by Multiple
“Or he can use the energy to conquer death,” whispered Moth.
By this time Coyote’s cane had begun to pulse with a glowing light of pale purple—almost a lilac. He lifted it up and a violet beam slammed into Scorpio’s chest. My brother’s back arched and then he just wasn’t there.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“What happened?” I was scared.
“Papa Ghede made his decision,” Moth answered. I had no idea what she meant. I just knew Scorpio was gone. Again.
“Where is he?”
“Back in the Everyday world,” Lady Chartreuse said, her painted lips shining from the swig of liquor she had just taken. “Papa Ghede found him worthy of life, so he refused to keep him under the earth. If Papa Ghede will not let you pass into the Land of the Dead, you cannot go.”
The sense of relief was so great I nearly collapsed. I didn’t realize how much tension I had been carrying. “Thank you, I whispered. I realized I didn’t know who I was thanking.
“He was judged worth of his life continuing,” explained Moth. “You are aware time operates differently while you’re in the in-between space. It was just a matter of taking him to the time before he drowned—that and a little heart healing so he wouldn’t die again.”
“So,” I said, thinking all the he’s not a zombie or the second coming of Jesus explanations I had been saving wouldn’t be needed, “everything didn’t happen? It was deleted? He didn’t have a resurrection but a reboot?”
“Oh, everything happened,” Moth said. “It’s just that different people will remember different things. Those of us who were pulling all the strings in the in-between space will remember everything. Those closest to the Spirit World will remember the most, and those least connected will have no memories at all.”
“So—there will be no funeral because he won’t need one, but at least some of those who were at his funeral will remember at least part of it? Even though this time around, they didn’t actually go to the funeral because this time it didn’t happen?”
“Don’t think about it too much—the time paradoxes will drive you crazy. It’s one of the reasons your Stories are told differently from one community to another. In one place Coyote did something and in another place Coyote didn’t, but both Stories are true. Think of Schrödinger’s cat.” I must have looked as stupid as I felt. Moth sighed. “You need to understand that humans are really good at denial,” she said. “The more uncomfortable they are with the Cosmic, the more interest they’ll find in a cup of coffee—or a bottle of rum. Even for those, if they have a slight memory, they’ll manage to soon convince themselves it was just a dream or a half-forgotten something they saw on television or on-line.”
“Tick tock,” said Coyote from behind me. “I think you’ve had enough of a good time. That was a funny trick with the pulling. Besides, if I keep you around this place any longer you’d probably break it.” He put the sunglasses back on with the missing lens. “Besides, you keep reminding me of myself when I was younger.” He hesitated and stepped in front of me. “And the last thing I want to be reminded of is when I used to be young and stupid.”
I held my hand up before him. “Wait a minute while we think this through—since Scorpio didn’t die this time that means I don’t have a reason to go home from Uncle Feeney’s pig farm. Could you cut me some slack and just drop me off at my mom’s? I’m pretty sure I learned everything I was supposed to have gotten from the pig farm—and a lot I didn’t want to learn.”
“What the hell, kid?” He pulled his shades lower so he could show me both of his eyes—which had switched to purple. “I just want you gone before you convince my followers they should follow someone younger. I’ve worked really hard to train them to act the way I want. I don’t want you importing any dangerous ideas.” His black cane was in his hand again and he began to spin it until it became a black blur—a black hole. I started feeling pulled into that hole and it was if I were yanked into a blender where I whirled apart.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The only thing I was aware of was being cold in the darkness that surrounded me. I remembered a Story that began with ice. The snow fell without stopping and the waters were coated with ice as far as one could see. In the beginning the Animal People had never seen snow before, and so it was exciting and they danced in the showers of white flakes. But it soon grew so cold they became concerned. The smaller ones would be lost in the drifts and the greater ones had trouble traveling because of the snow’s depth. They realized the world would die if they could not get warm.
“We need to pray and ask for the help of the Creator,” said one. “We need the land to be warm once more and to send this Spirit of the Snow away.” All agreed upon this, but they were unsure who would be the best to send on such an important mission. Each was evaluated and deemed too slow or not strong enough for such a long journey. In the end they chose Crow of Rainbows. He was the greatest of all the ones that flew. His feathers gleamed in all the colors of the world and his singing voice was the one always sought to bring peace and harmony.
The journey to the Creator took four days and he had to fly past the moon and then the sun, sailing gracefully past the stars. As he continued to fly higher, the winds battered him with their icy fingers, but he fought on, determined to help the others. At last he arrived, but the Creator was busy and didn’t even notice him. The Crow of Rainbows started to sing the Song he loved the most. He sang of the land and how it cherished and nourished every one.
The Creator turned from what he was doing and sought the source of such breathtaking music. “My child,” the Creator called out, “I celebrate the gift of your Song. Why do you seek me?” The Crow of Rainbows explained that the People of Earth were endangered by the snow and that they wanted it taken away. “Oh, my child, there is a place for the Spirit of the Snow as well. If I were to un-make it, the Harmony would be disturbed.”
