Unraveled Visions (A Shaman Mystery) (4 page)

“Idiot,” I said, but little sparklers were going off inside me. Rey had retained quite a lot about me. Maybe he’d been thinking about me, like I’d been thinking about him. “It was a hefty sum. I couldn’t see how I even deserved it, but my foster dad talked me into spending it wisely. Funny, isn’t it, for a couple of seconds, you’re thousands of pounds richer and in a blink you’re as poor as a Kentucky fried mouse.”

“What? You’ve spent it already?”

“I bought my house. Well, put down a deposit and took out a mortgage I can’t afford.”

“Your house,” said Rey. “You bought your house?”

“Yes.” I laughed. “I didn’t think the landlord would’ve let it go, but the market was kind to me. He’d purchased it as an ex-council property and he couldn’t wait to get it off his hands.”

“You never struck me as the venture capital sort,” said Rey.

“I’ve never had any capital, that’s why.” I smiled to myself. The house wasn’t “capital,” anyway, not to me. It was a tiny bit of land where I could be myself. I had planted a sapling, in celebration, and I intended to sit under my black poplar tree when it was twenty years old and able to shade me from the noon sun. “The repayments are crippling. I’m having to sell my car because I can’t afford to run it. At least, I
would
sell it, if I had a willing buyer. And I’ve taken a Saturday job. Like I’m a school kid. Can you believe that?”

“I don’t believe it,” said Rey. “You seemed to work all hours anyway.”

“Behind the bar at the Curate’s Egg. I’m quite enjoying it.”

“Doesn’t that put a damper on your social life?”

“It’s a pub, bean brain. I’m there this evening, if you want proof.”

“Love to, but Sabbie, we’ll be working into the night.” His hand slapped my upper arm, as if I was his mate. “Thank you for coming in. The public’s support on this one is crucial; every tiny scrap of evidence. Whoever did this will feel the full weight of the law, and that’s a crushing blow, believe me. Gary was my colleague and my friend and some bastard has just shot him through the head. I need to make an arrest soon.”

“Through the head? This was a someone who knew how to use a weapon?”

He didn’t reply. He was pursing his lips as if he realized he’d allowed classified information to seep past them.

“Do you have any idea who shot him?”

“Not a clue. But that’s how we usually start. No clues.” He grinned. “And then someone like you comes along and starts the ball rolling.”

“Not much of a ball.”

“Don’t knock it. There’ll be coppers crawling round St. Mary’s before the hour’s out and I’ll be one of them.”

“I saw you on the telly,” I said, more to keep him from leaving than anything else. “When you found that woman.”

“Yep, fifteen seconds of fame due to a Jane Doe. Hope it was my best side.”

“You sound like every hard-nose cop! It’s an unsolved death so it’s okay to forget her because she wasn’t ID’d. You never hear about it on the news anymore.”

“Might be a dead donkey to the press, but murder cases are always active until they’re solved. You can quote me on that.”

“It’s sad. That the people who loved you don’t even know you’re gone.”

“Maybe no one loved her.” He crushed half his cigarette into the wall and swallowed the last of his coffee. I surreptitiously tipped mine over the back of the wall and handed him the empty cup. He walked over to the bin and threw them in. He’d be gone so soon.

I stood up as he came back. “You never pop round anymore.”

“To be honest, I was starting to feel guilty. Like I was using you as a greasy spoon stop on the way to work.”

“Impudent wretch.” I gave him a playful slap on his hand, aware it might be the last time I touched him.

“I didn’t mean …”

“Honestly, sometimes I’m overrun with eggs.”

“Yeah. I recall.” Our breath was white in the cold air, and we were standing so close it mingled. It was hard to believe that we’d never kissed.

“You seeing anyone?” he asked, rushing over the question as if he didn’t want me to hear it.

“To be honest, since Ivan … I’ve been wary …” I broke off, out of breath.

“Don’t let one bad experience put you off.”

“I’m not desperate to have a man in my life.”

“Oh, come on. I can’t believe there isn’t someone out there who’s perfect for you.”

A laugh gibbered out of me. “Sound advice, I’ll bear it in mind.”

Rey squeezed my arm in a goodbye gesture. “See you, then.”

