The Counseling

by Marley Gibson

  "Same here," he says. "Visions. Words. Names. Eyes. Noses. Hands. None of them add up to one person, though ... that I know of."

  Too bad Celia's not here with me. She could sketch the personages we're all seeing. I take a moment and then ask, "Do you mind if I ask about details? You know, to, like, compare notes."

  Josiah cricks his neck to the left and then to the right, easing tension I can sense has built up in his muscles. "You're having spiritual visitations as well?"

  "I am. One, in particular."

  He stammers over his words a bit. "Look, I'm still n-new at this, so I'm not exactly sure who I'm getting. Like I said, faces and voices are jumbled together. It's like when I take my contact lenses out and everything's a blur in front of me. I can see the outlines of people and the colors they're wearing, but I can't distinguish any details or anything beyond the fog and distortion. Oliver and Heidi are working to help me focus my energies and identify who is reaching out to me."

  "They're the ones who can lend a hand," I reassure him.

  "I don't guess you have that problem, do you?" he asks with a near smile. One of the first I've seen from him.

  "Not really. I see them, hear them, feel them, and have been severely injured because of them."

  Josiah's dark eyes turn to me. "That sucks, Kendall. I heard your story the other day about the near-death experience. That would have scared me shitless. It's brave of you to keep at this."

  Brave isn't exactly the adjective I'd use to describe me these days. "It's not like I have much of a choice. Just have to keep understanding this whole awakening and the best way to handle it," I say.

  "Is there actually a best way?" he asks. "We were all chosen for a reason, I suppose."

  "Yep" is all I can say and then I pat his hand.

  In a gesture of friendship, Josiah turns his palm up and curls his fingers around mine for a reassuring squeeze. Two seconds later, we let go and I lean back into my seat. I feel a set of eyes on me and rotate around until I catch Patrick staring at me over the top of his sunglasses.

  Is it your goal to flirt with every guy at this retreat?

  Give me a break, I snap. Besides, I don't flirt with you. You stalk me in my head.

  Whatever you say. You and Smack Talk seemed very cozy.

  Jealous much?

  Hardly.

  And his name is Talking Feathers. Don't be a jerk!

  He waits a minute. Then he says, You know where Oliver's taking us?

  No. Do you?

  Patrick pushes his sunglasses back into place and adjusts in the seat, bending one knee up and resting his hand on top of it. He peers out the window, and then I hear him in my head:

  We're going to sweat.

  A few miles of rough terrain and the van stops. We're parked on a dirt road that dead-ends between some low-lying picturesque mountain ranges. The lush green of the sloping trees and swaying grass is dramatic against the aquamarine sky. The brilliant sun shimmers on the rippling surface of a good-size stream running nearby. A small, domed tentlike hut sits in the middle of the open field. It appears to be about twelve feet by twelve feet with straw covering the rounded—is that what they call thatched?—roof and a woolen blanket hanging in the cut-out opening.

  "Gather around, please," Oliver instructs us once we're all off the van. "Today we have an incredible spiritual and personal ceremony for you to partake in. This is, without a doubt, my favorite activity of the whole week, and I hope you enjoy it as well. Wisdom Walker, would you?"

  From around the other side of our transportation, Wisdom Walker appears in his traditional Native American garb and this gorgeous flowing headdress with feathers and beads that cascade to his waist. He could be straight off the DVD cover of Dances with Wolves. My breath catches in my throat as I take him in, from his moccasined feet to the thick, black braid on either side of his head.

  "Oh my God," Willowmeana says, sounding almost ecstatic. "We're doing a sweat."

  "All right!" Talking Feathers echoes her tone.

  The rest of us just look around and then back and forth at one another in curiosity. Patrick shows no emotions, although I sense a tremor running through him.

  A bead of perspiration trails down my spine, and I wish someone would tell me what "doing a sweat" means.

  Oliver waves his hands in excitement. "Let's get started. We have a lot ahead of us." We all congregate around our host and listen intently. Well, at least I do. Anticipation runs through me like drugs through an IV line. Oliver begins to explain the task for the day and suddenly it all becomes very clear.

