Shamanka (31 page)

Ruby begins to drum. As she drums, Sam remembers Professor Farthy's temporal lobe and how it has been scientifically proven to be affected by drumming, causing a floating sensation, and as she finds herself drifting away, she hears a tiny voice – her own – calling out, “I want to know what is real, what is magic and what is illusion.”

“The answers lie in the Lower World,” whispers the drum, “where the dead reside, where lost information is retrieved. Where we learn what ails usssssssss…”

Was it the hiss of the drum or the rush of the human soul as Sam slips out of her head like a dragonfly shedding its skin. She can see her body still sitting beneath the tree, but it's getting smaller and smaller – neither dead or alive – an empty vessel; all that is vital has been sucked up into the branches. Ruby Featha's chant whirls around her ears:

Something calls Sam's name. It's not Ruby Featha; it's a deep brown voice, old as the earth. It's coming from the uppermost branch and it speaks in Motu. It's a crow, but it isn't any old crow.

It's a Torresian crow.

The masked magician asks you to think of a number between 1 and 10 and write it down so it can't be seen. Say your number is 6. First of all you will be asked to double it (12), then add ten to the answer (22), and divide by two (11). Now yell out your final number (11). The magician will then reveal that your secret number is indeed 6! But how?

THE SECRET

It's not magic, just a little-known mathematical law. No matter which number you choose, all the masked magician has to do is subtract five from the last number you shout out: 11 - 5 = 6

The trick works every time.

S
omeone is holding Sam's hand. Strange, because surely to have her hand held, she must have a body – yet her body is still sitting under the tree next to Ruby Featha. If Professor Farthy's mother had given him a better microscope, maybe he would have cried out, “Yes, it
is
scientifically possible to see the soul!”

If he had a decent set of binoculars, perhaps he could see Sam's soul sitting on the bough of the Tree of Life. Maybe the invisible hand she is holding is just a
hey-lucy-nation
, but it feels warm and alive; Sam calls out, “Is that you, Lola. Are you my totem animal?”

It might be a dream orang-utan. Or it might be Freya, the spirit guide; Freya the grandmother. Whatever it is, it's a comforting presence.

Sam feels the draught of wings and the weight of the Torresian crow on her shoulders. As it lifts her off the bough, she feels no pain. She soars through the blinding brightness of the sun – not flying, but being carried and still holding someone's hand. The crow is carrying two souls; to do that, he must be powerful. He must be her power animal, this crow.

Above the tree, on the edge of space, lies the Astral Temple. It's made from clouds unknown to meteorologists – but you have seen them. You've been here before you were born, but you've forgotten. There's a reason for that. If you could remember how beautiful it was, you'd be in too much of a hurry to come back, like Conchita and Consuella.

The crow releases his passengers. Sam falls back onto a soft, furry cushion – it's Lola. She gets to her feet. She turns to face the Torresian crow, but all that's left of it is a bracelet of blue-black feathers around the wrist of an old man with tusks through his nostrils who stands with his arms outstretched.

“Come, little daughter of Tabuh.”

In the Astral Temple, it doesn't feel awkward to be held. For the first time, Sam feels it might be possible to bear the embrace of another person. She runs forward. She allows herself to be folded into her grandfather's arms and there she stays until the icy lump in the pit of her stomach melts. The relief is phenomenal.

“Grandpa, is Grandma Freya here too?”

He nods and his hornbill necklace rattles like machine-gun fire as he points to the orang-utan. “Grandma is Lola. Lola is Grandma.”

Make what you will of that remark. Is he saying that the spirit of his wife has possessed an ape so that she can protect her granddaughter? My instinct says no, but we're dealing with a witch doctor whose reputation is second to none, so I'm going to ignore my instinct.

“What now, Grandpa?” asks Sam.

The witch doctor removes his headdress – the one with bird of paradise feathers two metres high. “We swap hats!”

It's a fun thing to do and harmless enough. Yafer looks ludicrous in the ringmaster's hat – it's far too small for his hairdo, which looks like a flaming ginger bush. Sam doesn't look much better; Yafer's headdress is so large it slips over her head and lands on her shoulders.

“You'll grow!” he laughs. “But you still have much to put into that little head of yours. You must go to China, to India, to the Antipodes, then you must say goodbye to your old self.”

“Can't I stay here with you?”

He shakes his head. “Now where have I heard
that
phrase before? Ah, yes, from my son, the wanderer.” He looks at his wrist as if he wore a watch. “I thought he would be back by now.”

At the mention of her father, Sam begs the witch doctor to tell her where he is – she's sure he knows.

“
Please
tell me. I've looked so hard, but he always seems to be just over the horizon.”