“Then what are we to do?”
“I will give to you the gift of Fire to keep you warm even in the coldest of times.” He took wood and lit it with the sun so it glowed with bright flames and radiated heat. “Take this Fire by the other end and return to the Land as quickly as possible before the Fire can eat the wood.”
Thanking the Creator, the Crow of Rainbows returned as quickly as he could fly as he feared the Fire would consume the wood before he made it home. It kept eating the wood and came closer and closer to his beautiful feathers. The Fire burned him and by the time he was almost there his feathers were coated with the thick blackness of the Fire’s smoke so they were robbed of the rainbow colors. Down, down, down he flew as he choked on the smoke and he lost the ability to sing.
When he returned to the others they barely recognized him for he was now as black as a shadow and his voice was so coarse they had difficulty understanding him. He showed them how to use the gift of Fire to keep warm. They melted the snow around them and sang in celebration, except for Crow, who would never be able to sing again. He sat alone, saddened by his dark and dull feathers and his harsh voice. He turned when he felt the wind caress his face and saw the Creator before him.
“My child,” whispered the Creator. “You have sacrificed your gifts because your heart was pure and you needed to help the others. In return I have made you taste of the bitter smoke so when the Human People come they will never seek you for food. They will see your feathers and hear your ruined voice so they will never trap you in a cage and expect you to sing. I have given you the gift of freedom.” The Creator laughed and showed Crow his dark feathers had changed from lackluster to glossy and when the sun touched them the rainbows had returned. “Let these colors remind others of the beauty of your courage and spirit and how you saved the world.”
I woke up with a crow looking at me. “Thanks,” I said. “Great job with the world-saving.” It mocked me with its harsh voice and flew away. I was outside of the Agency Longhouse which was as black as the crow and a lot more silent. Funeral canceled. I seemed to be pretty much i
n one piece and started walking home. On the way I sang the Eagle Song just to make sure things were as close to normal as I would probably ever get. No one died. That was a plus. I didn’t think I’d get blamed for resurrecting Scorpio. Major plus. I wasn’t at the pig farm. Lucky me.
Our place was just a little more than a mile away from the Longhouse. I quickened my step and smiled when I saw the lights on and the noise of the television set drifting across the yard. I hesitated for a moment, thinking things were going too well and if I stepped inside the living room would be full of zombies or something. Zombies creeped me out. Even if my brother might technically be one. I took a deep breath and opened the door.
My mom and everyone of importance were there. Uncle Sly turned off the television. “We need to talk,” she said. Scorpio emerged from the kitchen and handed me a cup of coffee. He smiled but didn’t say anything. Crap.
“I suppose you remember everything.”
“Even telling you how much I wanted him back.” For a moment she looked like she had at the funeral. She was like the Crow of Rainbows—almost unrecognizable. Then she became herself again and radiated strength. “Thank you,” she whispered. Her eyes were dry and she said, “Just don’t do it again.” She glanced at Scorpio. “I am grateful, but this sort of thing isn’t part of our tradition.”
I looked into Scorpio’s eyes. “Even the oldest song we sing was once sung for the first time. The oldest ritual was once done for the first time. Maybe it’s time we began some new traditions. I was told not all people are uncomfortable with this. I did what I could because I thought it was best.”
“And for once you didn’t do it for yourself,” Scorpio said. “Thanks. I owe you.” That was something I didn’t think would ever fall out of his mouth. Then my mom hugged me and we went into the dining room where the long table was covered with food. It was like a feast after a healing ceremony. I guess that would be about right. Later I was happy to crawl into my own bed. Capricorn kept looking at me as if I had grown another head, but I figured he’d adjust. I hoped I would.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The morning dawned and I discovered it was Saturday. It was a huge relief not to have to slop hogs. I was enjoying a cup of coffee and waved goodbye to my mom driving off with two other tribal council members to a forest resources meeting in Portland. Even Scorpio seemed to be keeping a distance and I decided I would just sit back and enjoy the peace and quiet. A dark green Volvo I didn’t recognize turned the corner and pulled into the driveway. Nathan got out. He was carrying a single sunflower. He smiled nervously at me. Jeez, I wondered exactly what he remembered. I popped his spiritual cherry which meant he might have some spillover from all this. I just didn’t think holding a sunflower in front of me would be his first response.
Maybe a cross or a necklace of garlic bulbs. Maybe a silver bullet.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I answered. His eyes looked more alive than when I had last seen him, which seemed to be my new theme. His pale skin was flushed and I wondered if it was from embarrassment or arousal.
“I brought this for you,” he said, pushing the sunflower into my hand. “Anybody could bring you a bouquet of flowers, but I thought you’d always remember someone who brought you a single sunflower.”
I laughed. It felt good to be surprised when it didn’t involve anything scarier than a big flower. He hesitated and then kissed me on the mouth. “I missed you.”
