The Shaman's Secret

by Natasha Narayan

  I tried to scream, but my voice was cut off by the leathery glove prodding into my mouth. My hands were tied, swiftly, before I had the chance to fight. I heard a shrill wail—Rachel. Then the sound of cursing—Waldo. Both of these noises were gone as quickly as they started, and in the damp silence I could only hear scuffling.

  Something pushed me from behind and I stumbled onward, almost falling into a large cavern. It was filled with watery light from far, far above. Too weak to dispel the gloom. Much stronger were the brands that flamed from pockets in the rock.

  Rachel was flung down on the stony floor after me, then Waldo, Isaac, Aunt Hilda and Boy. All of them had their hands tied and were being shepherded by grotesque masked kachinas.

  It was a nightmarish vision, the cavern rising like a gothic cathedral in a pointed star-shaped spire. Down on the floor, and in the rocky ledges to the sides, dozens of robed, feathered figures flitted. They leered at us, their gaudy faces covered with turquoise, yellow and orange masks. From the depths of the cavern a great drumming and chanting started up, and they began to dance.

  In the blinking light of the flaming torches, I could distinguish a cavorting figure. Kokopelli, the humpbacked flute player, beloved of the ancient canyon dwellers. A sinister mud head, lumpish and coarse-featured, like a figure from a dream drawn by a four-year-old. A clown with huge, red, rubbery lips and sad black-rimmed eyes, half pathetic, half sinister.

  One dancer, garbed in moccasins and a buckskin kilt, his body daubed with paint and adorned with beads and feathers, had a head shaped like a bluebottle. Black eyeholes were cut in his mask.

  “Be calm,” said Boy, who was on her knees on the floor next to me, her hands bound behind her back. “They will release us once they are sure we are pure.”

  In the center of the space a ledge of rock rose like an altar. It was made of dark, shiny basalt. It bore something propped upon a stand. It was hard to make out from this distance, but it looked to be of pink-veined marble, with figures that reminded me of Egyptian hieroglyphs inscribed on it.

  “The tablet,” I said to Boy, while one of our captors poked me forward. “Boy—that must be it. The Anasazi tablet.”

  Wonder surged in me as I looked upon the thing. A slab of dull marble, not gold, not precious. But a thing of legend that for centuries people had fought and died over. A sacred object imbued with powers that were only talked of in hushed voices.

  Aunt Hilda was staring at it, hunger on her face. I knew she would have given up any number of diamonds to possess this tablet. To return home to Oxford in triumph with this legendary stone, which the Indians claimed had been handed to them by their god.

  She was not totally thoughtless, but at that moment she had forgotten that the tablet might actually cure me. All she saw was a picture of her everlasting fame as its discoverer.

  “The Anasazi tablet,” she murmured in a trance. “Boy, where is your master? We must be released. Where is Far-Seeing Man?”

  “Far-Seeing Man is not coming back,” a voice behind us said.

  The clown stepped out of the shadows, his rubbery face breaking into a smile.

  “Far-Seeing Man is gone,” he said.

  “What have you done to him?” Boy called, and the clown opened his mouth wide in a jangling laugh that echoed through the cavern.

  “He is dead. Quite, quite dead. Your shaman is dead. Nah Kay Yen, the great far-seer, didn’t see that, did he?”

  Chapter Thirty

  The clown was a slim figure with scarlet lips, and eyes that drooped at the side and drooled dark pus. It was wearing a black-and-white striped hat and had two horns growing from its head, tassels sprouting from the ends. More demon than jester, it struck dread into my heart.

  “What are you?” asked Boy, recoiling from him as he leaped above her.

  For answer the clown tossed away the watermelon that it was holding in its left hand and removed the striped leather glove. With horror I saw that the ring finger had been hacked away. In its place was a stub. A bloody, bandaged stub.

  “Cecil Baker?” I groaned, staring at the diabolical mask.

  “Clever, clever girl.” The clown cavorted over to me. “Well, quite clever. I suppose I am the obvious suspect. Still, I knew I wasn’t wrong. Cyril argued with me. Said you weren’t worth it. But I always had faith in you.”

  “It can’t be. We saw your body … your finger,” Waldo cried. “You are dead.”

