Broken Wings
Fiction - by Bruce Golden
“Morgan? Morgan, are you listening to me?”
He hadn’t been listening. Even as his boss prattled on about a new assignment he’d been assessing the man’s office. Had it been repainted? Was that couch new? Even the pictures and plaques on the wall seemed different. Maybe it was his imagination. Maybe nothing had changed but him.
“Yes, sir, I’m listening.”
“Well it seemed like you were in another world. Are you sure you’re—”
“I’m fine. But I don’t really understand what it is you want me to do.”
“Look at this.” Hillenbrand handed him an invoice.
He glanced at it. “A $46,000 bill for ‘services rendered.’ What services?”
“Keep reading.”
Morgan examined the document more thoroughly. It was an invoice from the Yakama Indian Nation for a pair of ritual rain ceremonies conducted at the request of the Bonneville Power Administration for the purpose of ending a drought. Morgan remembered the extended dry spell they’d gone through earlier in the year, though he couldn’t remember exactly when it had ended. It must have happened while he was…gone.
He did recall the rainfall shortage had put a severe strain on the BPA’s production of electricity. The output from most of its 29 hydroelectric dams along the Columbia and Snake rivers had dropped to unacceptable levels.
He handed the invoice back to the administrator, feeling a twinge in his arm. It was that “phantom pain” his doctor had spoken of after pronouncing the arm fully healed. Despite what the doctor had said, he’d been noticing it more instead of less.
“Did you authorize these rain ceremonies?”
“Of course not,” bellowed Hillenbrand. “This tribal council member came to see me with some wacky proposal for making it rain. I listened politely, but there was certainly no official request for any kind of rain dance.”
“Did it rain?”
“Of course it rained—it always does, eventually. But you know that’s not the point. You know I can’t pay this. If it were to get out to the media, I’d look like either an idiot or a swindler. I want you to drive up to Toppenish tomorrow, and talk some sense into these people. You’re the communications director, so go up there and communicate.”
He wanted to argue that this wasn’t part of his job description. Yet he knew if he tried to get out of it, Hillenbrand might question whether he was truly ready to come back to work. There would be more whispers around the office. Not that he’d heard anyone actually say it, but he’d read it on their faces. They were wrong though. He was ready.
He’d been back almost two weeks, and while it was true he didn’t feel quite with-it yet, he wasn’t going to let them know that. He’d run interference for Hillenbrand on this, and stop the whispers.
It wasn’t at all what he'd expected. Granted, he wasn’t sure what he expected the office of a tribal council member to look like—more Native American trappings he supposed. Not that it didn’t have its eccentricities.
All across the room, on shelves, atop file cabinets, even on the desk, were superhero figurines. He recognized most of the action figures from his comic-collecting youth. Wolverine, Green Lantern, the Flash, Thor, Hulk and She-Hulk, Hawkman and Hawkgirl, and, atop the water cooler, posed as if in battle, Aquaman and Submariner.
He recognized the figure in the mirrored wall behind the water cooler too. No superhero there. Reflexively he touched his hair. He was still getting used to the new patches of gray. He wondered if superheroes went gray.
The door opened. Morgan stood. In walked a short, heavy-set fellow wearing a pinstriped beige sport coat, an orange paisley tie, and sneakers. Eagerly he held his hand out.
“Luke Blazing Star,” he said, shaking Morgan’s hand.
“Morgan Finch. I might be in the wrong place. I was waiting for Lucas Stearn.”
“That’s me. Sorry, I forget which name I’m using sometimes. Luke Blazing Star is my alter ego. I use it for my commercials, for my furniture store—Blazing Star Fine Furnishings.”
Stearn motioned for him to sit, and took his own seat behind the desk. “You’re from the BPA, right? What can I do for you, Morgan?”
Morgan laid his copy of the invoice on Stearn’s desk. “The government can’t reimburse you for this, Mr. Stearn.”
“What’s a matter, is the government broke?” said Stern, punctuating his question with a sawed-off laugh.
“It’s not a matter of that,” replied Morgan, ignoring the comical sound, “it’s that this bill is for services never requested.”
