Lost
The Shaman...
The walk is long, wearing on my happiness.
I take my cigarette pack out and pull one of the white sticks out and hold it up to my lips. Chris grabs it and the pack from me stuffing them into his pocket.
“You have to have a clear head when you see the shaman. I know that those have more than just tobacco in them, Iris,” he scolds me.
I look up at him with pleading eyes, “Come on, Chris. It can’t possibly make that much of a difference, just one.”
He shakes his head then wraps his long fingers around my thin wrist and pulls me down the sidewalk. Why we can’t take the car to see the shaman, I’m not sure. Earlier today, Chris said something about keeping the air pure around the shaman. I can’t believe that he actually thinks this guy is the real thing.
After what feels like hours of walking, but is probably only a half hour, we reach a group of hut-like buildings, out in the middle of nowhere.
I feel as though we have stepped back in time into an old Indian village. People are dressed in Native American garb and little children run barefooted in front of the huts.
“Mr.Ingle, the Shaman will see you now, a woman says to Chris after we had been waiting for a while sitting in the grass. He lets go of my hand, stands up then bends down and kisses my cheek. “Your guest may also come,” the woman says.
I am afraid about what will happen. We enter into one of the huts and in the middle he is there. The shaman is old probably about sixty or seventy years old, he has a feather headdress on his head and is smoking from a long pipe. He passes it to Chris who holds it in his tattooed hands. I follow suit after Chris passes the long pipe to me. The three of us continue the process until the contents inside the pipe are ash. Next, the shaman hands us each a few raisin shaped seeds.
“Eat the peyote,” he instructs. These are the first words he has spoken to us.
I place the peyote seeds on my tongue then chew, as does Chris. The world becomes a daze, and the colors become brighter.
“Drink,” the shaman instructs holding a chalice.
I take it and drink after Chris does. The woman from earlier comes and leads us into separate rooms of the hut, then leaves us alone. From no particular area, I can hear steady and monotonous drumbeats.
A wolf enters into the room, but he does not come through the door, but rather the wall. It leads me from the building into a garden and speaks to me in a language that I have never heard, but understand.
As soon as the wolf entered the room, it leaves and I am sitting in the exact spot I was before the wolf entered.
The woman comes back into my room and leads me out to the area that we had smoked with the shaman earlier in the day.
“You met your spirit guides.” He states matter-of-factly. we both nod, still a bit dazed and extremely confused.
I try to make sense of the entire experience. I saw a wolf. It came through the wall, not the door, but the wall. It left and I followed it into a garden where it talked to me. It talked. That wolf fucking talked. In a language that I did not know existed, but I understood.
Whatever it was was that the shaman gave me, it was fucked up, there are no other words that describe the drugs, only that they are fucked up, wondrously so.
The shaman looks at Chris then says, “Red-tailed hawk.” Then to me, “Grey wolf.” I nod, astonished that he knows what I saw. After he says what I can only assume to be our spirit guides, he goes back to smoking on his long pipe and acts as though Chris and I were never there.
The woman comes back into the hut and leads us out. Once we leave the hut, the woman outstretches her hand to which Chris places several dollar bills. I reach into my purse but he stops me.
“It’s okay, my idea, I pay,” he says. “Save your money, you are going to need it.” He knows me all too well.
The shaman was strange and by the looks of how much he smokes, is very, very high.
I take my cigarette pack out and pull one of the white sticks out and hold it up to my lips. Chris grabs it and the pack from me stuffing them into his pocket.
“You have to have a clear head when you see the shaman. I know that those have more than just tobacco in them, Iris,” he scolds me.
I look up at him with pleading eyes, “Come on, Chris. It can’t possibly make that much of a difference, just one.”
He shakes his head then wraps his long fingers around my thin wrist and pulls me down the sidewalk. Why we can’t take the car to see the shaman, I’m not sure. Earlier today, Chris said something about keeping the air pure around the shaman. I can’t believe that he actually thinks this guy is the real thing.
After what feels like hours of walking, but is probably only a half hour, we reach a group of hut-like buildings, out in the middle of nowhere.
I feel as though we have stepped back in time into an old Indian village. People are dressed in Native American garb and little children run barefooted in front of the huts.
“Mr.Ingle, the Shaman will see you now, a woman says to Chris after we had been waiting for a while sitting in the grass. He lets go of my hand, stands up then bends down and kisses my cheek. “Your guest may also come,” the woman says.
I am afraid about what will happen. We enter into one of the huts and in the middle he is there. The shaman is old probably about sixty or seventy years old, he has a feather headdress on his head and is smoking from a long pipe. He passes it to Chris who holds it in his tattooed hands. I follow suit after Chris passes the long pipe to me. The three of us continue the process until the contents inside the pipe are ash. Next, the shaman hands us each a few raisin shaped seeds.
“Eat the peyote,” he instructs. These are the first words he has spoken to us.
I place the peyote seeds on my tongue then chew, as does Chris. The world becomes a daze, and the colors become brighter.
“Drink,” the shaman instructs holding a chalice.
I take it and drink after Chris does. The woman from earlier comes and leads us into separate rooms of the hut, then leaves us alone. From no particular area, I can hear steady and monotonous drumbeats.
A wolf enters into the room, but he does not come through the door, but rather the wall. It leads me from the building into a garden and speaks to me in a language that I have never heard, but understand.
As soon as the wolf entered the room, it leaves and I am sitting in the exact spot I was before the wolf entered.
The woman comes back into my room and leads me out to the area that we had smoked with the shaman earlier in the day.
“You met your spirit guides.” He states matter-of-factly. we both nod, still a bit dazed and extremely confused.
I try to make sense of the entire experience. I saw a wolf. It came through the wall, not the door, but the wall. It left and I followed it into a garden where it talked to me. It talked. That wolf fucking talked. In a language that I did not know existed, but I understood.
Whatever it was was that the shaman gave me, it was fucked up, there are no other words that describe the drugs, only that they are fucked up, wondrously so.
The shaman looks at Chris then says, “Red-tailed hawk.” Then to me, “Grey wolf.” I nod, astonished that he knows what I saw. After he says what I can only assume to be our spirit guides, he goes back to smoking on his long pipe and acts as though Chris and I were never there.
The woman comes back into the hut and leads us out. Once we leave the hut, the woman outstretches her hand to which Chris places several dollar bills. I reach into my purse but he stops me.
“It’s okay, my idea, I pay,” he says. “Save your money, you are going to need it.” He knows me all too well.
The shaman was strange and by the looks of how much he smokes, is very, very high.