there.” She peered at Hermione and gave a low grunt. “It’s pretty bad, isn’t it?”

  “To tell you the truth,” Hermione said in a low voice so the others couldn’t hear, “I think we’d better get under way as soon as possible.”

  Her aunt had gone down hill even in the past five minutes. She seemed barely alive. Stoner felt pale, and cold all over. This was it, she knew. If the soul retrieval didn’t work, there wouldn’t be time left to try anything else.

  Gwen squeezed her hand. Stoner barely felt it.

  “Whatever happens,” Gwen said, “I’ll be right here.”

  Stoner knew what she meant. Even if she failed, Gwen would be there to comfort her, to support her, to love her and help her put the pieces of her life back together.

  “Okay,” she said aloud, hoping she sounded more self-assured than she felt, diving into the deep end before she had a chance to find out how cold the water was. “Let’s get moving.”

  She lay down and covered her eyes. Elizabeth invoked the Spirits, singing and rattling an invitation to join them, asking for their help, circling the blanket where Stoner lay, rattling protection.

  Stoner’s curiosity got the better of her. She let her eyes drift open a slit.

  Elizabeth’s face was changing, growing wider and shorter. Her skin darkened. Her hair and eyes were black. Her forehead protruded a little. She bent forward slightly from the waist, legs rising and falling as if she were running. Her clothes were ragged, and decorated with faded colors. Except she wasn’t a ‘she’ any more. She was a man, an old man. Her voice was deeper, louder, harsher. There was a look of determination on her face. An angry look, as if she were trying to frighten away demons.

  Instead of scaring her, Elizabeth’s transformation was comforting.

  The Shaman fell silent, the drums began.

  Stoner let herself be taken by the rhythm.

  This time she knew where to go, and sent herself into the black rock tunnel to the Lower World. Burro was there, as she knew he would be. There was no sign of Siyamtiwa, twelve virgins or no twelve virgins. But that didn’t mean anything. She could be a tree or a stone or a drop of water in the river, or just herself, present but invisible.

  So far, so good, Stoner thought. Now what?

  Burro turned and looked at her, then seemed to gesture with his head toward a patch of grass a little distance away.

  She got the point. These Spirit Guides, or whatever they were, liked you to hustle a little for them. She brought him a carefully chosen handful of the grass.

  He nodded deeply and chewed the treat slowly and methodically. Stoner waited.

  Burro belched softly and began moving back toward the tunnel entrance. She followed him.

  It was dark in there. She couldn’t see, but she could feel Burro beside her. She reached out and touched his firm, silky shoulder.

  Immediately they were going up, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Her body felt as light as helium. Then she realized it wasn’t her body at all, not her physical body. There was no physical body, but all the sensations and emotions were still there.

  Burro was leaving, she felt him say, but only for a little while. Another Power Animal was taking over. There would be someone to greet her at the other end, and he would see her when she got back.

  She wanted to ask him why. Was he limited to the Lower World? But he was gone.

  Something was still pulling her upward. She looked up and saw a little pink bird. A hummingbird. In its tiny beak it held a silver thread. The thread was attached to her solar plexus.

  Still rising. Past tree branches, through clouds. Into a rosy mist.

  There was no feeling of height, or fear of falling. The rising was as natural as breathing.

  Suddenly she felt a break, a change of atmosphere, like breaking through from the bottom of a lake into dry air. She was standing now, on a flat, arid plain with violet mountains in the distance.

  A figure came toward her. Human. It came closer. A Native American, an old man. Not old by Siyamtiwa’s standards, but old by the standards of his time and place. He strode toward her, carrying his feathered walking stick, moving with ease and authority.

  She knew his name. Old Man of a Hundred Crows.

  She hadn’t heard it. It had simply appeared in her mind.

  “Are you here to help me?” she asked.

  He nodded. But you’re not ready yet, he said without saying it. We have to get the worries out of your mind.

  Old Man waved his arm in a circle, and the air was filled with the beating of wings. The hundred crows and hovered near them.

  Stoner tried not to think of Hitchcock’s “The Birds.”

  Old Man heard her thoughts, and smiled. Lie down, he said. I’ll turn your worries into ants, and my crows will eat them.

  Well, that struck her as particularly gruesome.

  This isn’t Ordinary Reality, Old Man said. Think of it as symbolic, if it makes you feel better.

  Okay. Symbolically, she lay down and closed her eyes. She could see the crows poke their beaks into the crevices of her brain, pulling up the ants, pecking at them as they tried to burrow deeper or run away.

  It felt good, like someone softly tapping her head. Gentle. Cleansing. Her mind relaxed.

  This is highly strange, she thought.

  Old Man smiled at her again. Okay, now we go, he said.

  He heard the drums begin inside the house. No one would come out to check on him now. Silently, he eased himself off the lounge chair. He’d thought about going in with them, when they first arrived, but as soon as he got out of Marylou’s car his hands began to sweat and perspiration dripped down his arms and a terrib
le buzzing began in his ears and pain rasped his brain like thorns. Marylou had told him, gently, to go into the back yard.

  It was the people. The place was filled with people. He knew most of them, a little, but that made it worse. They knew something about him, which meant they could grab bits of him if they wanted to. Strangers weren’t interested. And people he was close to… well, that would be Marylou, and Marylou just didn’t take pieces of you.

  Karen, the Shaman’s lady friend, had come out to see if he needed anything. He liked how she looked, high cheek-boned and calm, with a glitter in her eye as if she might have to play a practical joke on you any minute. Someone you could talk to.

  That made him want to crawl inside himself and hide. He forced himself to say he was fine.

  She wouldn’t be satisfied until she’d put up the lounge chair for him. He made himself sit in it, and to smile as if he really was grateful, but he only wished she’d go away. The chair was too high from the ground. He felt conspicuous. Anyone, anything could see him. They’d get to him before he even knew they were there.

  It was kind of the Shaman and her lady to think of him. He knew that. But kindness made him feel things. It was dangerous to feel things.

  He found an overgrown bush. There was a break in the branches, an entrance of sorts. Cutter crawled inside. It was cool here, and safe. He was alone. No one could find him until he showed himself.

  Cutter took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He had places to go.

  Far in the distance she could just make out the shapes of buildings.

  “Is that where we’re going?” she asked.

  Old Man nodded and lengthened his stride.

  Stoner trotted to catch up with him. “Do you think you could slow down a little?” she pleaded, gasping for breath, her lungs burning.

  He stopped and looked down at her. You’re tired? You don’t have a body here, how can it be tired?

  “I don’t?” She looked down at herself. Seemed pretty solid to her.