“Au contraire. I sat right in Mr. Hillenbrand’s office, outlining our proposal, explaining what we could do to aid your agency in generating more electrical power—power which you would then resell to other agencies. He then said to me—and if memory serves, I believe I’m quoting here—’Fine, sure, I’m willing to try anything at this point.’ I took that as an oral agreement, and we commenced to solve the BPA’s dilemma by conducting not one, but two traditional rain ceremonies at, what I must say, is a bargain rate of $23,000 per. We delivered said rain. Ergo the invoice. I hope you’re not telling me the white man is once again
reneging on a promise made to his red brothers.” There was almost a wink in the way Stearn said it, as if they were sharing a joke. “I hate to think how the press and public would react to that.”
Personally, Morgan didn’t think either the press or public would care. In fact, he figured if such a bill were paid, there would be public outrage. The average person didn’t believe in mystical Indian rain dances any more than he did. He doubted Stearn himself bought into it. But it didn’t matter what he thought. His job was to contain this.
“I’ll make an agreement with you, Mr. Stearn. I’ll look into this, investigate it completely, impartially—you have my word—and if I find there to be any credence to your claims, I will recommend your bill be paid in full. However, you have to agree to keep this a private matter, regardless of my final recommendation. Do we have a deal?”
Morgan held out his hand, but Stearn just stared at him as if taking his measure.
“All right, Morgan,” he said, firmly gripping the offered hand. “I believe you’re a man of principle. I—”
Before he could finish, his door burst open and a woman came flying in.
“What’s this crap about cutting the center’s budget, Lucas? There’s no way the council will vote for this. I can’t believe you would—”
“Whoa, whoa, settle down, Laurel. Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a meeting here.”
The woman glanced at Morgan, only then noticing him. She offered a cursory “Sorry” before refocusing her wrath on Stearn.
She berated the furniture salesman with a blistering verbal attack. Her indignation was volcanic and unrestrained. She reminded Morgan of Joyce—not in appearance, but in her take-no-prisoners attitude. He recalled how Joyce had once come at him the same way. At the time she’d been so incandescently comical he’d wanted to laugh. Now the memory just stung.
“ …nothing I can do about it,” Stearn was saying, his hands outstretched almost as if expecting to fend off a physical assault. “Now, if you can convince Morgan here of the authenticity of our traditional rain ceremony, and that the government should pay our bill for services rendered, then we might be able to use the payment to hold off those budget cuts.”
She glanced at Morgan. “What are you talking about, Lucas?”
Stearn proceeded to explain the difference of opinion over the bill and Morgan’s agreement to look into it. He turned to Morgan.
“Actually, Morgan, Laurel here would be the perfect person to explain some of our more obscure tribal traditions and ceremonies. I’m sorry. She got me so flustered I didn’t introduce you. Morgan Finch, Dr. Laurel Seelatsee. Laurel is the director of the Yakama Cultural Heritage Center. You should take Morgan out to meet old Sam Mohalla. If anyone can convince him of the legitimacy of our claim, it would be the man who conducted the ceremonies.”
“Yes,” said Morgan, “I’d like to meet him.”
With a scowl still lining her face, Seelatsee responded, “All right, but this isn’t the end of this, Lucas Stearn. I won’t be placated.”
She told him they’d better use her car because of the back roads they’d have to take. It turned out her "car" was a surplus Army jeep with no top, no doors.
Morgan hesitated, and at the same time berated himself for his irrationality. He told himself it was something he had to do, so deal with it.
She started the engine, and he eased into the seat.
Despite his resolve, he was unsettled from the moment she took off. He felt around for a seat belt but found none. She wasn’t driving particularly fast, yet he couldn’t shake the anxiety that gripped him. He took a deep breath and focused on the landscape as a diversion.
Hills loomed in every direction, swollen with trees standing crown to crown like soldiers in formation, dwarfing everything else. The smell was so much different than in the city. The aroma of evergreen was so strong a blind man could have described the setting. He could almost taste the tree sap in the warm afternoon
air.
Seelatsee slowed to turn off the main highway. Near the intersection a pair of men with axes hacked at a scorched tree.
“Was there a fire?”
“Lightning strike,” she said. “Just the wrong place, wrong time for that old tree.”