“See you.” I tried not to make it a question. The glowing, sparkling sensations that had erupted inside me as we’d talked were distorting into hard lumps in my stomach. I watched him go, re-establishing in my mind the shape of his body, the way he walked.

“See you,” I repeated, whispering the words like a wish.

four

That went well. Months
without seeing Rey, and in the space
of one murky, undrunk coffee I’d called him a) an idiot, b) a bean brain, and c) an impudent wretch. To reinforce my position, I’d also told him I didn’t need a man. However hard I tried to re-imagine
the conversation, it still ended up with Rey suggesting I find someone else
…
i.e.,
not him
.

Anyhow, I didn’t need a man. I would never want a man in my life just for the sake of having one. It would have to be someone I was unable to live without. Sadly for me, Rey was growing into just that person. It had been a slow but steady process. It had started when I opened the door to him one day and found him … interesting.

My hands shook as I unchained Hermes. Hermes was my fancy new mode of transport. He got me round Bridgwater traffic for far less dosh than my Mini, but being a butch yellow mountain bike, he didn’t do it with quite the same level of weather protection. I’d called him Hermes in the hope that he’d give my feet wings.

I swung onto the saddle and swore all the way home—
bugger-bugger-bugger
—a swirl of
buggers
—which is a great approach to cycling if you plan to end up under some wheels.

By the time I’d let myself into the house and poured a glass of water, I was convinced. I would do well to avoid Rey. He had archaic attitudes and overassertive body language, and had proved himself capable of using others indiscriminately (e.g., me). It would be better if I never saw him again.

I strayed into my therapy room. I didn’t have clients booked for the day—any further clients, that was—and I didn’t need to leave for work at the Curate’s Egg until around six. I should finish what I’d started with Drea. I took a quick shower and changed into my long black dress. The transformation was almost instant; from gibbering love-sick fool to shaman.

In the therapy room, I used my rattle—stiff calfskin filled with dried beans—to alert myself to the subtle energies Drea had left behind, then settled on the floor cushions. I draped a scarf over my eyes. I was aiming for a light trance state. To enter the otherworld, I have to let go—the more I think about it, the more I struggle, the harder it becomes to leave the outer world and reach my spirit portal. It’s a bit like weeing. You’ve got to let it … flow.

The constant beat of the bodhran, a Celtic hand drum, thudded from the CD into my body. A single note rose above the beat; the skin of the drum, vibrating as it was struck. The singing note filled my head. My mind relaxed. I saw the rushing brook where Trendle lived. It grew in my mind until it took full shape; the distant hills, the flower meadows, the river bank, sun-dappled. Heather tickled the soles of my feet. Such a deep purple with such a rich scent, my head buzzed from it. No, not my head. The bees buzzed from it, moving with intent from one nectar-laden bud to the next.
Bzzzzzz
…

Trendle splashed up from some deep otterly place. “Greetings Sabbie.”

“Hi, Trendle.”

I lay on my stomach and reached down into the stream. My palm fitted over the soft, damp crown of Trendle’s head. His spiky whiskers twitched. He smelt of river fish. In fact, I thought I spotted a droop of tail fin in the corner of his mouth.

I’ve known my animal guide for over four years. He started by appearing in my dreams, then in the real world, or the apparent world, as my shaman teacher, Wolfsbane, likes to call it. I saw
Tarka the Otter
lying on top a pile of books in a charity shop and had to buy it. I saw a stuffed otter at the nursing home where I worked. And before I knew it I had otter postcards, soft toys, and ornaments all round my bedroom at Gloria’s house. By then I was studying the arts and skills of the shaman with Wolfsbane and was working with my otter in the otherworld.

Trendle is so cute and playful I sometimes have to remind myself that he’s actually a higher being than me, presenting himself as a river otter so that I can see and understand him. I would not venture into the otherworld without Trendle, because it can be a dangerous place. Enter unwisely and you can return confused by misinformation or befuddled by wicked dreams. The otherworld can turn you to madness, there’s no question, I’ve seen it happen. Shamans need to be stable, grounded people or they can end up hanging by the neck from their own banisters. That’s why I love my veggie garden. It keeps my feet literally on the earth.