  “But if I’m dead, how come I to stand before you now?”

  “Your finger,” Aunt Hilda said. “We saw your ring.”

  “A clever trick.” His lips cleaved in delight. “A genius trick, even if I say so myself.”

  “If it is you, Cecil, show yourself,” I said, struggling to sit up. “Prove this isn’t just some horrible game.”

  The clown’s face split in a smile as big as a knife slash. “My pleasure,” it said, and ripped off the mask.

  Underneath, as ghastly as the clown’s chalky mask, was Cecil. His eyes glittered with a manic glee, his tongue flickered like a lizard as he dropped down on his knees in front of me. The drumming increased in intensity and the dancers’ feet pounded the rocks harder and harder.

  “Never believe in half-truths,” he said loudly, spreading his hands out. “Never see what you only desire to see. The body you saw in the cave there was Far-Seeing Man. I had no more use for him, so I dressed him in my clothes and burned him.”

  Boy exploded in screams.

  “Your finger,” said Aunt Hilda. “What happened to your finger?”

  “I cut it off. A small price. I had no more use for it anyway.” As he said this, he waved his stumpy left hand, boasting of his madness. Then he dropped down close to me and began to speak in a low voice.

  “I’m so glad,” Cecil whispered tenderly. “Finally, after all this time, you’re mine.” He put out one hand and stroked my chest, where the snake’s head was gliding downward. Every inch of me recoiled in disgust from him, from his dead touch. It was like being embraced by a corpse.

  He tore open his tunic to reveal a snake crawling toward his heart. A snake just like my own.

  “See,” he said. “We’re not so different, after all. Only mine has such a damn grip that nothing will release it.”

  “You deserve it.”

  “Quite true. Perhaps you will have better luck.” He moved closer to me.

  “Get away from me,” I spat.

  “I don’t think you quite understand,” he said. “We will never be separated. Not now. You are the treasure I’ve been seeking. I’ve been dreaming of this moment half my life. Ever since your mother died.”

  Never, ever, had I felt more hatred. Cecil must have seen what I felt. Briefly a shadow crossed his face, as if disappointed that I didn’t share his rapture. Or was it possible he felt ashamed of what he was about to do? It was gone in an instant, replaced by the former wild glee. He jumped to his feet and, clicking his fingers, called his masked minions. Two of the Hopi Indian kachinas broke from the shadows and scurried over.

  “They have betrayed us,” I whispered to Boy. “Your Indian friends have betrayed us.”

  Tears overflowed her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

  “Why did they do this? You always said the Hopi were the most peaceful of Indians. Why let this madman—”

  My words were cut off as two Indians picked me up bodily. I struggled, fighting and kicking with all my might as they carried me over to the altar. It was no use; they were strong, their bodies hard. They swatted away my gouging fingernails and biting teeth as if they were the stings of a gnat.

  Cecil Baker glided by me, murmuring into my ears: “This tablet will make it all come true for me. I sought other objects of power: the waters in Tibet, the book in Egypt, the bones in China—”

  “You lost them,” I spat.

  “Who cares? This tablet exceeds them all in power. This prophecy rock is so powerful. Especially here, where the skin between the worlds is so thin. Like gossamer, like s
ilk. So thin I can flick them apart and move between life and death.

  “This tablet was given to the Hopi by their gods. It is as ancient as the canyon around us. Men crawled out of the earth here, dreaming of a higher world. It will give me the power I seek over life. It will make me complete—and you, Kit, are the heart of my plans.”

  I turned my head away while he spoke, shutting out his insistent voice. I would not let it enter my ears and sully my thoughts. Then I had an idea. I raised my head and looked into his eyes.

  “You do know, don’t you, about your twin?”

  “What of him?”

  “Your brother, Cyril Baker. The only real love of your life.”

  “That’s not true. There were others—your mother.”

  “Don’t waste your breath on my mother. She had no time for you. No, the only person you ever cared for was your twin. You schemed together, grew rich together, your hearts beat together. And now—” I paused, letting the silence lengthen.

  “Now he is dead,” Cecil said calmly. “You cannot shock me. I knew it as soon as he passed.”