Morgan felt a twinge of pain in his arm as the axes bit into the charred wood, but the pain wasn’t so bad it stopped him from clutching the seat frame as she turned the jeep sharply onto a dirt road. Dust flew behind them, but he kept his eyes fixed firmly forward.
“Are you okay?”
He realized she was looking at him. He relaxed his grip, but didn’t let go. “Sure, I’m fine.”
“You look a little on edge.”
“No, I’m fine.”
It took him a while to realize why his stomach felt like it was being massaged by a serrated knife. It came to him despite his attempts at repression. This was the first time since that day he’d been back in the passenger seat with someone else in control.
“So, who is this Sam Mohalla?” he asked, wanting both to change the subject and deflect the onslaught of his recollection.
“He’s a tribal shaman—the only real practicing one that I know of around here.”
“A shaman? You mean like a medicine man?”
She must have heard the derision in his tone because she didn’t respond.
“Tell me, Doctor Seelatsee, do you honestly believe this rain dance worked like Stearn claims?”
“First of all, Mr. Finch, it’s not a dance. The only Native American rain dance I know of is performed by the Hopi nation. Secondly, it doesn’t matter what I believe, does it? What really matters is what you believe.”
“I don’t believe in a whole helluva lot.”
“Well as long as you’re going into it with an open mind,” she said sarcastically.
That and the bumpy road shut him up until she finally pulled to a stop near a small A-frame house. He followed her out of the jeep, and when he got closer he saw the ramshackle dwelling was a patchwork of burlap, sheet metal, and time-worn wood. Yet there were power lines coming in from the road that suggested electricity.
His guide’s phone rang, she answered, said something quickly he didn’t catch, then put the phone back in her jacket.
“I’ve got to go check on my grandmother. She lives just over the next hill. You go on ahead.”
“Wait, wait a minute, how will I…I mean, how am I going to get back?” He wasn’t thrilled with the idea of her leaving him there.
“I won’t be long. I’ll be back to get you. Go on. He won’t bite.”
She got back in her jeep and took off, leaving him standing there.
There wasn’t much he could do but walk on up, knock on the door, and get this over with. Despite his promise of an impartial investigation, he never for a moment thought this Mohalla character, or anyone else for that matter, was going to convince him they’d made it rain. He was just going to go through the motions, get it over with, and get back to Portland.
He was about to knock on the rickety old door when a voice behind him said, “He’s not home.”
Morgan turned to see an old man standing there, a couple of dirty canvas bags tied together and thrown over his shoulder. Actually, old was an understatement. The fellow was ancient—80 if he was a day. He wore an open plaid shirt, jeans, and a pair of boots deep in the process of disintegration. Under the plaid was a red-orange T-shirt that read Happiness is No Laughing Matter. The only thing about him that seemed very “Indian” was his rawhide headband.
“I’m looking for a Mr. Sam Mohalla. Do you know where he is?”
“Right here,” said the old man. When he opened his mouth, Morgan saw he was missing a couple of teeth. “He’s me. Though I don’t go by mister much. Most folks just call me Sam.”
“I’m Morgan Finch. I work for the Bonneville Power Administration. Lucas Stearn sent me up here to ask you about the rain ceremonies you performed.”
“Performed? You make it sound like a circus act.” He walked off as he spoke, and Morgan had no choice but to follow. “I knew a woman once who worked in the circus. She could contort herself in ways that would…well never mind that.”
“See, Mr. Mohalla, Mr. Stearn—”
“Call me Sam.”
“All right, Sam. What happened is that Mr. Stearn sent us an invoice for—”
“Old Luke Blazing Star?” Mohalla had led him out of the clearing where his home sat and into the trees. Soon he was bent over, digging in the ground. “I love his commercials. They’re funny as a moose humping a mailbox.”
“What are you looking for?” asked Morgan.
“This.” The old man pulled a twisted tuber from where he’d been digging. “Wapatoo,” he said. “Wild potato. They go great in onion stew. Now I just need six more.”
“Can you tell me about your rain ceremony,” persisted Morgan. “I mean, exactly what is it that you do?”