It's no good pleading with Yafer Tabuh. No matter how much he loves his granddaughter, he will not give in to wheedling; he has his plans and he will not deviate from them. He puts a kindly arm around her and they walk up and down.

“Number One Daughter, the more you look for your father, the more you will find yourself. When you know who you are, he will come to you. He will find himself and
his
father. Then we can all go home!”

He stops walking. Using his forefingers and thumbs, he makes the sign of a triangle.

“There is magic in numbers, child. Your magic number is three: father, mother, daughter. Heart, body, soul. The power of three will show itself to you again, again, again.”

“I'm one of three sisters,” says Sam.

The witch doctor counts on his long fingers.

“Three is
Big
Magic. One guides you. Two harms you. Three loves you beyond the grave. You must experience all three in equal measure.”

“Must I? But what does—?”

The witch doctor presses a finger to Sam's lips. “No buts! It's up to you to work it out. Grandpa knows you can do it.” He presses his thumb against her forehead, between her eyebrows. “Here is your third eye. The insects have it. All mankind has it. Mostly they are blind, but you possess great vision. By the power of three, you will see what is illusion, what is real and what is magic!”

As he says it, he chants and waves his arms and the faster he waves them, the more they blur into wings and the more he turns back into a crow. Sam is lifted back into the air. She doesn't feel ready to leave, but Yafer has decided it's time…

Down.

Down.

Down.

The Torresian crow drops Sam on the top of a hill. It's so steep, she can't stop running – it's the kind of running that's almost flying and if Kitty hadn't rushed forward and caught her, I think she would have launched herself into the air and flown back to the crow for ever.

A bed of volcanic rock is alight on the ground. The masked magician summons the gods and walks across it barefoot – yet the feet are not burnt. How?

THE SECRET

Firewalking has nothing to do with faith, willpower or the paranormal.

1. Air has a low heat capacity and our bodies have a high heat capacity, so even if the coals reach 1,000 degrees, a person with normal soles won't get burned if they walk quickly.

2. It's safer to use fuel that has a low heat capacity such as volcanic rock and wood embers.

3. It helps if your feet are insulated with sweat or water.

WARNING: DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME. AT THE VERY LEAST, YOU'LL BURN THE CARPET.

“A
m I back, Kitty?”

Kitty holds Sam by the shoulders and waits for her to catch her breath. “You never left.”

“I
did
. Lola came too. I saw my grandfather. He was as real as you are!”

Ruby Featha stops drumming. “Real? Not an illusion then? Not magic? Are you sure, Sam Khaan?”

Did she have the answer to the three questions? Had she visited the Lower World to retrieve the long forgotten truths? No, she hadn't. Sam's elation turns to melancholy. She's confused.

“It is normal to feel that way,” says Ruby. “Sometimes it takes a lifetime to understand the questions, let alone find the answers.”

“What if I die never knowing?”

“Nobody dies never knowing,” says Ruby. “The dead have all the answers.”

Right now that's no comfort to Sam. She'd felt so far from death, so energetic, so happy, after talking to her grandpa. Now all she wants to do is sleep.

Ruby takes her hand. “Your mind is full, your stomach is empty. Let's eat.”

It's impossible to feel miserable for long sitting around a campfire with a blanket around you to keep off the night chill. Especially when you're sharing the experience with your totem animal and a woman who can catch fish with her bare hands.

Lola isn't keen on salmon, but she's happy to stuff her cheeks with berries and nuts. Sam leans back and uses her soft belly as a pillow. “Ruby, how did you get to be a midiwiwin?”

“Some inherit the title – but to inherit is not enough; you must prove your skills.” She pauses to poke the fire. “You have to suffer a trauma or an affliction. Suffering provokes your psychic abilities.”

Kitty taps her mask to draw attention to herself. “
I've
suffered! I tripped over a cot on the stars and binged my hat when I was a little grill. Then the whorehouse caught fire and my farce was destroyed by the flans. Then I fell into a wharf and almost drained to death. Then I lost my mammary, didn't I, Sam?”

“Yes, and you muddle up your words, especially when you're tired.”

“No, I don't.”

“You do. You just said mammary instead of memory.”

“I did
not
. There must be something wrong with your earring, Sam.”

Ruby interrupts; it would be a shame for an argument to break out and spoil the evening.

“Kitty, the fact that you have suffered greatly explains your ability to communicate with the spirits. I believe they contact you through automatic writing?”

How Ruby knows this, I don't know. Maybe the spirits wrote and told her. It doesn't matter; at least Kitty feels better for having her skill and her suffering publicly acknowledged.