  "Wisdom Walker and I have brought you to this sacred place for what is known in most Native American cultures as the sweat lodge ceremony."

  Ahh ... hence the sweating. Now I get it.

  "For centuries, sweat baths have been used in various cultures throughout the Americas, Asia, Europe, and Africa. Native Americans use the ritual as a way of purifying themselves and remembering the traditions of their ancestors."

  "This is so cool," Jessica whispers to me.

  My pulse picks up as Oliver continues. "With the guidance of a medicine man, you can repair damage done to your mind, body, and spirit. A sweat lodge is a place of spiritual sanctuary, mental cleansing, and physical healing. It's a place for questions, answers, and guidance from the spirits and your totem animals."

  "Oh, my friend Loreen told me about totem animals. I didn't know how you found out which one was yours," I say to the other girls.

  "I did a sweat with my grandmother when I was twelve," Willow offers. "I don't remember much of it, though. Other than it being almost unbearably hot. One hint, ladies: if you need a good, cool breath, stay low to the ground."

  "Right," Harper adds. "Heat rises."

  Maddie pats her hair. "So much for my hairdo today."

  We all snicker but then listen to Wisdom Walker as he gives more details. He points to the hut and explains.

  "Sweats are held in what's called a wickiup or a tepee that's lashed together with grass or dirt, bark, or mud, like this one over here. The wickiup is held up with slender withes that are set into the ground in a circle, and they form the dome." He points at the structure like a proud architect. "It's about five feet high in the center. There's a two-by-one pit in the middle where hot rocks are placed for the steam."

  "Like the sauna at the gym?" Greg asks.

  "Very much so," Wisdom Walker responds.

  Talking Feathers raises his hand like he's in history class. "Does it matter which way the lodge faces?"

  Nodding, Wisdom Walker says, "Most sweat lodges face the east. A few feet away, you'll see we've built the sacred fire pit." I see the beginnings of a small bonfire area, but nothing has been lit. "The lodge and the pit face east, and this speaks to the rising sun that provides us with our power and life force, a dawning of wisdom to come to you. We light the fire and heat the rocks, signifying the undying radiance of the world and how each new day is a spiritual beginning."

  I glance at the sacred pit he's speaking of; the stones are stacked, ready to be heated. There's also something between the door and the trench. I think it's a cow skull. Eww...

  "We have the skull on the path to prevent anyone from stepping into the fire pit after emerging from the sweat," Oliver says, probably reading my mind.

  "So, we're, like, delirious when we come out?" Ricky asks.

  "You can be," Wisdom Walker explains. "It's a very moving experience."

  Ricky says, "I don't know. I've heard some bad stuff about sweat lodges."

  Oliver interjects, "Yes, there has been some bad press on sweating lately. However, those occurred when too many people crammed into the space and didn't come out for breaks. I assure you, I won't let that happen here."

  That seems to satisfy Ricky—and me—for the moment.

  Wisdom Walker continues. "And, son, we don't sweat merely once. We go in four separate times. If anyone needs to leave, he or she is free to do so."

  Maddie rolls her eye
s. "Seriously. I'm going to have a really bad hair day."

  Erin elbows her at the same time Harper shushes her.

  I'm surprised to hear Patrick ask a question. "Why do you go in four times?"

  Wisdom Walker turns toward him. "Each sweat round or endurance has a significant meaning and lasts about forty-five minutes. The first endurance faces west and is for recognition of the spirit world and where we ask our Creator to let our spirit guides converse with us. The next endurance is to the north and recognizes bravery, vigor, purity, and honesty. The third is to the east, the recognition of the importance of prayer in our lives so we may gain insight in all of our activities. And the last endurance, to the south, is for growth and healing of your own spirit, using the strengths you garnered from each direction. Only then will full cleansing come to you."

  Wow. That's heavy.