The old man continued digging as he spoke. “This ‘ceremony,’ as you call it, is a sacred ritual based on a religion that’s thousands of years old. Did you know that? This isn’t just some fart in the wind. It’s got structure, purpose, tradition. It may seem funny to you, but then I get a good laugh out of the pope now and again too.”
The old shaman looked up from his digging and stared straight into Morgan's eyes as if searching for something. His gaze made Morgan uncomfortable. “Pain is not a blanket to be embraced on a cold night.”
“What?” The tone of the old man’s voice startled Morgan even more than his words.
Mohalla went back to his digging as if he hadn’t heard the question. “Did you ever hear the one about the raven and the coyote?”
“No, but—”
“It’s a funny story. I’ll give you the short version. See there was this raven who, while flying through a storm, broke his wing and had to land in a tree.” As he spoke he kept digging, unearthing more bloated roots. “Well this coyote came along, saw what had happened, and told the raven ‘Come on down here and I’ll fix your broken wing for you.’ The raven thought about it, because his wing hurt and he didn’t know what else to do.
“But greater than the pain was his distrust of the coyote. He told the coyote, ‘If I come down there, you’ll eat me.’ The coyote replied, ‘If you don’t let me help you, you’ll be stuck there forever.’ But the raven knew coyotes were tricksters, so he shook his head. The coyote just shrugged and walked off.
“Trickster or not, the coyote was right. The raven stayed stuck in that tree forever.”
Morgan waited for more, but when the old man just kept digging he asked, “Is that supposed to mean something?”
“Not as far as I can figure out. That’s why it’s so funny.” A clipped cackle escaped his lips. It was the kind of laugh that made Morgan wonder if the old guy was dealing from a full deck. He resigned himself to be patient.
When Mohalla had dug up exactly seven potatoes, he arranged them across the ground in a row and said, “O Great Spirit, we thank you for the bounty of the earth, and all the blessings which you bestow upon us.” He pulled a leather flask from where it hung at his side, splashed some water on the ground and took a drink. “Want some water?” He offered it to Morgan.
Though he was thirsty, Morgan declined. Mohalla shrugged and swept the potatoes into one of his sacks. He stood, threw the sacks back over his shoulder, and headed off in a new direction.
“About the rain—”
“Rain is the great healer, you know,” said Mohalla. “Yet even rain cannot cure everything. Not far from here there used to be an old nuclear power plant. Now the land for miles around is wounded, tainted by its poison. With enough time, enough rain, that foulness will be washed away.” He glanced at Morgan. “But some wounds heal better than others.”
Morgan tried to read the old guy’s face, but his layered wrinkles gave him a set expression that didn’t easily change, despite the staccato timbre of his voice.
“See that?” Mohalla pointed at the distant mountaintop that punctuated the horizon. “That’s Pahto—Mount Adams you call it. The Creator put Pahto there to remind his people they are not the most important thing in the world, despite what they may think.”
He walked over to a cluster of bushes, knelt and opened his other sack. He pulled out a salmon carcass and began digging a hole at the base of the shrubbery.
“I’d like you to tell more about your sacred rain ritual. Could you do that, Sam?” Morgan asked as diplomatically as he could.
“Sure,” replied Mohalla. “What would you like to know? You know rain is part of the great cycle of life. Like the salmon bones I’m burying under this huckleberry bush. The salmon fed me, and now I feed part of it to the huckleberries. In turn, no self-respecting salmon would refuse a meal of huckleberries. And even though I caught this one salmon, there was another that continued upstream to spawn. It’s all part of the Creator’s plan.”
There was no doubt the old guy’s mind tended to meander. Morgan would have to keep the conversation on track. Yet before he could get back on subject, his ride pulled up.
“Are you ready to go?” asked Dr. Seelatsee, getting out of her jeep.
“We haven’t really talked much about the actual rainmaking,” replied Morgan, turning to face the shaman.
The old man laughed. “It’s late. The sun is setting and I’m an old man who needs his rest. Come back tomorrow. Tomorrow I will ask the Great Spirit for rain to cleanse the land, and you may see for yourself.”
Morgan didn’t want to come back. He wanted to go home. “I hadn’t planned on staying.”
