Shamanka (22 page)

“Non, just hands.” For such a slight girl, Athea is surprisingly strong. With little effort, she lifts Lola onto her lap as if she weighs no more than a cat.

“Voilà,” she murmurs. “Close your big brown eyes.” She rocks Lola in her lap, her bright cotton skirt spread out in the grass and, as she rocks, the brass goat bell around her neck tinkles rhythmically. Sam feels herself getting sleepy, seduced by the
clang, clang, clang
– but she
must
stay awake.

“Lola isn't dying is she, Athea?”

“Not dying; but she has been there once before, I think.”

Thoughts of poisoned darts and resurrection chants swirl around Sam's head – but how could Athea know?

“Why do you say that, Athea?”

“I feel it.”

Is she feeling the scar on Lola's chest or is she bluffing?

“I feel it now,” repeats Athea. “I know what is wrong … it is not so serious.” With both hands locked under Lola's rib cage, she suddenly squeezes hard. There's a loud belching noise as something shoots out of Lola's mouth into the undergrowth. The orang-utan inhales deeply, then downs the citron pressé in one gulp – she's cured.

Sam looks among the wild flowers for the object that was stuck in Lola's throat. It's lying among a clump of poppies.

“My locket!”

She wipes it clean. The photo inside is damp around the edges, but it will dry in the sun. She shows it to Athea.

“My grandmother. This little boy … that's my father.”

It's impossible to keep the air of wistfulness from her voice. Athea detects it immediately but doesn't pry, she just sits there and threads daisies.

“He's a magician,” adds Sam. “He calls himself the Dark Prince of Tabuh.”

Athea smiles knowingly. “Ah, oui. My mother spoke of this extraordinary man. They met long ago but she never forgot him. In fact, her dying words were these: ‘Now I know the answers! If only I could have told John…'”

Sam stays silent, deep in thought. Something is bothering her. Athea is too young to have met her father, yet her name is on the witch doctor's list. Suddenly it clicks – there can only be one explanation.

“Was your mother called Athea too?”

Yes, she was also Athea the healer. It seems she passed her gift on to her daughter. “Like your father did to you,” says Athea. “You are a magician too, I think. Can you turn this daisy chain into a dove?”

“If I had a dove,” says Sam, “I could fool you into thinking I could; but it would be just an illusion. I can't make doves out of thin air.”

“
That
would be magic,” says Athea. “Real magic.”

Lola is stealing peapods from Athea's garden. She pops each one carefully, slides the peas into her fist then eats them one by one, like sweets. Sam can't understand how Athea knew exactly how to make her well again.

“Is what you do real magic, Athea?”

“Me? No, anyone can do it if they have the right touch. I have been healing animals since I was little. I am not sure how – it is instinctive.”

“Or paranormal?”

Athea dismisses the notion airily. “Non, non. What I do is primitive. All ailments give the patient certain characteristics, a combination of clues which point to where the problem lies. Maybe I assess these things faster than most, that is all. I could teach you what to look for if you like.”

“I'll pay you for it,” says Sam.

“Non!”

But Sam insists. “I can never repay you for saving Lola…” She unclips the witch doctor's pouch and takes out the oyster shell. It contains three pearls, remember. It is rare for an oyster to contain
one
pearl – but three? That's unheard of.

The oyster is long gone, of course. The pearls are packed between the shell halves in fur. Sam removes one and hides it behind her back with the daisy chain.

“I can't give you doves, but I can give you … this.”

She fixes the chain around Athea's neck. She has woven the pearl into the middle between two daisy stalks; it glows like a tiny moon.

“It is too much!” gasps Athea.

“I'll swap it for your pearls of wisdom. Teach me how to heal animals. If Lola gets sick again, I need to know how to help her. There may not be a vet where I'm going.”

Athea promises to teach her what she can and they spend the afternoon together, discussing among other things:

1. How the paleness of the tongue suggests a sluggish liver in cats.

2. How to take a shrew's pulse.

3. How to burp an owl that has a pellet stuck in its throat.

4. How to turn an unborn squirrel round the right way by massage.

5. Where to press to relieve an egg-bound duck.

6. How to drain a rabbit's abscess using vibration.

Sam is particularly fascinated by the laying on of hands. According to Athea, you can channel positive energy into the patient through your palms. This, she says, has a physical effect on the diseased organ, encouraging it to heal itself.

“This positive energy, is it a kind of electricity?” asks Sam, remembering the highly static Mrs Reafy and wondering if she's still arguing with her spoon.

Athea can't be certain, but whatever it is, it's powerful; you must adjust the dosage according to the creature in your care. An elephant needs a lot more positive energy than a butterfly, but an elephant beetle needs more than a shrew – even though the beetle is smaller, its wing-case is as tough as armour.

By now, Lola is full of peas. There are no pods left on the bush and she lies, stretched out in the sun, with her hands folded peacefully over her belly.