  I took a deep breath. It seemed I could not disturb his manic composure. “So, he is dead. He died in Chloride. He died dreading the hell he was doomed to, for all the things you did together.”

  If the man had loved anyone, it was his brother, his twin. For a moment there was a spark of something in his pale eyes, some remnant of human emotion. Then they filmed over and there was nothing there. Once more they were empty. He clapped his hands and other gruesome kachinas picked up my friends, carrying them toward the basalt altar. I was laid upon the Anasazi tablet and my arms were untied. I tried stabbing into the masked eyes of the horned owl that was holding me, but I was too weak and too slow. With a shrill laugh the creature tied me to the tablet, passing the rope round my body and under the stone altar.

  My friends, trussed up with willow cords and thick sisal, were flung at the base of the altar. There was no way out.

  I turned my head sideways and began to pray that I would have the strength to escape from these bounds. The tablet was made of smooth marble, pinkish, white-veined, cold under my cheek. I could see gawky stick figures on it. Animals, birds, lightning, the sun. Petroglyphs of an immeasurably ancient civilization.

  Cecil’s face loomed over me, rising up like a deformed crescent moon. His eyes were glazed over with pus, while his mouth moved. In the background the drumming and chanting reached a crescendo and sulfurous smoke began to coil round the altar, wrapping its way round my body, insinuating itself into my nose and up, dreamily, to my mind.

  “Have no fear,” Cecil said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Cold hands jerked the tablet away from under me, then laid it on my chest. It sizzled there, burning my skin as if it was a flaming branch. I felt the snake writhing under the tablet’s power, diminishing. Inside my head I was screaming and screaming, but no sound came from my lips.

  Abruptly, the drumming stilled. Cecil’s hissing voice filled the silence.

  “Is she ready?”

  “Yes, master. The snake is gone.”

  “Let me see. I want to see for myself.” A naked flame in the darkness … cold, rotting breath above me. “Yes—you have done well.”

  “Thank you, lord.”

  “Very well.” His exultant voice filled my ears. “The end of Cecil Baker begins.”

  I knew then that the smoke was poison. The smell was bitter-sweet, lulling me to a drugged sleep. I knew I must not give in. I must not close my eyes, because if I did Cecil would destroy me. But there was something stronger than my will, the scent rank and rich. Not only in my nostrils, but seeping through my head. My lashes were so heavy I could not keep them open. Slowly they drooped—and closed.

  The world went black.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  When I came to, there was a ringing in my ears. The cavern was pulsing with light pouring out of me, flowing straight and strong across the floor and up the walls. I saw everything, every rock, every mask, every feather. Each speck of dust was precise and purely drawn.

  I had been untied. I stretched my arms, enjoying the power rippling through my young girl’s muscles. I flexed my fingers, blinked, moved my fat tongue in my mouth. Slowly I uncoiled off the altar. A deep chill filled me, in my bones, my fingers, my eyes and my mind. I was so cold. Otherwise I had never felt better.

  I was alive. The sentimentality, the emotions, that useless clutter that had clung to me like fog, were gone. I was able to look around, to view everything with a keen, calm vision. The chill was one of perfect logic, of sense unbound by feeling. Now, finally, I was ready to seize any opportunity. I glanced down at my chest and saw that the snake had disappeared. Gone, in a puff of smoke. Exultation filled me. The ritual of the sacred Anasazi tablet had worked. It had cleansed me of the evil snake brand. Now I was finally free and whole. No wonder I was so refreshed.

  I was in charge now. Who am I? Why—it is plain for all to see. Me, Kit Salter.

  Like a panther springing, I leaped off the altar and landed on the rock floor of the cavern.

  I saw the face of the yellow-haired boy, his eyes wide with wonder and hope. I picked up the knife, the handle inlaid with turquoise stones, a silvery blade gleaming.

  “Kit,” he said, “they haven’t harmed you?”

  I stooped down and attacked his bonds. The knife slashed through willow and twine like cutting butter. Swiftly I freed the others: Hilda, Rachel, Isaac and Boy, the Indian squaw.

  “What happened to Cecil Baker?” Hilda babbled. “It was as if he suddenly had a fit. He hasn’t moved. What’s going on? Kit, tell me. Why did they let you go free?”