  And this can all be achieved by merely sweating? I mean, I've sweated plenty in phys ed class and while on some pretty intense ghost hunts. I've even lost a pound or two from having the old adrenaline going. This is different, though. This will be a connection with ... myself. A true healing and cleansing to purge the negativity, doubt, fear, and trepidation that has come into my soul. Chills cover me in my eagerness for the sweat. I giggle a little when I think of how my mom might freak out over this, believing it's some false religion and not sanctioned by the Episcopal Church. But this tradition goes back centuries and is full of positive messages, encouragement, and, above all, a connection with a higher power and faith in myself. What can be wrong with a higher consciousness of God?

  "We'll explain more as we go along," Oliver says. "As Wisdom Walker said, if you're uncomfortable at all about the ceremony, you don't have to participate. The driver will take you back to the inn and no one will judge you."

  A shift in the gravel draws my attention to Patrick's feet. Did he just move?

  I don't think so...

  What? he responds.

  I stare him down. You're not going anywhere. You're doing this.

  He doesn't say (or think) another word; he just stands there.

  I breathe out a pent-up gust of air, feeling smug that I've kept Patrick from fleeing the terror inside himself that he will inevitably have to face. Ones we'll all have to deal with.

  "Okay then," Oliver notes. "We're all in."

  This is going to be a very interesting day.

  Chapter Seventeen

  SPARKS CRACKLE IN THE AIR, dancing around the flames in the fire pit. A warm wave reaches out to us, and the stones begin to heat.

  We all take off our shoes, socks, flip-flops, or whatever covers our feet. Maddie is apparently anticipating the worst, as she's pulled her thick mane of hair into a high ponytail. I follow suit, using the elastic on my wrist to make a messy bun on top of my head.

  Oliver moves around us carrying a bundle of some sort of leaves that are tightly bound and smoking. The sweet yet pungent, earthy smell swirls around each of us as Oliver passes by.

  I stifle a tickle in the back of my throat that threatens to make me break out in a violent sneezing attack. "What is that?" I speak out.

  "This is called smudging, and it's thought to ward away any negative energy." He takes a whiff. "It's sage. The same thing you use in a roast chicken recipe."

  My mom usually uses butter, salt, pepper, and garlic with her chicken, but I'm not going to quibble. Judging from the overpowering stench, though, I'll be passing on any sage-imbued dishes in my future dining.

  Wisdom Walker follows behind Oliver, stirring the cloudy air with a large feather. "Are we all ready?"

  Heads bob, and nods spread out through the group. Even a usually reserved Evan Christian seems jazzed about this, since he put his DSi away. Everyone looks as if he or she is poised on the edge of the seat.

  Except Patrick.

  We have to face our fears. Even you, Patrick.

  I know. Eventually. When I'm ready.

  They're helping us take that step now. I wait a moment and then add, Will you sit beside me?

  With breathless anticipation, I wait for his response. I could use a friend through this.

  "Patrick," Oliver calls out. "I need you to ditch the glasses and gloves, buddy."

  I can tell by the way his body flinches at Oliver's words that he's horrified at the thought of being so ... naked. Well, naked for him.

  You can do it, Patrick. I'll be there with you.

  He plucks at the fingers of his glove one by one and then crumples the leather in his fist. Slowly, he withdraws the shades, and then he hands everything over to Oliver, careful not to make any contact with the other man's skin.

  Without a sound, Patrick shuffles over to my side, inching between Jess and me. I implore her with my eyes not to say anything. Fortunately, she doesn't. We're all in an altered state, waiting for ... whatever may come.

  Using a pitchfork Wisdom Walker carefully carries the hot stones from the fire pit to the wickiup. When he's done, he strips out of his leather attire until he's wearing only a baggy pair of shorts. He motions to us and we file toward the hut. Our unintended pattern of boy-girl-boy-girl seems fine with our two leaders.

  "You must crawl into the sweat lodge," Wisdom Walker instructs. "Go in a clockwise direction, and then sit cross-legged against the wall until everyone is inside and the opening sealed."

