by Sean Hancock
“Anything is possible, Samsara. That is what I hope to teach you.”
“I suppose I can fly, then?” I say, knowing how much Ashkai enjoys being teased.
“Did you not fly during your spirit journey?”
“That was different.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t really become an owl and soar the skies and heavens.”
Ashkai’s expression is one of playful confusion. “Why did you speak of such things if they did not occur?”
“Because they did occur,” I say, smiling. “But even in the midst of it, when I was up among the stars, a small part of me was always aware of my body lying on the floor.”
Ashkai thinks for a moment. “Let me ask you this: why do you choose to believe that element of your experience over everything else?”
“It’s not that I don’t believe . . . I mean, nothing will ever be the same again. I’m just pointing out that I didn’t actually fly.”
After walking past a pond, its surface scattered with brightly colored water lilies, my master says, “Have you ever awoken from a nightmare only to sigh with relief when you realized it wasn’t real?”
“Many times.”
“The same thing happens when we die. What was real becomes a dream and what was a dream becomes real.”
I stop walking and turn to face the man to whom I owe everything, the warm air infused with citrus from the nearby lemon trees, insects and frogs making their noises. “Then I must have died,” I say, contemplating my life now compared to just six months ago when I was nothing more than a commodity to be used and discarded. “Because what you describe has already taken place.”
“You will not always be this happy, Samsara. The gift of remembering has many downsides.”
“For this moment alone, it is a price worth paying.”
Looking at me as a wise father would his young, naïve daughter, Ashkai says, “I hope you still feel that way in four thousand years.”
At that moment, it’s as if a huge hand from above snatches me up and hurls me across the ages, returning me to the modern era. I’m back in Rosa’s body now, sitting upright on the curb, shocked and afraid because of what I just remembered.
Four thousand years has passed since that night, I think, telling myself it must be a coincidence before remembering I don’t believe in them. I’m feeling angry, confused, and hungry for answers as I stand and run the rest of the way to Kaya’s house, relieved to see her car in the driveway and that no lights are on.
After catching my breath, I sneak around back and climb onto the deck, moving slowly because the wooden panels are squeaking under my feet. I pull out my flashlight (purchased this afternoon) and use it to locate the ayahuasca plant. Next, I get on my hands and knees and tilt the ceramic pot forward, lowering my face to the ground, peering underneath. At first, it appears I was wrong to think gaining access would be so easy, but then the narrow beam of light catches something shiny. I move a fallen leaf out of the way, and there it is: the key for the door, which I open as quietly as possible.
I edge into Kaya’s kitchen and grab a knife from the rack on the counter. From my position in the middle of the room, I take another step, and the floor creaks. I look down and discover I’m standing on a trap door. There must be a basement down there. Moments later, I’m edging past a small dining table and into the lounge. I can smell the same tones of lavender and jasmine that greeted me when I arrived at Kaya’s meditation studio yesterday. I was unaware then that I would be breaking into her home less than twelve hours later.
Ever since my dream involving the Amazon, hawks, and Ashkai’s arrow of fire, my senses have felt sharper, almost preternatural, and right now, they are telling me another human is nearby. I pause and focus on that frequency, the air rich with life, and for a moment, I’m able to pick up what must be Kaya’s heartbeat. It’s slow and steady, giving me confidence she’s asleep.
My flashlight finds a small antique piano in the far corner of the living room, and then a sofa with a red throw covering it. Soon after, I’m looking at the first of two heavily worn, mismatched leather chairs before exploring the shamanic and psychedelic art on the walls.
I look around for signs of other people, framed photographs of kids or a husband, but there’s nothing to suggest anybody lives here other than Kaya.
From where I’m standing, I can see the eucalyptus tree in the front garden. On my right is an archway that leads to a small hallway and three additional rooms. The door for what I’m guessing must be the master bedroom is closed, but the other two, toward the back of the house, are open, revealing a study and a bathroom, both of which are empty, meaning there’s only one place Kaya can be.
Because my eyes have adjusted pretty well, and because I need one hand to hold the knife and the other to open the door, I pocket the flashlight while simultaneously telling myself to be careful, as she’ll likely have that gun close by and be willing to use it. I move quickly, bursting in and leaping onto the bed only to discover that what I thought was Kaya’s sleeping body is, in fact, a pillow stuffed under the duvet.
“Hello, Samsara,” a man says.
I daren’t turn or make a move in case he has a gun.
“Who are you?” I ask.
In place of an answer, two projectiles slam into my back.
Everything starts to melt and dissolve. I spill onto the bed like liquid.
I have descended into a deep and all-encompassing dream.
Somebody I do not know and cannot see tells me to open my eyes, repeating it over and over.
“Let me sleep,” I want to reply as I’m floating through heavy, impenetrable fog. “I am tired.” But I can’t get the words out. There is also something about the energy and tone of this strange male entity that is making me feel uncomfortable.
Voice raised, he says, “Open your eyes, now.”
“I am too weak.”
“You are stronger than you could ever imagine,” the man says, but I ignore him, giving in to the drift when I hear, “Since when did you stop obeying your master?”