  I glanced over to Cecil. He was standing frozen, his eyes glued to the altar. He was in a trance, bewitched. I looked away, trying to stop myself shuddering. He revolted me, the white, papery skin; the weak chin; narrow, drooping shoulders; the ugliness of his body. No wonder my beautiful mother, Tabitha, had rejected him.

  Waldo rose and came toward me. His eyes were brimming over with some emotion I could not understand. Love. Yes, maybe it was love.

  “Kit—dearest,” he said, holding out his arms to embrace me.

  I moved toward him. “I am not your dearest,” I replied, and thwacked him across the face. I heard the crunch of bone as my knuckle connected with his nose. Saw the shock on his face. The screams of the girl, Rachel. The bewilderment as Waldo put his hand to lip. But I had no time to dwell on his pain, enjoyable as it was.

  “Take them to the altar,” I shouted to my people, and the kachinas swarmed from all corners of the cave to gather the human rubbish. That fat woman with the loud voice. The lanky boy in glasses, the Indian squaw, the other miserable children. The brown-haired girl was pretty, very pretty. Butterfly lashes. Eyes the color of tea. I might have some use for her. But the rest of them … so much debris that I must dispose of in a sensible way. A way that will enhance my power.

  The fat woman is gurgling at me: “Kit, Kit, Kit! What’s wrong with you?” I knock her over as I pass. She is old and ugly. Even worse than the children.

  I am freezing. Cold to my very bones. I see clearly, but everything is rimed with frost.

  “A blanket!” I call, and a kachina rushes to put a rug over my shoulders. From far above there is a giant rumble of thunder, the sound of the earth splitting open. The heavens cleave and a mighty gush of rain falls from the sky. My people are screaming, rushing around. But the water glances off me.

  I am invincible.

  This is the time to truly enjoy being me and to make my plans for the future. Not to be distracted by these annoying insects or the ice in my blood. As I pass the burning peyote tree, a whiff of strong smoke swirls up into my mind. Such sharp colors, such detail. The Anasazi tablet, patterned with creamy, pinkish veins and adorned with beautiful markings. What power it has given me.

  My knife is smooth in my hand. It is a good knife, solid, the handle carved out of buffalo horn, the blade shining and pol
ished. The feel of it pleases me. A kachina cowers as I pass him, knife in hand. Pleasure gusts through me. I have so many creatures. Buffalo, water maidens, warriors, clowns. So many souls bound to me. My slaves, my things. They feed into my power, making me swell with energy.

  The time is near.

  Soon it will be time for the final step.

  Here in this cavern, deep in the greatest canyon in the world, the womb of the world, where humanity crawled on its belly out of the slime, I can feel the thinness of the ties that bind us to one world or another. I can feel the strength of my power to slip between souls, here with the rare air and the sacred smoke slipping into my lungs.

  Who am I?

  Well, I am no longer Cecil Baker; my need for that ugly old man is done. Now I am something far, far better. I am the skinwalker. I am the shaman. I am the thing that picks and chooses which body it shall use.

  While I enjoy possession of this body, I am also Kit Salter. And I do enjoy it very much, the young body, the healthy mind. Yes, it is a strong vessel. I have chosen well.

  It is clear to you, is it not? I, the skinwalker, have taken control of Kit Salter. Through the power of the Anasazi tablet, I have taken her body. Her soul, her weak, helpless soul, is gone, banished forever. I shall have no more trouble from her.

  Yet what is this? Somewhere far away is a locked room. A small voice. It whines. I must pay it no attention.

  “You can do it, Kit,” the voice cries. “You can fight the monster.”

  Unbidden, an image flashes before me, the skinwalker. I sense that Kit’s soul is seeing the same thing. An oval locket. A white blouse, a face engraved in the locket. Spirited eyes. Tabitha. They flash. They’re signaling. But not to me. They are talking to that small voice in the locked room.

  “Fight, fight, don’t give up, girl.”

  My mother. Her arms around me. Pushing me out of the cell where the skinwalker has imprisoned my soul. So much love in her touch. Love. I never knew the strength of her love. She is pushing me and embracing me at the same time. She never gave up, so I must not.