D. Lieberman - The Shaman’s Tale

The

Shaman's

Tale

by

D. Lieberman

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2011 by D. Lieberman

Book Design by humblenations.com

All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Dedicated to all of

my amazing teachers

who guide me no matter

how far I wander off the path.

The predawn rain pelts a small, yet sturdy, one room cabin in the jungle of Paso, Costa Rica. The fat raindrops hit the metal roof making sounds like a steel drum. The air smells of sweet molasses, remnants of the trucks having sprayed the dirt roads the night before to minimize the dust. The jungle buzzes with a combination of insects, howling monkeys and dense humidity.

Hooded in his shiny, dark green poncho, Nicholas hardly notices the rain tapping him. The poncho was the healthiest deterrent for the buffet his body offered to the roving, jungle insects. He simply does what hes done for years, wedging his balsa wood surfboard under his arm and makes his way through the lush, jungle path toward the opening. The rain is beginning to ease up; leaving the milieu of visible humidity that could be waved away with a hand motion.

Reaching the jungles edge, Nicholas pulls back his hood revealing his tan face, short, silver hair, thick, bushy goatee and razor, blue eyes. Behind his back, the locals referred to him as a shaman. When he heard the whispers, he would neither accept nor refuse the title; he would simply smile at them and wink.

Panning the horizon, Nicholas slowly scans left to right. The ocean looks more like a quiet lake than the mighty Pacific. Barefoot, Nicholas walks towards the ocean and places his huge surfboard on the sand. Removing his poncho, clothed only in blue, hibiscus surf trunks, Nicholas takes a deep breath and sits down. He has maintained the build of a professional swimmer, for a man well beyond forty. He folds his legs into his lap and closes his eyes.

The beach is deserted and silent with the exception of a number of pelicans that are dive-bombing for breakfast. Nicholas is still as stone. Resting his hands in his lap, he begins his ritual. Breathing quickly, his torso looks like a manic balloon. The ocean remains flat.

Eventually, each breath Nicholas takes is significantly slower than the next. The louder he gets, the more it begins to sound identical to the ocean. Hes never timed it, but his inhale easily lasts over a minute. His pulse rate dropped to forty-five beats per minute and hes beginning to feel the full strength of the sun on his head.

Nicholas opens his eyes, slowly blinking a few extra times to focus. He resists the urge to show off a sheepish grin, but a glimmer sneaks out. Tracing the ancient tattoo on his inner left forearm, he grabs his surfboard and stands up.

This never gets old, he thinks.

The ocean is no longer flat.

As if it was a completely different ocean, the waves are now five feet high and perfect. Nicholas scans the coastline to find the optimal spot to paddle out. On the top of his board is a circular symbol matching his tattoo. Nicholas bows, says a quick prayer and charges the ocean paddling hard over the heavies.

Mobs of kids at day camp were jumping, yelling and playing in the pools. The bigger kids were wrestling, splashing and pushing smaller kids under the water. There was an order of things and it was the equivalent to a prison yard where size ruled.

I spent my time alone in the shallow pool, playing around and flicking water with my fingertips. When the older kids tossed one of my friends into the deep end of the adjacent pool, I pretended not to see. They were mini gorillas: double my size and twice the body hair. A foreboding feeling overtook me, specifically a tingle of cold over my arms and chest, I knew that I was next. They knew how afraid I was and that I could not swim.

Feeling their eyes shift onto me, I frantically considered hiding behind the changing room when my wrist was clenched by my humongous counselor, Gary. Exerting little effort, Gary plucked me from the kiddies pool, growling, "Enough of this crap, Willie. You're going in!"

My feet burned from being dragged across the concrete. There was no way to speak or yell because my throat had dried up. Empty pleas for rescue were never heard and I was unable to do anything other than cry. Hysterical, I dry heaved, but Gary paid no attention. Everyone emptied out of the pool to watch the show and quickly hushed, while I was forced onto the diving board. Gary stomped on the board, triggering it to jerk up and down violently. I gripped the board for dear life. He lifted me up over his head and threw me into the pool. I sank like a brick. The pressure was unbearable and I was filled with one primal thought. Breathe.

A rainstorm, appearing from nowhere, clatters on the waters surface. Each time I tried to open my eyes, the pools chemicals singed them. I kicked and punched missing wildly against an invisible enemy. There was no fight left in me and I started to count the seconds I had left alive. I lost track at twenty-two. The burning need for oxygen grew beyond my chest, beyond the outside of camp, skimmed the tips of the clouds and then everything went black.

***

Waking up in a struggle for air from the recurring childhood nightmare, had me out of bed extra early two weeks before my twenty-ninth birthday. It took longer than usual to shake off the dream. I stared through my window at the rain, cursed the counselor that threw me, the kids who laughed and the others who stood idly by when I was pulled from the pool, lifeless, covered in my own vomit and urine. Dying at seven years old was not a badge of honor.

August is a nasty month in New York City. The air is humid and stagnant, and more often than not, it's pouring. The rain let up and the city had become a steam bath. The stench of street water and garbage rolled through the avenues. Im not sure how anyone manages to wear a suit in the city in the summertime and not sweat through it. Outside for less than a minute, I needed a change of clothes and another shower.

I made my way towards the subway and hoped that I would find an empty cab, but of course, no luck. Over the past few months, I have been fighting my anxiety, but the attacks are getting progressively more intense. After searching as long possible, I faced the inevitability of getting on the subway. The subway sucks, with the crowds, the shoving and the putrid smells of rat poison and piss. However, the subway is a necessity for anyone living on the UES. I trudged down the stairs, and could feel the wall of subway air.

The further down I went, the danker the heavy draft of body odor and stench wreaked. The subway wind was still blowing; this was the signal that let everyone know that the train was pulling into the station. I nudged my way through the crowded platform of well-dressed almost somebodies. To avoid the cramping, I pushed through the bodies toward the back of the platform. I was trying to find more space, more air and less people, but there was no relief.

For some reason, the train wasn't coming in any further. Then the public announcement system began to crackle and screech with feedback...Due to an incident at 125th street, all trains are running with a delay," squawked a soulless voice over the PA.

Shit. Thats it? How about, The next train will be here in five minutes? Or perhaps, We apologize for the delay and hope that the continuing flow of people doesnt cause you to fall onto the tracks. I looked over my shoulder and it felt like the crowd had now tripled in size. Okayif the train doesnt come in thirty seconds, Im going to get out of here and walk to work. The overhead lights were suddenly too bright for me and I was pouring sweat through my suit. The car horns and screaming heard through the grates from the street only amplified the ringing in my ears. I was waiting to hear someone speak, just for the sound to break the nonverbal silence. Hell, a mumbling homeless person would even suffice. I closed my eyes and embraced for a full-on panic attack.