by Nina Milton
I went out into the garden with the hens’ breakfast. I stood in the rain, letting it trickle over my face. I wanted something to soothe me, cool me. Alys’s death was a heartache. I touched my neck, half expecting to feel an open sore, my throat felt so raw.
The cock, Kaiser, didn’t come near me as I checked the nesting boxes. He sat on his favourite post, watching his flock get under my feet. There were three eggs, still warm. Suddenly, my appetite was back. Scrambled eggs, maybe with one of my greenhouse-ripened tomatoes. I just loved this time of year in my vegetable plot—there was food sprouting in every direction. Even if the therapy business I ran from my front room went a bit slow, I knew I’d eat dinner.
Only three eggs from six layers. The two old Warrens, Ginger and Melissa, didn’t lay so often, but Jessie, Emili, Rihanna, and Florence were still young and—
I stopped. Florence was not under my feet. She was not anywhere at all.
“Florence,” I called, even though she had no idea that was her name. “Flo, where are you? Chuck-chuck?”
Panic welled up. I didn’t understand this; none of the other hens were missing. They didn’t even seem perturbed, which they would have been if a fox had come near them. I’d already experienced a fox in the night. It had wreaked havoc, blood and feathers everywhere. I thought of other, more stealthy predators. A polecat, even a sparrowhawk, might have snatched her away if she’d escaped from the run.
I worked around the perimeter of the garden, chuck-chucking.
Florence was my secret favourite. She was a curious hen, bright eyed and comical. I’d had her and her siblings for over a year; a farmer had given me a recently hatched clutch of Sussex hens and they’d been productive and so beautiful to look at.
I went into the lane at the back of my garden. My house was on the edge of a sixty-year-old estate. Behind the lane was a patch of scrubland. I half slid down the slope to the stream that was almost a drain, filled with rubbish and old bikes. I clambered back up, still calling, over and over. “Florence? Flo? Chuck-chuck-chuck?”
Florence wouldn’t go missing by choice. As soon as dusk fell, my hens took themselves off to bed. My neighbours, the Wraxalls, were happy to feed them in the mornings if I was away. The only tricky bit was checking they didn’t escape the fox-proof run as they fed them. The Wraxalls had said nothing about a missing hen when I’d popped in to thank them after I’d got back.
“Damn. Damn!” I kicked at the water-butt, making it slosh and spill. It seemed a shitty thing to happen, as if the spirit world was reminding me that the loss of a hen was not to be compared with the loss of a partner. Brice must feel a hundred times worse than I, a million times more heartsick.
There in my garden, I sobbed for the deaths of Florence and Alys.
I waited until I’d recovered my composure before I rang my boyfriend.
“Hi,” I said. “S’me.”
“Hi, Sabbie. I’m in a meeting.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll come over later, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Bye, then.”
“Bye.”
That conversation rather summed up our relationship: me passive and ill at ease, him busy and distracted. Rey was at the near-centre of my world while I was at the edge of his.
I wasn’t sure how I’d let it get like that.
I rewound the thought, because I knew exactly how I’d let it get like that. When it came to men, my solid perspective on life goes all distorted. Like I’ve picked up the wrong spectacles. At least with Reynard Buckley, I knew I had a good guy. He wasn’t abusive. He wasn’t using me as eye-candy (fat hope!) and he wasn’t a two-timer—he was still officially married to Lesley, but she was living with another man and I wished that relationship a long and happy existence.
I flicked a duster and a floor mop over the house, which looked crumby after two nights away. I checked my phone diary. I knew it would be empty, as I should’ve been at the workshop, so I had a free day. As I stared at the screen, the phone buzzed in my hand.
“Hello? Is that Sabbie Dare?”
“Speaking.”
“Oh, er … a friend gave me your card.”
The caller sounded a bit frantic. “You’d like to book a therapy session with me.”
“Er, yeah, that would be great.”
“Reiki, reflexology, aromatherapy, or shamanic therapy?”
“Uh, I dunno. The last? Yes, the last one.”
“Okay. Usually, people book a prelim appointment and then think about taking a course of therapeutic shamanism once they’ve met me. Would you like to do that?”
“Er … yes … I don’t suppose you’re free now, are you?”
“I am, but you—”
“Would it be okay if I saw you this morning? I have your address. I could come straight away.”
“Well, okay, if you’re sure.” I took a breath. Her urgency was catching. “Can I have your name, please?”
“Laura Munroe. If I set out now, I could be there soon.”
“Don’t rush, Laura. You need to give me an hour to prepare for you.”
I changed into my black shamanic gown which fitted my figure from shoulders to hips then flared out to my ankles, bright embroidery swirling round the hem. I loved pulling on that dress; it transformed me. I brushed my hair, merciless as I tugged the bristles through the tight curls which had a tendency to boil out of my scalp. I brushed and brushed, eventually it shone like a halo of black gossamer.