“Do orang-utans need more positive energy than people?” asks Sam. “I'm just asking because, although Lola's shorter than me, she's much stronger.”

“I've never healed a person,” says Athea. “I have Lourdes on my doorstep, the competition is too stiff! But I think orang-utans can be healed with
less
power because they are not sceptical. People expect me to fail, but Lola, she trusted me. That is half the battle.”

Even as they speak, a shepherd is driving down the mountain with a sick ewe in his truck, in the hope that Athea can heal it. If you listen hard, you will hear the crunch of wheels against the chalky road and the plaintive bleating of the suffering sheep. Athea squeezes Sam's arm. “Let us tell the shepherd that
you
are Athea, the healer.”

“Me? But what if I fail?”

Athea laughs as if this is an impossible notion. “Sam, you can do it. Believe it and so will the sheep.”

The shepherd stops his truck and carries the ewe over his shoulder into Athea's front garden. He tries to balance it on the grass, but it collapses onto its left side, panting heavily. The shepherd tugs at his beard.

“She has been like this for days. She gave birth to twins but they were stillborn.”

Athea is willing Sam to do something, to take charge. She gives her a nudge.

Sam kneels next to the ewe, places her right hand on the gritty wool of its belly and closes her eyes. She can feel something that shouldn't be there, despite having no knowledge of sheep anatomy. Now she hears two drum beats – big drum, little drum – the rhythm of the oars pushing against the muscles of the river – big drum, little drum. She pulls steadily, slowly – big drum, little drum – she hears the cry of a crow and, as she opens her eyes, the ewe expels a scrawny, wet lamb into the grass.

There hadn't been twins, but triplets. The lamb is alive, but it's so small and feeble the shepherd wonders if it's worth keeping. It will be too much trouble to rear. The lamb can't speak up for itself, so Sam gives it a voice.

“You are my shepherd; I put my faith in you.”

The shepherd cleans out his ears with a stick, but he's sure he hasn't misheard; his ewe has given birth to a talking lamb! He throws his hat high in the air. “It is a miracle!”

The ewe, who is feeling much better, licks the lamb clean.

“This lamb is a sign,” insists the shepherd. “I will never take it to market. Merci, Mademoiselle Athea … bless you!”

He kisses Sam on both cheeks. She feels guilty about the ventriloquism, but the real Athea smiles behind her hand as if to imply that she's done nothing to reproach herself for; the ewe and the lamb have been saved and so has the shepherd. He's poor, but now that he thinks he has a sacred lamb, people will flock in droves to buy his ewe's milk.

It's time for Sam and Lola to leave. Kitty will be wondering where they are. Hopefully, she will have got a good price for the barge and they'll soon be heading for Egypt.

The shepherd offers Sam a lift. She sits in the back of the truck with the sheep. Lola insists on holding the lamb in her lap – it's doing well.

“Don't forget your wheelchair,” laughs Athea. “Lourdes has more abandoned wheelchairs than it knows what to do with!”

It could be because miracles happen every day – but you'd have to ask the inspector that.

The stage floor is covered with a carpet. A solid brick wall is wheeled on, cased in a steel frame. The masked magician stands on one side of the wall. Screens are placed at either end so there can be no escape. The magician waves over the screen on one side of the wall and shouts, “Here I am!” The next minute, the magician's hands are waving at the other side; “Here I am now!”

The screens are drawn away and there is the magician on the other side of the wall. How?

THE SECRET

The wall is built over a trap door in the stage. Although the carpet under it is seamless, it has enough “give” for the magician to crawl through. The trapdoor is then shut and all is as before!

“D
o you think it was a coincidence that the lamb arrived when it did, Kitty?”

Sam doubts that she really healed the ewe; she suspects the lamb would have been born anyway. Maybe Athea knew that.

Kitty shrugs. “What does it matter? Just be pleased it happened.”

“Fancy there being triplets.”

“Triplets? Yes … fancy.”

An old lady has expressed an interest in buying the barge, complete with feline passengers. Her name is Madame Fifi-Elisa Ary and she's gone to the bank to withdraw the money in cash. She's taking her time though. Kitty glances at her watch again.

“I hope she shows. I hope she isn't a time-waster.”

Just as they're about to give up on her, Madame Ary comes bumbling back, apologizing for her lateness loudly in French; there had been a long queue at the cash desk. Suddenly, she sees Lola; but her eyesight is not what it used to be: “Is that the captain?” she exclaims, polishing her glasses. “Such fine red hair. Is he a Scotsman?”

“She's an orang-utan,” Sam explains. “The barge has no captain, madame.”

Now that she's taken her glasses off, Madame Ary looks a bit like Effie Ray, the woman Sam met on the tube. Bart Hayfue would say that the similarity is unsurprising: old ladies look much the same, only the headscarves change – but what does he know?