Wind Whisperer

by Theresa Jenner Garrido

  Chief’s eyebrows rose half an inch, but he didn’t say anything for several minutes; only stared at my cousin like he thought the boy had suddenly lost his marbles. I chewed on my lower lip—totally afraid that he’d order someone to kill Jonah on the spot or lock him up somewhere.

  During the ominous silence, I let my eyes wander over the groups of people who’d frozen in the act of eating, talking, or working. All those nearby had heard Jonah’s request. And their faces betrayed their absolute shock. Then I saw Gray Otter, and the look he sent me nearly stopped my heart from beating. Like a graven image carved from stone, permanently fixed, unable to move. I returned his gaze for only a few seconds then had to avert my eyes. A lump formed in my throat the size of Oregon.

  Then Sharp Knife, chief of his people, a man whom I’d come to respect and even like a little, spoke. “I cannot permit this.”

  Jonah didn’t waver. “You have to, sir. My people need their shaman. I am their medicine man. I must go back to them.”

  “No. Your power is strong but not that strong.”

  “Uh, yeah, it is…sir. Let me show you.” Jonah turned to face Gray Otter. “Gray…will you, uh, allow me to see the spirit box you found? Just for a minute?”

  Gray Otter stiffened his shoulders, stood rigid for a moment then nodded. He disappeared. Two minutes later he returned with the small black “spirit box” in his hand. He gave it to Jonah then crossed his arms expectantly.

  Jonah took out his earphones, attached them to the box then slipped them on. He fiddled with the knobs on the box—a frown on his face. I held my breath, certain that the thing wouldn’t work. I just knew the batteries were dead. It’d probably gotten wet or something. The suspense was killing me.

  Then Jonah smiled and I knew he heard music. Sucking in another breath and holding it, I watched as my cousin handed the device to the chief and told him to put the earphones over his ears.

  Talk about witnessing a miracle. Chief’s rock-hard features did a complete about- face. The look of incredulity literally cracked his face into a million pieces. He was that shocked. For a millennium of heartbeats, he listened, and while he stood there with a never-ending series of expressions playing across his face, the rest of the village stood paralyzed with curiosity, fear, and just about every other emotion under the sun.

  Finally, Chief removed the earphones and handed them back to Jonah. He turned the “spirit box” over in his hand a few times then handed it, too, to Jonah. Drawing in a long breath, he looked out at his people. “I will permit the young shaman and She-Who-Speaks-Many-Tongues to leave.” A collective gasp was heard, and the man raised one hand. “Yes. He-Who-Mimics-the-Squirrel is now to be called He-Who-Makes-Many-Voices. He is to be honored and respected. He is indeed a great medicine man. He must now leave us to return to his own people. She-Who-Speaks-Many-Tongues—Han-nah as she is called—will go with him. She belongs to him. She no longer belongs to my daughter, She-Who-Sings-to-Whales.” He looked at Jonah with hard, unblinking eyes. “Go. Go now. It is time.”

  The next several minutes were a blur of conflicting emotions, sounds, and actions. Joy ran up to me and threw her arms around my neck. I hugged her back and choked back the sobs threatening to overcome me. Then, Gray Otter stood in front of me, looking, for all the world, like he’d lost his best friend, his life—his everything. I gave him a fierce hug, too, despite the grunts of disapproval from some of the people. I said a hundred good-byes and thank-you’s to Lead Woman and Grandma, the children, and anyone else who happened to be nearby. Then Jonah had me by the hand and dragged me along with him. I waved once then ran. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t.

  Hand-in-hand, we sprinted across the cleared area to the shore. We splattered wet sand as we ran down the beach toward the spot that led into the forest from which we’d both come that long-ago day. Disappearing into the labyrinth of towering trees and cloying underbrush, we ran like frightened deer. We leapt over logs and waste-high ferns. We zigzagged through gigantic sentinels, around thickets and brambles. We didn’t stop until a sharp, intense pain knifed through my side, and I begged Jonah to let me rest. He released his vice-like grip on my hand. Winded and perspiring so heavily that I couldn’t see, I collapsed on a soft, musty-smelling carpet of long-dead fir needles.