It was still light out, but the sun had dropped below the horizon. He hadn’t realized it was so late. The truth was, he’d rather not make the drive back in the dark. And he would like to see the actual ceremony. Then, when it didn’t rain, it would make his case for him—conclude this whole rigamarole.
“I know a good motel in town,” suggested Seelatsee.
“All right,” agreed Morgan, “I’ll come back tomorrow.”
He was on the phone with Hillenbrand when Dr. Seelatsee pulled up to his motel the next day.
“Are you certain you didn’t tell them to go ahead with their rain ceremony—that you were willing to try anything?”
“Of course not. I mean, even if I said something like that, I obviously wasn’t serious,” said Hillenbrand, sounding like a man who knew he’d screwed up. “Do you think you’re going to be able to talk some sense into them?”
“I think I’ve got a handle on it. I’ve got to go now.”
“Morning,” said Seelatsee.
Morning had been several cups of coffee ago, but he responded,
“Morning.”
“Would you like to drive?” she asked, in obvious reference to his unease of the day before.
“No, you go right ahead,” he said, even though the thought of riding in the jeep again soured his breakfast.
However, he made a point of relaxing, and before long they were passing the area where the dead tree had stood. The same two men who’d cut it down were attaching chains to the stump.
“So what did you think of old Sam?”
He was still thinking about the stump. “What? Oh, Sam. He’s a strange old bird, isn’t he?”
“Not any stranger than most.”
He could tell by her frosty tone she’d taken offense.
“I didn’t mean that in a bad way,” countered Morgan. “I mean ‘strange’ in the sense he’s very interesting. Not at all what I expected from a shaman. Of course I’ve never met a shaman, so my preconceptions aren’t really valid.”
“He’s a treasure trove of Yakama traditions and stories. I’ve convinced him to speak at the Cultural Center several times, and I’m writing a book based primarily on his recollections.”
“Yeah, he was telling me some of his stories.”
She looked at him and Morgan tensed up, wishing she’d keep her eyes on the road.
“But you still don’t believe he made it rain, do you?”
“Seeing is believing.”
She turned her attention back to driving and Morgan tried to relax.
When they arrived at Mohalla’s place Morgan checked the sky. A few light clouds, but certainly nothing that looked like rain.
The old man stepped out of his home into the sunlight and stretched as if he’d been sleeping.
All right, Mr. Mohalla—I mean, Sam—I’m ready to see you in action.”
“No you’re not,” responded Mohalla. “You must be purified before you can take part in the ritual.”
“That’s all right,” said Morgan. “I’ll just watch. I don’t have to take part.”
“Yes you do.”
“In that case,” said Seelatsee, “I’ll go spend some more time with my grandmother.”
“Return in two hours,” said the shaman. “I’ll need a seventh.”
“Wait a minute,” said Morgan as she got back in her jeep. “Don’t you have to be purified too?”
She smiled and started her engine. “I’m already pure, Mr. Finch. Can’t you tell?” She backed up the jeep and, before taking off, called out, “Have fun!”
“Where are we going?” asked Morgan, walking briskly to catch up. The old guy moved surprisingly well for his age, but Morgan wasn’t sure about his hearing. So he said it louder. “Where are—”
The shaman stopped abruptly, turned, and pointed back the way they’d come.
“Look behind you,” he commanded. “See that?”
Morgan didn’t see anything.
“Behind you—that’s history.” Mohalla motioned the other way. “Up ahead, where we’re headed, that’s destiny.” He smiled slyly, as if he were pulling Morgan’s leg. “Of course it’s still up to us whether to turn east or west.”
The old geezer thought he had him bamboozled, but Morgan wasn’t put off that easily.
“What’s this purification? What, exactly, are we doing?”
No sooner had he gotten the words out when they came to a clearing where a small dome-like shelter stood. A campfire burned outside the hut, and a small river ran nearby.
“What’s this?” asked Morgan, and to his surprise he saw the old shaman begin to disrobe.
“Sweat lodge,” replied Mohalla. “It cleanses body and soul. You’ll want to take off your clothes.”
