by Dan Dowhal
Shane realizes that Beñat asked him the very same question. Mind you, he tells himself, I wasn’t beating the crap out of a dead coyote at the time.
“I was surprised,” Beñat continues, “and perhaps because he surprised me so, or because I was ashamed by what he saw me doing to the poor coyote, or because I had spoken to no one for a long, long time, I let him approach, and I listened to what he said. He was from the Zuni people and was what we would call a shaman or medicine man. Some might also call him a sorcerer, although he did not use any of these words himself. He told me there was no good word outside his own language for what he was. We spent many days and nights together. Lusio led me on a dream quest to the hidden world that was all around me, and he taught me how to untie myself from my anger.”
Beñat pauses and stares into his mug for a few seconds, as if something is revealing itself there. Finally he lifts his head and grins. “I will not bother you with all the little details of my long journey to becoming enlightened, but I can tell you that Lusio taught me to laugh at the world, and to be at peace. So, the day before the rancher who made me his slave was to arrive for his monthly delivery, I counted out a number of sheep that I felt was a fair payment to me for my years of slavery, and for the remaining sheep I built a pen where I left them safely for their new shepherd. Then Lusio brought me and my new flock here, to live in freedom and without fear.”
“Without fear? Dude! What do you suppose that rancher will do if he finds you? At best, he’ll send you back to live out your days in a Spanish prison. But he sounds like a mean son of a bitch who might do worse, like hurt, or even kill you, and who the hell would even know?”
“That was twenty years ago, Shane, and as you can see, this rancher, Señor Mack Black, has not located me, and he will not. I explained to you before, this canyon and its pueblo are protected … by magic.”
“Magic? You really expect me to believe that?”
“I simply tell you what is true. If you do not believe, that is your concern. Over four hundred years ago, the Spanish came through this region, forcing their will and their religion upon the people. Have you heard of the conquistador Oñate — or, in full, Don Juan de Oñate y Salazar? He was a very, very cruel man. One time, when the local natives revolted, he ordered the right foot to be cut off from dozens of prisoners as punishment for this resistance. Many pueblos were destroyed by the soldiers of Oñate, but this — this was a sacred place, so the holy men made a great magic to protect it. It can never be found, except by those who are admitted by a guardian.”
“It doesn’t look that special. When was the last time anyone even lived here? I mean, before you,” Shane says, feeling the need to push back against all the nonsensical talk of magic.
“Spirits live here, Shane. And now it is my home, as well. I am very happy here — finally at peace. But Lusio has explained that I am like water in a stream that flows onward, and he has given me a mission to complete. And you are the key to that.”
“Look. Let me talk to this Lusio guy. I think there’s been some kind of mistake. I’m not the guy you’re looking for. I mean, it’s a million-to-one shot I’m even here, you know? I don’t believe in destiny and all that crap. It’s just plain dumb luck.”
Another hoot of merriment erupts from Beñat. Shane has to admit that if nothing else, the little old shepherd certainly seems to be sitting with his bum firmly planted on the bright side of life. Of course, maybe the loneliness has simply driven him around the bend.
“Talking to him will be difficult,” Beñat chortles. “Lusio’s ashes were scattered to the winds two winters ago. He walks in another world now. That is why he now only speaks to me through the animals … or sometimes in my dreams. But you will understand much more when you take your own dream quest. We have some hours before the sun sets and the boy goes to sleep. Then we can begin.”
“Begin what?”
“The ceremony. Like the one Lusio did for me. It is a sacred tradition, older than these walls. A journey of the inside mind … of the spirit. You are lost. You must find yourself.”
“Yeah, right. Look, Beñat, I like you and all, so please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m really not into all that weird-ass spiritual stuff.”
“The choice is yours. Stay for supper and think about it. I will go and prepare the peyote anyway.”