  * * * *

  The cawing of a crow roused me from my stupor. I opened my eyes to find that I was completely enshrouded in a thick, gray-white mist. I imagined I could hear the faraway rhythmic drumming of a single drum, accompanied by the hauntingly mellow sounds of a mourning dove. In the distance, the surging and receding of the sea lulled my senses.

  I closed my eyes. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to sleep forever.

  “Gray…” my lips murmured as though with a mind of their own and not under any control from me. “Oh, Gray…Joy…” I lay face down on the ground, oblivious of the yellow-brown fir needles, the spongy moss, and decayed matter that made up the forest’s floor. I could turn into a fungal growth, for all I cared. I could become one with the damp earthiness around me. I was dead in spirit; and as good as dead in body, as well.

  I let out a long moan of pure anguish.

  “Hannah…it’s going to be all right,” a low voice penetrated my despair.

  My eyes snapped open and I sat up. Coming through the mist like an emerging wraith, my cousin appeared. He smiled down at me kindly, almost sadly.

  “Oh, Jonah,” I grimaced. “Why? Why did we have to go so quickly? I didn’t…I didn’t get to really say good-bye.”

  He came over and sat cross-legged beside me. “Yeah…I know. I’m sorry, Hannah, but I…I thought it was the only way to do it. The chief acted on his initial shock over hearing the strange music. I was afraid that if we hung around, saying good-bye, he’d think more clearly and either decide I was too powerful to let go or too much of a threat and do away with me. Understand?” He put an arm around me. “I’m really, really sorry, Hannah. There’s nothing else I can say.” His mouth quirked up at the corners. “By the way, did I ever tell you how simply gorgeous you look in your cedar bark ensemble? A Paris original has nothing on it. Wait ’til your girlfriends see it. They’ll all be wanting one.”

  I laughed, in spite of myself. “Oh, Jonah…”

  Too exhausted to move on, we curled up under a cedar with low-hanging branches like loving, protecting arms, and slept.

  * * * *

  When the first rays of sunlight touched our faces, we woke up. I was surprised that I’d been able to sleep so soundly. It’d been my intention to remain awake for the night, but nature took over. We both had been worn out, so I guess we needed sleep.

  Jonah crawled out from under the branches, stood up, and stretched to ease his cramped muscles. I got up like an arthritic old lady and groaned. “Oh, gosh, I’m beat. What I would give for a hot bath and a bowl of chicken noodle soup.”

  My cousin grinned. “You always want chicken noodle soup when you’re upset. Like it’s going to change things.”

  “Well, it’s a lot better than your favorite comfort food,” I retorted.

  “Mine? What’s wrong with dill pickles and peanut butter sandwiches?”

  “Ugh.”

  We separated for a few minutes to take care of relieving ourselves and then met back by our tree. Jonah pulled his watch out of his pocket. “It’s seven-twenty and I’m hungry. I can almost smell mom’s blueberry pancakes.”

  “Please, don’t torture me. I’m hungry and achy and smelly. I want a bath so bad I can taste it.”

  “I can see the headlines now: ‘Girl dies from drinking own bath water.’ Wow. I don’t think I’d better take you home. You’ve gone bonkers on me.”

  Poor Jonah. I burst into tears and couldn’t stop. I cried until I hiccuped and choked and he had to slap my back. The whole time he kept repeating how sorry he was, that he hadn’t meant it, blah, blah, blah. After ten minutes, I managed to get a feeble hold on myself. When the storm was all over, Jonah looked like he’d been run over by a semi.


  “I-I’m s-s-sorry, J-Jonah,” I said through chattering teeth. “I d-didn’t m-mean to lose it l-like that.”

  “Man, it’s okay. I understand. C’mon, let’s get going. I want to be home in time for breakfast.”

  Once again, we fought underbrush, towering trees, and the remains of things long dead. Nothing looked remotely familiar to me, but I pressed on. Jonah acted so assured—so convinced that he knew the way—that I had to trust him. Anyway, I’d no alternative to offer and certainly didn’t want to be left behind, so I followed him.

  We emerged on the other side of a particularly dense thicket of salal and Oregon grape when I saw it. The tree—the magnificent, ancient behemoth with the octopus legs, writhing and twisting in and among themselves grotesquely. I gasped. “Jonah. You did it. You found our tree. We’re going to go home.”