This is crazy, thought Morgan. He’d had enough of jumping through this old guy’s hoops. He had half a mind to pack it up and leave. But the other half was intrigued. There was something about Mohalla…or was it something about himself—something keen on the promise in the old man’s voice.
Soon Morgan, like Mohalla, was stripped to his underwear—which, in Mohalla’s case, were green boxers dappled with 7-Up logos. He crouched to follow the shaman inside the sweat lodge. It was semi-subterranean, its floor dug out some two feet deep. Others were already inside—four old men not as ancient as the shaman, but definitely old enough to be grandfathers themselves. Mohalla didn’t bother to introduce anyone; he simply acknowledged the others with a nod, which they returned. He took a ladle from a bucket and splashed water onto the stones piled at the lodge’s center, mumbling something as he did.
Steam billowed from the rocks, engulfing Morgan. For a moment he found it hard to breathe and had to fight a sense of panic. Mohalla handed him the ladle. He dipped and poured. More steam filled the lodge. Still mimicking Mohalla, Morgan folded his legs and sat.
No one said anything. Time passed. Occasionally one of the old men would add more water to the rocks, and, after a while, Morgan’s nose became stuffed up. When he opened his mouth to breathe, the steam on his tongue was a thick, tasteless soup. His skin prickled and his eyes began to water. The humidity was oppressive. He grew dizzy. He closed his eyes to regain his equilibrium, but the heat clung to his body. He was determined to ignore the discomfort. If these old men could take it, he rationalized, he certainly could.
When his arm started to ache he told himself it wasn’t real, no matter how much it hurt. He tried to think of something else—anything else. Yet the one thing that came to him was the last thing he wanted.
He heard it in his head. A sudden, sickening noise—a sound he would never forget. He felt it on his skin, within his bowels. His nerves ripened with sensation—tumbling, falling, crashing—echoes of memories, of pain, panic, water everywhere, unable to breathe…
He gasped and opened his eyes. Still woozy, he steadied himself with his arms. His breathing was almost a pant. He had no idea how long he’d been there, but he saw the old men had thrown the flap back over the entrance and were leaving. He unfolded his legs and took a deep breath. His arm no longer hurt, but his legs were stiff. He followed them outside.
The crisp air felt good on his skin. He stretched and watched with fascination as the five half-naked old men hobbled as fast as they could down to the river and jumped in. They whooped and hollered like little kids as they hit the water.
Mohalla waved to him. “Come on in!”
“No thanks,” said Morgan.
“It’s not deep,” encouraged the old man, standing to demonstrate the water was short of his waist. “Come on. It’s nice and cold.”
“No, that’s a little too crazy for me.”
“Don’t you ever do anything crazy?” asked Mohalla, plopping back down so only his head was still above water. “You should try it sometime. It’s a good way to make God laugh.”
God? Morgan didn’t believe in God. Not anymore.
The skies were still only partly cloudy and less than threatening when Morgan followed Dr. Seelatsee to a place she referred to as “rain rock.” It was nothing but a regular boulder as far as he could tell, relatively flat, about the circumference of a child’s wading pool. Morgan looked for, but didn’t see, any mystical etchings or pictographs on the rock’s surface. However, a small fire had been built at its center. Seven large rocks ringed the flames.
The four old men from the sweat lodge were already there. They stood in a semi-circle around the rock. Seelatsee and Morgan joined them.
They waited for Mohalla, but not for long. He showed up wearing a mask fashioned vaguely like the face of a frog. He also wore armbands and leg rings made of red-dyed cedar bark. It was the first time he actually looked like a shaman—at least what Morgan thought a shaman should look like. The only thing out of place was his black T-shirt. Pictured on it were several white bowling pins that had been knocked down, and two that were still upright. Between the two were the words Split Happens.
Mohalla stepped into their loose circle and offered his flask to Morgan.
“Want a drink?”
Morgan was about to refuse, but as he looked into the eyes that peered through the shaman’s mask something changed his mind. He took a sip. It was lukewarm but satisfying. Without being told, he passed the flask to Seelatsee. She, in turn, passed it on.