“What is your desire?”

My desire. The first rule of the otherworld; know why you’re entering.

“I am here to journey for Drea. Except
…
she only half agreed. Didn’t she? I had the feeling she wasn’t keen on the whole process, but my instincts
…
my instincts
…
” I took a breath. “Will I even be able to enter her otherworld?”

Trendle scrabbled close to my ear. “How Drea’s world feels, and what we find there, will tell us whether she wants us in it.”

My stomach screwed into a ball of trepidation. However happy she insisted she was, I didn’t think Drea’s spirit world would be nice to visit. “Which path?”

“This one.”

Trendle extended his scratchy forepaws, closing my eyes. I felt the temperature change; cool on my cheeks and arms. I opened my eyes.

I was in an ice temple. The whiteness forced me to squint. Every wall glittered. The vaulted ceiling, high as an abbey, gleamed with sheer, wet gloss. Icicles hung down like slender stalactites. A single drip from the end of one landed on my forehead, making me jump with a shot of freezing pain. I looked down. My bare feet were standing on solid ice. Its bitterness struck my soles.

“This is a cold-blooded place.” I gazed round, seeking out something that might be a gift for Drea; a single symbol that I could offer her. There was nothing but the sheen of frozen white. “Trendle? Is it this something to do with winter, or thaw? Is that what I offer Drea?”

Trendle didn’t reply. He was too busy showing off, skating across the ice, his legs splayed, trying out figures of eight while I shivered. If I wanted to get out of here, I’d have to look for answers myself.

On the far side of the ice room was a ledge that ran the length of the wall. A girl lay curled on her side away from me, a single knitted blanket over her. Even in this otherworld, I couldn’t help thinking that was a dangerous thing to do, to lie along a block of ice.

“Drea?”

She didn’t move. The cold had put her into a sort of suspended animation. I skidded over the ice floor. Something blocked my way. It was a serpent. It had come from nowhere, taking shape in front of me, rearing up until it balanced on a final coil of tail. There was so much of it that its head touched the ice ceiling. Seconds later it had curved its body down towards me. Our eyes locked gaze.

The snake was as thick as my waist and the colour of green slime, with darker and lighter blotches down its scales. Its bulbous head was a dangerous yellow and from its mouth a tongue flicked, black and forked into two sharp points, millimetres from my face. Every fibre inside me screamed. I had entered a dreadful place and this was a dreadful being. Trendle had skated off on some wild otter adventure, leaving me to work out if the snake was here to give us answers.

“Are you Drea’s power animal?”

“I am Anaconda.”

“Are you not a long way away from the warmth of your natural home?”

“Time and place can change. Home may change.”

I didn’t want to forget a single word of what Anaconda was saying; I was sure it had meanings only Drea would understand. “Do homes change for the better?” I asked.

“
Duty and purpose can change.”

“What is your duty and purpose?”

“First, do no harm. Next, protect my kin. Last, keep my secret.”

“What is your secret?”

Anaconda
didn’t like this. He clearly felt I’d been presumptive to ask.
I saw malevolence flicker in the small eyes. I heard the girl give a trembling sigh, as if even her breath shivered with cold. I tried to dodge past Anaconda, but he intercepted my move and I collided with him. His scales felt dry on my bare arms. My feet slid from under me and I fell on the ice, hard as concrete but much colder. It burned through my dress.

His tongue flicked. His head lunged at me. The razor-sharp points of his tongue plunged into my belly. I heard my throat scream in the world of my therapy room. My hands covered my stomach. There was no blood. This was a spirit wound from a serpent without a poisonous bite. Anacondas, I remembered, crushed their prey. I tried to slide away from him, wriggling like a snake does, struggling to gain a grip, but I was shivering so much my hands and feet refused to cooperate. I could hardly feel my body now. The bite wasn’t poisonous, but it had sent me spiralling into hypothermia.

A spray of white ice chips swirled up as Trendle shot past me. Foam flew from his mouth. “Be gone. Be gone!”