  “Not so fast, Lady-Jane. Everything isn’t quite right yet. I think we gotta go inside—duplicate everything we did that afternoon. Only then do we have a chance to-to, well, get back. I’ll go in first since that’s what happened that day. Be right back.”

  I watched as he made his way over to the breath-taking display of nature gone wild. The old-growth tree stood regally silent as though aloof to our ramblings. I held my breath as my cousin climbed up the Medusa-like roots and disappeared inside the narrow opening in the side of the imposing monument to Time Standing Still.

  When he didn’t return immediately, I called out to him. “Jo-nah. Please, hurry. I can’t take any more.”

  He didn’t shout back, nor did he show himself. The silence was deafening. I yelled again…and again. No Jonah. This was too much. It was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. With a wail of acute anguish, I ran toward the tree, scrambled up the snake-like roots and pulled myself up to the tree-cave entrance. The area inside was as I remembered it. Moist walls and spongy floor and driblets of amber pitch running down its sides. But no Jonah. Jonah had disappeared…again.

  TWENTY-ONE – OUT OF THE MIST OF MEMORY

  “Jonah? Jonah?” I screamed, not expecting any answer. He wasn’t in the tree. He wasn’t anywhere.

  Terrified, I left the tiny room and slid down the roots to land with a thud on the ground below. Cushioned though it was with centuries of decaying plant life, the landing jarred my back and bruised my tailbone. I yelped in pain and examined scratched palms that bled a little. So dazed, I didn’t know up from down.

  “Hannah. For crying out loud. I’ve been looking all over creation for you. Where’ya been? It’s getting late.”

  “Jonah?”

  “Well who’d you think it’d be, Han Solo? C’mon. I’m hungry.”

  I blinked several times, trying in vain to clear my head. Sore hands forgotten, I stood up and brushed the damp needles and bits of earth from the seat of my jeans. A small tear on the left sleeve of my windbreaker vexed me. It was brand-new and I’d ruined it already.

  “Are you coming?” Jonah hollered over his shoulder as he started down the trail toward the lake.

  Annoyed with his heavy-handed manner—lording it over me like he was my boss or something—I grudgingly followed. “Where did you go? I waited eons for you. Why didn’t you answer when I called? I’m really mad at you, Jonah.”

  He stopped abruptly and scowled at me. “You’re mad at me? That takes the cake. I did answer you, Miss Green. I told you I just wanted to take a look at that huge tree-monster over there. Man, Hannah. Give a fella a break, will you? You’re the one who made me wait, and call and call and call…”

  “All right, already.” I stormed. “But you’re crazier than a loon, Jonah-Ballonah. I was right here the whole time. I’m not the one who wandered off.”

  “Okay, okay, let’s just forget it and keep going. I’m starved. And didn’t you say mom was fixing hamburgers for dinner?”

  My anger melted to a lukewarm annoyance. “Yeah…barbecued hamburgers with all the fixings. And, I might add, baked beans, potato salad, and S’mores for dessert. I’m getting pretty hungry, myself. I feel like I haven’t eaten in a month. Hurry, Jonah, let’s go.”

  He gave me one of his most engaging grins and turned to race down the trail—kicking at his pathetic attempts at trail blazing whenever they appeared. I laughed and he made elaborately grotesque faces at me as his feet pounded the path. He was a fast runner, but I didn’t lag very far behind. In minutes, the deep blue of Lake Crescent showed through the thinning trees. Jonah whooped with delight and slapped the state trail marker as he whizzed by. I refrained from “high-five-ing” the wooden sign and kept up my momentum.

  A few yards down the road, a jog down a short path, and we were in sight of the snug little cabin my aunt and uncle had rented for our two days at the beautiful, mysterious and legend-enshrouded lake. As we sprinted into the yard, out of breath and laughing, Uncle David was in the process of dumping coals into the wide, shallow-bottomed outdoor grill. He glanced up as we tore into the yard and grinned. “Hey, there. You two have fun?”

  “Yeah,” Jonah exclaimed. “We saw this really humongous tree that had a hollow part that we could actually go into. Man, I’m telling you, Dad. This tree was awesome. And look what I found.” He reached into his jacket and brought out the curious wooden bird. “Isn’t this neat? Found it by the tree, tucked among the roots. It’s gotta be a relic from the Native Americans who lived around here. Don’t you think?”