“Peyote! Well hell, Old Timer, why didn’t you just say so? Sure. Why the hell not? Let’s go tripping.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Darkness washes across the valley, and eventually an oversized moon slides over to hang in the slash of sky visible from the canyon. Beñat and Shane sit cross-legged in front of a large firepit on the terrace outside the shepherd’s abode, chatting lightly about past hockey exploits as they watch the flames licking and squirming before them, teased by a lazy evening breeze. Vern is sound asleep in one of the nearby adobe buildings, perhaps dreaming of hockey exploits of his own.
“It is time,” Beñat finally announces and stands up. “We begin the ceremony by honouring the earth, the sky, and the four directions of the wind.” Shane smirks — it is the sort of new-age neo-paganism he has been anticipating — but he rises and plays along. Still, although he is only humouring the old shepherd, when they turn toward the north, which is where the breeze is coming from tonight, Shane actually feels the wind’s presence, going so far as to whisper, “Well, hello, old buddy.” During his early boyhood it was the north wind he watched for in the fall, since it brought down the Arctic cold that spawned the ice for hockey. That was when he still played on the backyard rink that his dad painstakingly flooded for him, long before the journey to progressively larger arenas with artificial ice and hockey all summer long.
Beñat pushes a handful of some brown herbal substance into Shane’s hand, puzzling him. He knows it is not the peyote — he watched that being prepared earlier that afternoon, marvelling at how much work was involved. He had assumed you simply ate the peyote buttons as they were, and was amazed by Beñat’s elaborate process of cutting, mashing, pulping, and cooking the cactus into a soup.
“Tobacco,” Beñat explains, reading Shane’s confusion at the stuff in his hand.
“Uh, thanks, but I don’t smoke.”
“Not for you … for the spirits. An offering,” the shepherd replies, indicating the tobacco should be thrown into the fire. Shane complies — the tobacco generates a whoosh of excited flame — and is instructed to sit down again. Now Beñat passes over one of the small clay bowls containing the peyote, keeping the other for himself. “Drink this — all of it — and wait for the other world to reveal itself to you. Open your heart and call for your spirit guide to come and show you the path.”
Shane puts the bowl to his lips and drinks. His first reaction upon tasting the peyote is that he wants to spit it out. He can’t recall ever tasting anything quite so awful, even with all the honey he saw added to it, but Beñat smiles and gently urges him to persevere. Shane chokes down the rest of the repulsive concoction, screwing up his face in disgust as he sets down the bowl.
“Yuck! That’s horrible!” he complains, but Beñat does not appear to be listening. Having consumed the contents of his own bowl, the Basque has closed his eyes. He begins a guttural chant from deep in his throat. Shane turns to stare into the frenetic flames, waiting for the drug to kick in. All of a sudden a violent spasm shakes his stomach, and he pitches forward to vomit into the firepit.
“Good, good,” Beñat says. “That is you releasing all the bad things from your past.” He smiles and resumes his singing. Shane rolls over onto his side and curls into a ball until the queasiness goes away. A couple more paroxysms rock his system, but these quickly pass, and soon he finds the nausea being replaced by a tingling euphoria.
He opens his eyes. The fire appears to have grown higher and more animated, with hues more vibrant than any he has seen before. The flames begin dancing in tune to Beñat’s chanting. Shane sits up and sways in union with the sight and sound. He feels wa
rm and safe, as though the huge rock dome overhanging the pueblo village is shielding him from all the ills of the universe. The shadows cast onto the dome by the rooftop fire resemble dancers, as if hidden inhabitants of the abandoned houses have come out to join the celebration. He feels wonderful — lighter, younger, freer — like he has slipped out of his broken and battle-ravaged body and become a creature of pure spirit. “Okay, spirit guide,” he whispers. “Come and get me.”
His friend the north wind stirs perceptibly, bringing with it scents from across the canyon. Their richness washes over Shane like a breaking wave, and amid the delightful deluge, he imagines he can pick out the individual smells of the canyon’s animals, plants, soil, and rocks. It seems to be coming to him not so much through his nose, but via his mouth — he opens his lips and flicks his tongue into the night air, tasting it.