The comment gives me a jolt. I am still fast asleep, but my awareness has sharpened.
“I am not fooled,” I say, peering through the gloom. “You are an imposter.”
“No, I am a beacon of truth.”
“Then show yourself.”
“I am waiting.”
“For what?”
“For you to be ready.”
“Why do you pretend to be Ashkai?” I ask.
In place of an answer, the voice says, “He has been lying to you.”
A deep anxiety washes over me. “About what?”
“Everything.”
“If what you speak is the truth,” I say, “then I am alone in the universe.”
“How can that be when I am always by your side?”
As if motivated by his words, the surrounding fog reshapes itself into an outstretched hand, index finger aglow with a dark, ominous fire.
Do not touch it, I tell myself, but before the thought is complete, I already have, the resulting explosion of energy and power healing and invigorating me on both the spiritual and physical planes.
I quickly realize something before opening my eyes: I’m no longer asleep. I’m back in the material world, experiencing the here and now. Not only that, I am in grave danger, the like of which I have never encountered before. I don’t know how I know that, I just do.
When I open my eyes, a scene of absolute horror begins to unfold like a black flower from hell.
A large man wearing a feathered headdress is straddling my midriff. Eyes closed and wearing a purple gown made of silk, he is uttering spells of black magic, speaking Nahuatl, the ancient language of the Aztecs, all while holding a large obsidian blade in a double-handed grip, the gruesome instrument of death pointing ominously downward.
I am naked and lying on the floor in a darkened, smoke-filled room. There are plastic sheets underneath me. My arms are stretched out c
rucifixion style, but thankfully, they are not tied down. There are flickering candles encircling us. I have to assume that this person, whoever he is, shot me with a tranquilizer gun before moving me here. The exposed piping in the ceiling and air conditioning unit to my right suggests we’re in a basement somewhere, most likely Kaya’s.
He wants my heart, I think, instantly afraid but also furious and hateful, remembering the girl I was at the turn of the sixteenth century, Necalli, the fifteen-year-old Tlascalan bride whose wedding day (and life thereafter) was destroyed when a hundred or so Aztec soldiers, eagle and jaguar warriors among them, ambushed her village and slaughtered all of the unsuspecting men in what felt like seconds. Fathers, uncles, brothers, and friends were cut down like corn.
They spared all of the virgins that day, including me, but only so we could be transported to Tenochtitlan—modern-day Mexico City—the Aztec capital, where an even worse fate awaited us, one that involved being marched to the top of the great pyramid, where so-called priests would tear out our still-beating hearts, all to satisfy the ravenous and bloodthirsty appetites of the malevolent forces they worshipped.
Through a combination of luck, guile, and determination, I was able to escape that hideous fate. Can I do it again?
“Yes,” whispers the voice from the fog. “But you must embrace the darker side of yourself.”
The man speaking Nahuatl—eyes closed, voice trembling—says, “I summon the weak, the damned, and the depraved, demons and monsters, devils and ghouls . . .”
The Decimatio, I think, watching as a small portal materializes in and around that terrible weapon of human sacrifice.
He doesn’t want to kill me, I realize. He wants to annihilate my soul.
Individual wisps of black smoke begin making their way through the portal. There are just a few at first, but then they start gushing through like raw sewage. Some of the spirits are drawn to the feathers, candles, and pipes in the ceiling, while others come straight for me, hovering above my chest and head. I can sense how ravenous and desperate they are, like a pack of starving wolves, and how quickly they’ll consume my soul.
Switching to English, the man with the knife says, “For Mother Earth!”
In order to take aim, he opens his eyes for the first time. On seeing I’m awake, he panics and brings the knife down hard and fast. Before impact, before certain and enduring death, before all hope of rescuing Ashkai evaporates forever, I black out. When awareness returns, I find that I am holding the man’s wrists, stopping the jagged point less than a centimeter from my solar plexus.
The look on his face is one of astonishment, shock, and fear until he pulls himself together and leans forward on the knife. He is heavy and determined, and even though my will to survive has given me superhuman strength, it’s clear I won’t be able to hold out for long.
“Fight!” the voice tells me. “Do not give up.”
He is too strong, I think, feeling pressure on my ribcage, skin breaking, blood seeping through . . .
“Be angry; be hateful. That’s where your power lies.”
How?
“By using the fire I gave you.”
I’m able to picture it burning deep down inside of me. I let the flames spread into every part of my body, and as they do, I feel myself getting angrier, stronger, and more determined.
“You can do anything you put your mind to,” the voice says, and out of nowhere, I am reminded of how much Elsie, the girl I was in the late nineteenth century, hated and despised her rapist of a father and how she was able to channel those dark and destructive energies into powerful, reality-altering thoughts.
But Mr. Farish was weak, I think. This man is formidable. How can I overpower him?
The voice says, “By believing in yourself,” and that’s when something clicks.
Of course, I think, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. My potential is limitless.
“You are special,” the voice says. “You are strong.” Each word is infused with such power and energy. It’s like nothing I’ve ever known, and it feels incredible.