  Uncle David examined it then let out a low whistle. “I’ll say. This is a find. Good going, son. We’ll show it to someone who knows about artifacts and stuff and see what he or she says about it.”

  Aunt Patricia came out then and beamed at us. “Oh, good. You’re back in time for dinner. You two go clean up so you can get to work. Jonah, you help Dad, and Hannah, I need onions and pickles and things sliced for the burgers. Okay, guys?”

  We both gave hearty affirmatives and raced inside to be first in the bathroom.

  * * * *

  That night, as I lay on my back in the lower bunk in the second bedroom of our small cabin, I let my mind wander that ethereal domain between wakefulness and sleep. It had been a pretty good day. The tree had been awesome, like Jonah had said, and I wished again that I’d thought to bring a camera. Even though I’d complained, I’d had fun seeing the moss and the giant ferns. The short walk was worth the time it’d taken. We could go in the boat some other time. It didn’t really matter. Back home, there were plenty of boats to row in.

  Tomorrow, we would pack up and head out for our journey west. The lodge where we planned to stay near Forks, Washington, promised to be a neat place. We’d be able to go to the beach and see the driftwood and giant rocks that lay like scattered toys along the coast. I was excited. I hadn’t been to the Pacific Coast for a while and wanted to see it again. So different from the South Carolina beach that my family usually went to, the rugged Washington coast couldn’t easily be forgotten.

  I burrowed deeper into my blankets and let out a contented sigh. The images that had been scrolling across my mind faded. Sleep caught me in its web and reeled me in.

  The wind—that invisible, intangible spirit that roams freely—called softly. I listened to its whispering as I snuggled against my pillow. I dreamed about the days to come.

  Hannah…Hannah…Hannah… It almost sounded like a voice calling my name.

  TWENTY-TWO – WIND WHISPERER

  The drive to Manitou Lodge was uneventful—if you didn’t count breathtaking scenery along the way. We stopped for lunch at a roadside restaurant that boasted fresh seafood and wild blackberry pie. Usually, I was sang the praises of wild blackberry pie, but today I couldn’t have cared less. For some reason, blackberry pie just didn’t sound appetizing. Aunt Patricia made a big fuss about it and said I suffered from teenage-itis. I laughed, shrugged it off, even though remarks about teenagers usually irked me.

  Manitou Lodge was rustic and elegantly primitive and everyone couldn’t stop raving about it. Again, I just couldn’t seem to garner the amount of ent
husiasm that was warranted. Even I didn’t know why I felt so apathetic.

  We unpacked and got settled and then Uncle David announced that he was taking us to the Native American museum which housed wonderful displays of whaling canoes, totems, and assorted native artifacts. At first, I made feeble protests about not wanting to go—declaring I was too tired from sitting in the car—but he convinced me that it “was right up my alley” and I had to go, or I’d be missing out on a lifetime experience. So, I went.

  It wasn’t too far away and we made there in no time. I can’t explain it. For some inexplicable reason, I balked at getting out of the car. Aunt Patricia put her hand on my forehead to be sure I wasn’t coming down with something. Outwardly, I seemed cool and collected, but inwardly, I seethed with unsettled emotions. Not like me to feel this way.

  Dragging my feet, I got out of the car and tagged along behind Jonah as he sprinted over to a grand display of totem poles. The tall, aged cedar poles loomed up; their expressive but blind countenances staring ahead, remote and indifferent to the comings and goings of outsiders. They seemed disdainful of any false adulation or recognition. They’d been created for another, more important purpose. Not there to be ogled by lowly tourists—defamed, in this subtle, subjective way. I understood this deep inside, and a surge of resentment flowed through me.

  Jonah darted from here to there—going nuts over all the site had to offer. I hung back—afraid of something I couldn’t name. I ambled around the archaeological wonders by myself, feeling incredibly sad and ridiculously lost.

  I leaned against one of the totems, picking at a snagged thumbnail when I noticed the elderly man sitting hunched over on a bench like he was in pain. Thinking he needed some help, I went over to him. “Excuse me?” I said, feeling foolish. He looked up, and I had to take a step back. His eyes held such infinite sadness in their depths that, for a moment, I lost the capacity to speak. I’d never in my life seen eyes like his before, dark pools of despair. When he didn’t say a word, just stared at me like I was his executioner, I turned on my heel and sprinted over to one of the museum employees.