Above him, the moon is pulsating with luminosity and tossing off spiralling satellites of electric colour that pinwheel through the sky in a cosmic fireworks display. Some of the lights detach themselves from the heavens and come fluttering down to flit around Shane. It all reminds him of the laser light shows projected onto the ice at big league hockey games.
“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight’s first star … la première étoile … number thirteen, Shane ‘Bronco’ Bronkovsky,” he calls out in his best over-the-top arena announcer’s voice. In his head comes a roar of approval from the unseen spirits of the canyon.
“Way to go, Bronk!” a voice calls out, and then a figure forms in the flames and towers above him. It is a giant bear, pure white, standing upright on its hind legs. Shane assumes this is some sort of drug-spawned hallucination, although, like the moment itself, the vision seems intensely real.
“Wow. Who are you?” he asks the apparition.
“A friend,” the spirit bear replies.
“And what’s your name, friend?”
The bear shakes its head. “I have a lot of names, but you wouldn’t be able to pronounce most of them. Wait, I know one that’s perfect for you. Call me Puck. I’ve been called that in the past.”
“Are you a polar bear, Puck? If so, you’re a long way from home.”
“That depends on what dimension you’re in, but then again, look who’s talking.”
“You got me there. Mind you, I don’t even know where home is anymore.”
“Yeah, you’ve managed to get yourself pretty lost.”
“Can you help me? I mean, aren’t you supposed to be my guide or something?”
“I can coach you, Bronk, but I can’t play for you. Only you can do that. Only you can play the game. You’re behind, but you can still win.”
“Gee, thanks for the pep talk, Coach. I’m surprised you didn’t tell me to keep my stick on the ice and my head up.”
Puck laughs, revealing formidable-looking fangs that are several inches in length. “Actually, Bronk, up ahead you’re going to want to keep your head down and hold your stick up high.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I know. That’s okay, it’s not your fault. You’re tied to the human world. You don’t see things the way I do.”
“So, what are you saying … you can see my future?”
“I see … possibilities. What I can tell you is that your yellow road first runs red, then black. But no matter where you go, Bronk, you can’t run away from yourself. Let go of the anger and hurt and confusion and despair inside of you, or they will destroy you, my child. There’s courage and love and strength and wisdom inside you, too. Let that guide you now. Be the wise man, not the dunce. Be content, not sad. Seek love, not hate. Be merry, not angry. Be free, not a prisoner.”
In Shane’s head, the dull background buzzing he has lived with for years abruptly starts to quicken in tempo and fury — it feels like his skull is about to be blown apart. He opens his mouth to scream, but instead of sound, out comes a swarm of tiny bees into the night air. As the last one tumbles out, a beautiful, quiet calm is all that’s left inside, more peaceful than anything he has felt since he was a boy. The bees swirl playfully around Shane, then they join into a column that spirals up into the sky, heading directly toward a cluster of stars. He follows the swarm until it disappears from sight, and only then does he realize he is staring at the Big Dipper peeking over the canyon rim. He uses that to locate Ursa Major, one of the only constellations he still remembers from childhood sky-watching with his dad.
“Great Bear,” he whispers to himself and smiles. He realizes he has not properly thanked his guide, but when he turns, Puck has returned to the flames.
Time has lost all its authority, and Shane has no idea how long he has been in his trance. Beñat is in exactly the same spot, and his chanting has ceased. The fire, too, is diminished. Shane, now finding the desert night chilly, adds wood to the coals and wraps himself in a blanket.
He no longer feels the peyote’s psychoactive effects, but the serenity that flooded into him earlier still lingers, and his head remains clear and free of discomfort. He sits contentedly watching the flames — it’s a subdued, ordinary fire, he notes, without any supernatural dimensions — and ponders what has just transpired.
Beñat stirs, and Shane looks over to see the shepherd watching him.
“You have returned,” is all the old man says. He stands, grunting softly as he stretches his back and legs. “Mon dieu. I miss the days when it felt like there was nothing my body could not do,” Beñat comments. He smiles at Shane and winks. “What a pity I had no head to go with my body then, eh, mon ami?”