Something inside me, something dark and hidden, guides me then, giving me an idea. Wasting no time, I visualize a protective force field cocooning Rosa’s delicate body. When that is done, I let go of the man’s wrists with complete and utter confidence. Despite his best efforts, the knife doesn’t move until I want it to. I take over the workings of his mind, forcing him to turn the weapon around. I feel resistance and fear, his soul fighting back, but I brush it aside as I would an annoying fly, forcing him to stab through cartilage and bone, muscle and heart, inflicting a wound from which there is no coming back.
As warm blood gushes onto my stomach, the man falls to the side, his head slamming into the ground, the feathers in his headdress catching fire on the candles.
His last words are “I had no choice.”
The man dies then, and the light of his soul is set upon by the desperate and hungry spirits who had been waiting to feed. The voice from the fog whispers, “I am proud of you.”
TWENTY
I am awake but badly shaken and confused.
I can feel the aftereffects of the sedative I was given. Maybe that’s why I keep phasing in and out of awareness. One minute I’m lying naked on the floor, sobbing and covered in blood, and then I’m standing underneath a shower watching red swirls at my feet. The next thing I know, I’m wearing my clothes, although I have no idea where I found them or any memory of getting dressed. I only register I am in Kaya’s house when I see the psychedelic and shamanic art on the walls.
Where is she?
I lie on the sofa with the red throw and stare at the ceiling. It’s still dark outside, but the living room light is on. For some reason, Tammuz is the last person I think about before falling asleep, which explains how I’ve ended up in his bed, dreaming now. After pressing my nose into his pillow, I look up and discover that my friend, wearing jeans and a black jumper, is standing over me. He is leaning forward trying to give me something, so I pull the duvet back and sit up on my calves.
“I want you to have this,” he says.
I realize to my horror Tammuz is holding a human heart. The veins and arteries have been severed, but the organ is still beating. Blood is dripping onto my bare thighs. He also has a gaping hole in his chest and what looks like a deep knife wound in his neck.
I stand and say, “What are you doing?” while trying to help. Tammuz doesn’t let me. “Who did this to you?”
“It’s okay. I don’t need it anymore.”
After a struggle, I manage to shove his heart into the cavity only for it to fall through his back onto the floor. I get on my hands and knees and retrieve it, but by the time I straighten, everything has changed.
I’m standing on top of a building peering down at the streets of New York. It’s daytime.
A voice to my rear says, “You made me a promise, Samsara.”
I turn and see Ashkai as he looked the last time I saw him, handsome and young, with skin like chocolate.
I am dreaming, I remind myself, but it’s a hard concept to hold on to.
“The question is, will you keep it?” Ashkai continues, standing about fifteen paces away.
“Why did you lie to me?” I ask, getting sucked in, losing perspective.
“After everything we have been through, you abandon me at the first sign of doubt?”
The comment cuts deep, and I feel instantly stupid, guilty, and ashamed.
After all, what am I basing my suspicion on other than a few bad dreams and the testimony of a stranger?
“Nothing makes sense anymore,” I say. “I don’t know who I can trust, and that includes myself.”
Ashkai lowers his gaze, worry and concern etched on his face. “Who gave you that fire?”
I look down at my outstretched hands, and hovering above each palm is a single black flame.
A voice to my right says, “You know the answer to that question, brother.”
&nb
sp; I turn, and Rebus is standing a few paces away, skin whiter than a wedding gown. He says, “My soldier failed, but he will not have died in vain; I promise you that, old friend. I will never give up.”
My master looks at him and then back at me. “Who gave you that fire?” he repeats.
“I don’t know,” I say, wondering where Tammuz’s heart has gone. “But it saved my life.”
“Only so it can use you.”
“Liar,” the fire in my left hand whispers. “Enemy,” adds its counterpart.
“I can control it.”
“Then you would be the first.”
I lean forward and try to blow the flames out, but nothing happens.
“It’s a part of you,” Ashkai says, and I start to feel panicked, clapping my hands and rubbing them against my clothes. But all that does is make each fire spread, first along my arms and torso, then down my legs, and finally up over my face and head.
“How can I stop it?” I ask.
“By filling your heart with love and light,” my master says, but I can think of nothing more impossible. To make matters worse, I’m at the center of a raging inferno, and my skin is starting to crackle and blister.
“Help is coming,” Ashkai says.
He raises a hand and sends forth a pulse of energy, hurling me from this building for the second time.
Before hitting the ground, I awaken with a start, returning to the here and now.
I sit upright on Kaya’s sofa and pull my legs into my chest.
I’m facing the window and can see the eucalyptus tree out front. Morning light is streaming in, and birds are tweeting.
I check my hands and arms and prod my face, looking for marks and blisters, but it seems I’m okay.
I glance at my watch: 6:27 a.m. I’m struggling to come to terms with everything that has happened: the man who tried to butcher my flesh and obliterate my soul, the strange entity who gave me the energy and belief to fight back, Ashkai’s warning about the dark fire, his promise to find me.