The therapy room felt chilled after two days of inactivity. I lit candles around the entire room. I held a flame to a charcoal disc until it fizzed with heat and laid a sprig of garden sage across it, throwing a pinch of frankincense resin on top. The grey smoke spiralled up, filling the room with secret scents. When the room was ready for work, I sat on a cushion and meditated for a while, trying at first to empty my mind, but actually recalling the journey I’d experienced at Stonedown Farm—the land of worms, the ancient black man, and the clearing in the woodland. I had a strong desire to use my drum to journey again, but in the scurry to get out of Stonedown Farm, I’d left it behind.
So instead, I pressed the remote to start the drumming CD, lay back on the floor cushions and rested a scarf over my eyes.
When I’d guided the workshoppers yesterday, I’d told them to find their shamanic portal. Every shaman should have a haven of safety—the place where, if possible, they begin and end their journey. For me, this is the bank of a fast-flowing brook. I have never been to the Highlands of Scotland (I’ve never been to the Lowlands, for that matter), but I’ve seen photos of the burns that flow there. Like Scottish streams, my haven is green with moss and blue with heather, which makes a cushiony place to sit.
I dangled my bare feet in the stream now. The water rushed over them. My otter came splashing out, shaking his coat like a dog and scattering droplets over my black dress.
“What is your purpose?” he asked.
“I’m here to touch base. To check out two new possible clients and to calm myself for the day ahead.”
“You should go to the Lady of the River.”
I always felt wary of the Lady of the River. I wouldn’t disrespect a guardian, but she was a hard taskmaster, more strict headmistress than goddess. She never quite seemed on my side. Or, rather, she gave the impression that my best life choices were not the ones I tended to make. She was prone to offering difficult advice and I’d avoided her since the last time she’d insisted on helping me, which was half a year back.
“I don’t know how to find her.”
“True,” said Trendle, as if he also thought it my excuse.
He trotted ahead on his short paws, leading me along the bank. As we walked, the brook altered. The bank became high and slippery, the water below wider and deeper and muddy brown. Every so often a tiny wave of frothing white slipped and skidded
along.
On my right hand, the woodland had grown deep and Trendle was weaving through the trees while my bare feet glided along the country path. I felt the hazy sun struggling to shine through a layer of cirrostratus. All at once, I stopped in my tracks. A tantalising scent came at me on the breeze. “There’s honey in the air,” I said. “As if someone is pouring it from warm combs.”
I quickened my pace. Ahead was a single massive lime tree in full leaf, shaped like a green heart. Standing under the tree was the Lady of the River. Her grey eyes were as sad as forgotten lakes.
I bent my head in humility. “Lady of the River … I witnessed something. Something terrible. A young woman’s death. I …”
“You have done well,” the Lady interrupted.
“Have I?” I shook my head, even though she would not want me to disagree.
“You are a support to friends, new and long-standing, in this world and in the apparent world.”
“I can’t be of help to Alys,” I whispered. “She’s gone …”
“I see such tenacity in you, Sabbie Dare. You do not let go until you have your answer.”
“Yeah. Hell or high water.”
“Tenacity. Commitment. Love. Hell and high water. You have faced those things and you will again.”
I hadn’t expected such a generous response, and it heartened me to ask further things. “I am about to take on a new client. Laura Munroe. What should I know before I begin?”
“Use your silken braid to journey. Seek out mirrors, masks, and symbols that turn things upon their own heads.”
“And … what should I do about Babette Johnson? Ricky has asked me find his sister.”
“Such a search might help you in ways you cannot yet imagine. Examine all that comes to you. When you eliminate that which you no longer need, one possibility will remain.”
I was going to ask, “examine what things?” but she spoke again. “Soon, you will have to face your past.”
She caught me unawares. I didn’t want to discuss this subject. I never had seen the point in chasing after my own past.
“I know it is the hardest thing for you.”
The longer I worked with spirit, the more I understood that past was everything. It wasn’t the opposite of future. It wasn’t dead and gone. The story already told was as crucial as the story not yet known. Ancestors were as important as friends around the table. Knowing this made my past all the more difficult to come to terms with. I’d been a motherless child in the state care system, pushed from foster home to children’s home for years before I met the Davidsons. Yet for all that lonely time, I’d recently discovered, I’d had blood relations.
When I’d been a child, I had no idea that there was anyone out there who might have rescued me, cared for, loved me. Six months ago, someone who thought they were my cousin came into my life, and with her came an unbearable thought: if this family been informed of my existence earlier on, things might have been so different.
I hadn’t been able to hack the sudden immersion into a new family. I’d told them not to contact me again. That decision still had the smell of shame about it, like a rude word spray-painted on a concrete wall.
At the back of my throat came the scent of honey. It made me feel positive, reinforced. It shored me up, as if the Lady knew what I needed most at this point. I’d experienced hardness from her; she often stonewalled my questions and took me to grim places. This time she was filled with honey.
“Tell me what you saw, when you descended the realms,” she said, out of the blue.
I forced a shudder away. Too many images. “A plague of worms and dry ground, nothing growing …”
“Yes,” said the Lady. “A wasted land, stagnant, despoiled.”
“I met a guardian, an ancient black man, beside a fire. He showed me a powerful totem—a red hind. What did that mean?”