“That was quite an experience,” Shane finally comments. “Thank you. I can’t explain it, but I feel like … I dunno, like I’ve let go of all this bad stuff inside me.” He taps his casted hand softly against the side of his head. “I’ve had this wonky feeling in my head for years, and now it’s gone, just like that.”
“It was the spirits, mon ami. I am happy that they blessed you. Did any talk with you?”
“You’re not going to believe this … then again, you probably will, but, yeah, this big-ass bear paid me a visit, and we chatted.” Shane proceeds to relate his encounter with Puck. “I know it was all in my head, but, man, it sure felt real,” he concludes.
Beñat smiles. “Some say that world is real and this one is not, for it is from the spirit world that ours was born. But, my friend, you say this bear was large and all white?”
“Yup. Like a polar bear.”
“The Great White Bear is a very powerful spirit. You are fortunate to be blessed with such a guide.”
“Well, no offence, but I don’t feel very blessed. My crappy life is still the gift that keeps on giving. If I wasn’t just tripping, and if it really was a spirit, would it have killed him to speak plainly, not in crazy, colour-coded riddles? I could use some direction right about now.”
“Ah, my friend, but he did give you direction. The colours he spoke are the answer. It is part of the ancient wisdom of this place.”
“How so?”
“Yellow — it means north. Red is south. It means you will go home to the north, where you came from. But first you must go south.”
“Really? What about the black?”
Beñat frowns. “That only time will tell. Black means down — underground. It can also mean the place of the dead.”
“You mean like a graveyard?”
Beñat shrugs. “Who is to say? With the spirits, much of their meaning is hidden.”
“Great. But the bear did say that first I should go south — that seemed pretty clear. I just wish I knew how far south.” Shane stares into the fire and weighs the job offer in Mexico to help coach Los Lobos de Chihuahua against the prospect of a life at Rancho Crótalo. “Did you get a message from the spirits, too, Beñat?” he asks after a while.
“With me it is not so clear. I know my place is here in these hills … even if prison was not waiting outside.”
“Oh, right. The trouble back in Spain and the blackmailer you’re hiding from. Wha
t was his name again?”
“Mack Black, like his father and grandfather, an easy name to remember. But he is not what concerns me.”
“No? Then what?”
“I am growing old. Someone must become the next guardian of this sacred place. My heart tells me the spirits will find an answer, but still, I worry.” He smiles at Shane. “At first I thought perhaps you were to be the next keeper of the canyon. Now I know it is not so, but still, I do not fully understand why you were sent here. There must be a reason. I suppose I must wait and see. But you will go south. Even to Mexíco, perhaps?”
Shane nods. “Maybe. Hockey’s all I know, and I’m a journeyman, after all. Besides, I’m too beautiful for jail.”
“Be careful, my friend. We have a saying in my country. Arrotz-herri, otso-herri. It means, ‘A foreign land is a land of wolves.’”
“Thanks for the advice. It would be okay, though. If I went to Mexico, I mean. I’d be one of them — a wolf. The team is Lobos de Chihuahua — the Chihuahua Wolves.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Shane and Vern rise with the sun and bid Beñat and the hidden canyon goodbye. Driving home, they play another closely fought game of Bury Your Horses, but as they enter Luna County, enthusiasm for the contest seems to wane as man and boy alike becomes tangled in his thoughts. Shane sees Vern slump and fidget as they approach Rancho Crótalo, and given the premenstrual moodiness they left behind, Shane can empathize.
Upon their arrival, Tammy comes out to inventory and help offload the animals procured from Beñat. Although Shane knows better than to expect any public gesture of affection, he hopes for some indication that his lover missed him. But Tammy does not oblige, hardly making eye contact the entire time. When she’s done, she gives Shane an enigmatic glance before turning toward the ranch house. “Thought you mighta been back yesterday,” she comments over her shoulder.