His little body didn’t come above the coil of the snake’s tail, but his protective fury altered the balance of things. Anaconda reared and attacked. Trendle was ready. He spat and hissed and sprang, his body stretching into a wired pole, his jaws wide and full of sharpness. His fish-tearing teeth dug into the snake’s neck. Blood oozed and stained the ice. Anaconda was so massive, I thought he would fling Trendle away and attack again. But my otter’s bite provoked an explosion of change. In the blink of an eye, the ice temple dissolved.

I found myself in a new, though no less treacherous, place. Dark water thundered past, inches away. I was standing on the edge of a river, hanging for dear life onto the trunk of a tree, the rush of river water only a slip of my foot below me.

The roar of the river was intertwined with a woman’s voice. She sang a high song that seemed to have no words and no tune and a rhythm that changed as only a river can—one moment soft and clear and slow, then next brisk and sparkling. I had heard that song once before, and it had filled me with a yearning that had saved my life.

Standing under a bare winter tree on the river path was a spirit presence; a woman in a shimmering grey cloak who only came to me when I needed desperate help.

“Lady of the River …” My teeth chattered as I spoke.

“Yes.” I saw her majestic face. There was an element of sadness and loss behind her eyes, or maybe in the furrows of her brow. “I am a water spirit, a dissolution of foam and form. I am the river that divides. The treacherous one. The violent one.”

“I never know—”

“You are confused, are you not?” I’d been going to say I never knew if I could trust her, but she stopped my words before they left me. Her lips were the colour of poisoned apples and they moved as if she was whispering a spell. “Past and future, clients and quandaries … they’re easily confused.”

Sometimes people want their shaman to change their past, not their future. Drea had told me that the past was unimportant to her, and yet I was sure the past had a lot to do with her problems.

The Lady’s voice broke into my thoughts. “Can you help your client face her past, Sabbie? Even the most skilful shaman cannot give advice over issues they refuse to explore themselves. It is true that the paths can be snarled, but that is part of the Tides of the World of Spirit.
”

Tides of the World of Spirit? I’d never heard the phrase. My shamanic teacher, Wolfsbane, had certainly never used it, and he did love his high-flown archaisms.

“You sang to me when I was ill. When I was unconscious and lost from the world. You brought me back; you and Bren Howell between you.”

She bowed her head. “That was then. Now, you are enduring again.”

“I remember something you told me once. That I was a survivor.”

“Indeed, but you should not linger here. Return to the solid world, Sabbie. Heal yourself.”

So much was happening in the one journey. I had to sort it out in my mind. Was the ice temple Drea’s spirit world? Why had the snake attacked me? And who was this river goddess that returned each time I was desperate for help? My mind was filled images and I tried to slow them down. I looked round for Trendle, but he was probably still battling the serpent.

As he’d sprung at Anaconda, I had caught a micro-second’s glimpse of the girl. She had rolled onto her back, her arms over her face, her body revealed—a sudden vivid image of her rounded stomach, like a fairy hill on a flat landscape.

Everything slotted into place. I’d felt some disturbance at the sacral chakra when I was giving Drea Reiki. I’d thought it might be some sort of upset or disorder. But now I was sure; Drea was pregnant, or hoping to be.

_____

I was numbed with cold as I roused from the journey, and too exhausted to think. I sat cross-legged on the floor cushions, the fleece pulled round my shoulders as I scribbled down my journey notes. There was a tingling at the base of my stomach. The psychic attack had followed me into this world. Anaconda had aimed at the place I’d felt Drea’s disturbance … the sacral chakra.

I went over to where I kept my aromatherapy oils. I pulled up my black dress and rubbed a drop of lavender into the invisible wound. The box containing my chakra crystals lay close by. I chose a smooth piece of carnelian, a deep and beautiful blood orange, and lay down on the cushions again, placing it over the little spot of lavender. I pulled both fleeces over my bone-cold body and closed my eyes, trying to visualize healing.

I lay half-dazed. It took all my efforts not to fall asleep. I tried to think through the events of the shamanic journey, but it was hopeless; I was too exhausted for thinking. A roaring sound took over my head. It might have been rushing water, or the hiss of snakes, or the shifting of glaciers.

Or the song I’d first heard when, eight years ago, I had been unconscious and in hospital. I finally understood that the Lady of the River had known me long before she’d made herself known to me.