“It would be better if you asked him yourself.”
I shook my head, violently. I had no intentions of returning.
“There are roots that penetrate deep. That bind tight. You will find them at the hut of the old man.”
“Lady of the River, please tell me what you mean.”
“Sabbie Dare,” she said, and her voice was firm. “When will you call me by my true name?”
“I don’t know your name, Lady.”
“Indeed?” She glanced towards the river, which, as always, tumbled along, breaking white as it hit surface boulders. “I am the river, Sabbie …” Her voice was fading. She was leaving me. All that remained was a shimmering, a rippling of blues and browns and foaming whites. I heard her voice in my head, and as I did so I realized that the call-back sign from the drumming CD had come and gone and that I was lying on cushions in my therapy room.
I am the river of cool, translucent waves and treacherous, violent tides. Only when you call me by my name can I truly be of aid …
Recording that journey in my journal gave me pause. I hadn’t been expecting such specifics; the Lady of the River usually spoke in enigmas. I wrote down her suggestions, and it turned out they were enigmas after all. Mirrors, masks … turn things on their heads was her guidance for Laura Munroe, and she’d said Babette’s sketchpad would help in ways you cannot yet imagine. She’d told me to confront my past, insisted I called her by her true name.
I didn’t know how to do either of those things. I stashed my journal away as I went to answer the doorbell.
Laura Munroe looked flustered as she stood on the doorstep, but I was used to that. People keep my card in their wallet for weeks, until they reach a peak of distress. On the phone I’d guessed she wasn’t much out of her teens and now I could see I’d been right. I took her jacket, damp from the rain, and her motorbike helmet. She was almost entirely in blue denim, tight jeans perhaps a size too small, and a baggy shirt buttoned over a camisole. I showed her into the therapy room and directed her to the two wicker chairs by the desk.
“You got here without trouble, then.”
She managed a nod and a smile, but didn’t speak. I held my hands steady in my lap as a calming gesture; her hands were wringing each other. Her fingers were plump, her face a little puffy, while her ankles and wrists were narrow, almost sinewy.
“You need to catch your breath. Shall I put the kettle on?”
“Oh, I’m okay, really.”
“Tell me what attracts you to shamanism.”
“Oh … er … well, I …” Her voice was soft. Her hair was parted in the centre, clipped to fall just below the nape of her neck and hang like open curtains at either side of her temples. She wore hoop earrings, the sort that are used as starters.
“Look, let’s go and have a cuppa. I’m gasping, even if you aren’t.”
I got up and led the way out of the therapy room. I could see Laura was not going to tell me why she was here until she felt more relaxed, and I reckoned the best place for that was the sofa in my kitchen.
“D’you live around here?” General questions were best, as if we were chatting in a pub.
“Weston.”
“Weston-Super-Mare?” She gave a nod and I added, “My family have a caravan at Brean Down.”
“Oh, right.”
“Been there long?”
“Yes, all my life. I live with my mum and dad.”
“No shame in that; my brother’s only just moving out and he’s older than me.”
“I did live away. For four years. I joined the Royal Navy when I was sixteen.”
“Sounds an interesting career.”
“Yeah. I loved it. I did all sorts. I got my able seaman certificate and saw loads of countries—the Philippines, Libya … seven seas, and all that. I left it a few months back.”
I thought navy life would suit her. She looked beefy enough to haul ropes around capstans, and smart enough to read sensors. “What made you leave
?”
“I got ill. A virus, something a bit foreign, I think.”
“What was it?”
“It didn’t really get, sort of diagnosed, you know? I just kept getting these symptoms. The Royal Navy don’t like you being sick. I had to work twelve months notice.”
“If you were ill, surely they’d discharge you.”
“I dunno,” said Laura. I could feel the distress coming off her like a scent.
“Sorry—none of my business, I suppose. I’m just curious about how such things operate. What is it that makes you feel ill?”
“Sometimes, I just … can’t breathe. It gets so bad I think I’m going to suffocate.”
“But you don’t?”
“And this buzzing. Inside my head. It stopped me doing my job.”
A silence grew between us. We were at opposite ends of my sofa, leaning against the squidgy arms. My mind went back to Dennon’s experience of PMA. “Laura,” I said, at last, “this didn’t start with taking … something … like on shore somewhere, some night club?”
“Definitely not. We like our grog, us ratings.”
“Can you pinpoint a moment it all began?”
“No,” said Laura, and although I was sure she wasn’t lying to me, for some reason I didn’t think this was the entire truth, either.
“What’s happened since you’ve been home? Are you feeling better now?”
“Not really. It’s getting worse, if I’m honest.”
“More buzzing and shortness of breath?”
“Then there’s the spinning. The room spins and I’m shaking.”
“Have you seen a doctor, Laura?”
“Er … yeah. They’re rubbish, aren’t they?” Laura held her mug like a child, two hands around it. She blew on the surface before drinking the coffee in one go. I reckoned that might be a sailor’s habit; get it down you before it slides off the boat. It had also occurred to me that coffee might be the worst thing she could drink.