When everyone had drunk and the flask came back to Mohalla, he took a drink and poured the remaining water onto the boulder. He pulled a raven feather from his belt, stepped onto the big rock, and waved the feather over the fire, mumbling something Morgan couldn’t make out. From out of a pouch at his side he pulled shreds of tobacco. Using both hands, he offered the tobacco to the sky in four different directions. He raised his hands over his head a moment, then tossed the handful into the fire.
“Great Spirit, Mother Earth, and all my relations in nature, we come before you in a humble manner, and according to ancient custom. We offer you this tobacco, and ask that you forgive our mistreatment of the land and the sky and the water. We pray for a healing of this Earth, and ask for life-giving, sin-cleansing rain.” He waved the feather over the flames several more times and mumbled something else.
Turning, he stepped down from the rock and took off his mask. He looked at Morgan, his now-familiar sly smile giving form to his wrinkles.
“That’s it?” wondered Morgan.
“Yep, what did you expect?”
“I don’t know. More I guess. So when’s it going to rain?”
The old shaman glared at him, no longer smiling. “It’s not about when it’s going to rain. It’s about wanting it to. We can only ask that the land be cleansed, healed. Healing comes in its own time. It can’t be rushed.” Mohalla shaded his eyes and looked at the sky. “I’ve got to say, though, it doesn’t look much like rain to me.”
Morgan wanted to say something sarcastic, but nothing came to mind quickly enough.
“You must want to heal,” said Mohalla, his intense stare back on Morgan. “You must not be afraid to remember. Celebrate the life that was, don’t brood on what was lost. When you honor memory you free the ghosts of the past.” The shaman’s gaze relaxed, and he turned to scan the horizon. “We can yell from the mountaintops, call upon the benevolence of the Great Spirit, but the power of the mind is stronger than any ritual.”
Mohalla turned away, his shoulders slumping as if suddenly tired.
“I’m going to take a nap.”
Morgan was still absorbing the very pointed words as the old fellow ambled away. They were obviously aimed at him. But how did Mohalla know? How could he know?
“Ready to go?” asked Seelatsee.
Morgan nodded, still mired in layers of thought. Mechanically he followed her to the jeep.
Before he could wall up the barriers that had been breached, Seelatsee asked, “What did Sam mean by all that? What was lost?”
“My wife,” said Morgan, and regretted it immediately. There was no taking it back, so he went on. “She was killed. A logging truck broadsided us, pushed the car right into the river. She was driving. I got out. She didn’t.”
Even as he said it, he relived it. For an instant he felt it. The phantom pain swept through his arm.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“That’s all right. Let’s go.”
On his way out of town he noticed the tree stump was gone. The ground had been cleared and smoothed over, as if the tree had never been. For some reason that made him think about the report he’d have to give Hillenbrand. He should probably call Lucas Stearn when he got back, follow up with him, let him know he talked with Sam Mohalla and witnessed the ritual. There had been no rain, so hopefully that would be the end of it, and Stearn would drop the matter. Somehow he doubted it. Hillenbrand was just going to have to deal with it.
Maybe this was a good time to look for a new job—something totally different. Maybe he should actually begin that novel he’d always threatened to write. Some people believed writing could be therapeutic. He wasn’t sure about that, but who knows…
Juggling several thoughts, he paid no attention to the oncoming semi until it roared past. His car shuddered from the force of the turbulence. His hands clutched the steering wheel in alarm. He overreacted, swerving slightly before steadying the car.
“Damn!”
His grip on the wheel still tense, he glanced in his rearview mirror at the receding truck. He chided himself for not concentrating on the road and took a deep breath. The scent of diesel lingered. He compelled himself to relax. Again he looked in the mirror. The semi was gone. There was no trace of it on the horizon.
Behind you…that’s history. The shaman’s words came back to him.
Morgan’s taut frown eased into a smile. It was hard not to smile when he pictured the old man jumping into the river.
He focused on the road ahead and thought about where he was going. He didn’t know how far it was, but he knew when he hit the interstate he was going to turn west. He had no idea what life would have in store for him when he got back, but he was resolved to climb out of the rut he had burrowed into. He always knew that’s what she would have wanted. Now it was what he wanted as well.
That’s when it began, though he wasn’t certain at first. It started as just a few dabs of moisture on his windshield. But the further he traveled, the harder it rained.