  My vessels pulse under my skin in my anticipation and eagerness, coupled with, quite frankly, my being scared shitless. I'm crawling on my trembling hands and knees on the dirt and grass with Talking Feathers's butt in my face as he leads the way in. My elbows lock a bit as I move around. Yet I forge ahead. I have to do this. No turning back. I'm thirsty for a cleansing and a spiritual direction. Not that Father Mass and my parents haven't provided that along the way for me. This is more. Deeper. Darker. Sort of like how Luke Skywalker went to fight Darth Vader in the cave on Dagobah, or, in actuality, into his own dark side. Will I have a vision of slashing off some unknown enemy's head only to find my face on the decapitated portion?

  Jesus, Kendall. Get a grip, I hear Patrick say in my head.

  You're one to talk.

  I steady my breathing and try to relax. Nothing is going to harm me. This is a good thing. We're all here together and Oliver is a responsible adult. He holds these enlightenment retreats all the time. I'm sure I would have heard if anything bad had ever happened here. I stretch out with my mind in the small space and feel the electricity in the air. There's a sensation of many souls gathering nearby to assist us. Old souls who are pleased that we're willing to take part in this ritual. I sit back against the wall of the wickiup and wait for the ceremony to begin.

  Once we're all in, it's quite a tight squeeze. Oliver has remained outside, probably because he's done this a thousand times already.

  Wisdom Walker shouts, "Doorkeeper, drop the flap."

  And with that, the blanket covering the opening falls, and the lodge is bathed in darkness. Ahhh ... guess that's why Oliver stayed outside.

  "Now, my children," Wisdom Walker informs us, "this is a very important thing. I want you to know that if at any point you feel uncomfortable or claustrophobic or just need to leave, you are free to do so. All I ask is that you say 'all my relatives' so the others here will give you room to pass in a clockwise direction."

  "What does that mean?" Ricky asks.

  "It just means that you are acknowledging everyone else in the lodge and asking to be excused. Say it with me," Wisdom Walker instructs.

  "All my relatives," we say in unison.

  "Very good. So, it's understood?"

  A murmur of yeses, and then nothing. Total silence. I'm almost afraid to sip in a breath for fear it will be the loudest sound ever. There's nothing to dread, though. This is merely a moment-of-silence thing, like honoring the military at sports events.

  The older man spreads his hands wide; he's illuminated by the red-hotness of the seven stones stacked in the middle. He begins to ladle water over the piping-hot rocks, causing steam to gush
from them like a geyser. Outside, a tribal drum pounds steadily. Must be another part of Oliver's role.

  "Let us pray." I bow my head and squeeze my eyes shut in the darkness. Wisdom Walker begins, his voice soothing in the shadows.

  "O Great Spirit, whose voice I hear in the winds, and whose breath gives life to all of the world, hear me. I come before you, one of your many children. I am small and weak. I need your strength and wisdom. Let me walk in beauty and make my eyes ever behold the red and purple sunset. Make my hands respect the things you have made, my ears sharp to hear your voice. Make me wise, so that I may know the things you have taught my people, the lesson you have hidden in every leaf and rock. I seek strength, not to be superior to my brothers, but to be able to fight my greatest enemy—myself. Make me ever ready to come to you with clean hands and straight eyes, so when life fades as a fading sunset, my spirit will come to you without shame."

  The steam surrounds me in wispy hot fingers, curling into my hair and dancing across my skin. It fills my nostrils with each breath I take, and I listen to Wisdom Walker's words.

  "We are all one with the Spirit. There is no division of race, color, religion, sex. Everything is one. Each of you now has the chance to come to the Creator for healing of any pain or disease, whether it be physical, emotional, or spiritual. We will bond in a group consciousness to make sure each and every one of us has a message, a vision, to go home with."

  That's a hefty promise, but how can I question the wisdom of ... a man named Wisdom Walker?

  He passes around a crooked branch that he calls the talking stick. "Please take the stick and say whatever it is that's inside of you for the group to hear."

  Like we do everything else, we start clockwise, with Evan Christian taking the stick from Wisdom Walker. One by one, my friends pray for guidance, for clarity, for understanding. Some ask for forgiveness and others ask for healing. When the stick is handed from Jess to Patrick, I await his words.

  I watch his Adam's apple bob up and down as he gulps hard. He wets his lips with his tongue and I urge him in my mind to be strong.