I didn’t say anything for a moment and he rushed on to fill the silence. “I’m a little fuzzy about everything that happened. But I remember how exciting it was being with you. You opened up something inside of me that I had been hiding. You helped me be at peace with who I am. Thank you.” He grinned and it was obvious the flush was from arousal. The tenting of his blue jeans when he kissed me gave it away.
“Want some coffee?” I got up and headed for the front door knowing he’d follow me. Again. When we went inside he asked me to the Prom. I put the sunflower into a 42 ounce plastic cup because we’re Indians and don’t have vases. I thought about Nathan’s request. It would be a relief to do something ordinary for a change. Just as long as I didn’t get voted Prom Queen.
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I am a Native American Storyteller. Some of our Stories are best told by day. Others are best told by Night. Please visit me at my website where you can also sign up for my newsletter:
http://ty-nolan.blogspot.com/
If you enjoyed Memoir of a Reluctant Shaman it would mean a lot to me if you were to leave a review on the site where you bought it or on Goodreads. You might also be interested in my
Coyote Still Going: Native American Legends and Contemporary Stories
Here are some Stories (Traditional Native Legends) and some stories (personal history.)
I am a professional storyteller and a therapist. Coyote Still Going retells the mostly Sahaptin and Twana traditional legends I was taught by my relatives. It’s also a memoir of how I have told these stories, from celebrating the twenty-fifth anniversary of Mr. Rogers to using the Sahaptin legend of the Butterfly at an International AIDS Conference in discussing grief and loss. Traditional Native American legends are powerful teaching tools.
The book also contains recipes. Food, spirituality, and community are always woven together—you can’t understand one without the others. I was raised with the importance of the sacredness of food and the legends that explain why we celebrate the First Salmon Ceremony, or why we understand taking a sip of water before a meal is a type of prayer.
Many Native Nations begin a Coyote legend with some variation of “Coyote Was Going There.” Trust me—Coyote? Still Going. It’s about time Ebooks caught up with that crazy Trickster.
Excerpt:
Long and long ago, when the world was still new, the Creator watched children playing. He watched their sheer joy, and enjoyed their laughter. In the four directions he looked, he saw beauty—before him, behind, him, above him, and below him. He smelled the sweetness of flowers, heard the song of birds, saw the bright blue of the sky, and tasted the first touch of the coming cold on his tongue. This reminded him that time was passing—that winter would come again—that these children would all grow old and pass away as he had watched human children do over and over again. The leaves would turn brown and fall from the trees, and the flowers would fade to replenish the Earth.
He decided to create something to memorize this moment, something that would be a part of all this beauty. And so he gathered the blackness from the hair of the children’s parents. He took the orange and reds of the falling leaves. He grabbed bits of sunlight, and the colors of the flowers. He took the evergreen needles of the pines. He took the soft whiteness of the clouds, and added all these things into a bag of buckskin. He smiled and after a moment, added the songs of the birds to his bag.
When he finished, he held the bag close to his heart, and called the children to him. He handed them his bag and told them to see what was inside. When they opened the bag, a cloud of butterflies emerged. They were like winged jewels. They were all the colors of the rainbow. It was as if flowers were flying. The spirits of the children and the adults soared like hawks, for they had never seen anything like this before. The butterflies, light as a lizard’s lick, touched on the heads and shoulders of their grateful audience. The butterflies swirled around and began to sing.
But then a bird flew to the Creator’s shoulder and began to complain. “Why have you given our precious songs to these small and pretty beings? You have already made their wings more beautiful than ours—why give them our songs as well? You promised us that each bird would have his or her own song. It is not right to do what you have done.”
The Creator looked at the small bird and nodded. “You are right. I promised one song for each bird, and it is not fair to give them away to others.” So the Creator made the butterflies silent, and thus they remain today. But their beauty touches all people and opens up the songs in our own hearts.
It is said the world is a reflection of itself—the world of dreams and the world of work. It is taught these two worlds are like the wings of the butterfly. The dream world is one wing, and the working world is the other. The wings must connect at the heart for the butterfly to fly and live. Real life - true life—happens because of the movement of the wings. And this is what marriage is like. It mirrors the butterfly’s heart, kept alive by the love of the spouses moving together.
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You can find the rest of the Story in Coyote Still Going: Native American Legends and Contemporary Stories
Vampire Lords of Blacknall: Trinity
By Shirl Anders
Chapter One
Fog choked the London night air with damp and cloying tendrils as Trinity crouched on the wings of a stone angel parapet on the east corner of Blacknall mansion. His nostrils flared, inhaling stale night air like a lethargic limb barely able to lift and move. He’d not get much distance through the clinging fog to pick up scents further than the half-fouled Thames. Yet something gnawed at him as he flung back his chunky damp hair and his heavy coat settled around him. It was an awareness he couldn’t name, and with his senses attuned, his gaze was sharp. He’d trained the last half-century to sharpen his instincts and perceptions just as he’d exercised his body to hone his uncanny strength.
“Still, I do not trust my intuition without proof of actually seeing it,” he admonished himself, balancing on the cold marble of the angel’s upturned wings.
He knew it was the humanity remaining inside him.