American Shaman

A police detective pulled his car up through the muddy trail into the deepening woods. He looked out the window to his left, eyeing the charred remains of a cabin in what was once a grassy clearing but was now blackened and dead. A few surviving beams stuck up at odd angles. Heads on pikes.

Continuing onward up the hill, he rounded a wide turn and found himself in another clearing with another cabin, splintered wooden shingles shedding the last night's rain in little rivulets that ran down. The detective parked in front of the house and got out, taking care to make sure it was locked. An axe sat embedded in a splitting log beside the porch. Mason jars were strung along the top of the porch, tied between beams. Dead fireflies littered the bottom of each.

The detective rapped on the door with his knuckle. It was opened by a middle-aged man, and the detective had trouble placing his exact age. He could have been forty or sixty. A salt-and-pepper beard obscured much of his face. Brilliantly blue eyes. Deeply tanned, leathered skin. Blue signet rings on his fingers. The detective thought he looked like an American shaman.

Hello, sir, do you have a moment to talk about last night’s incident? I believe my secretary let you know to expect me.

Of course, come in, the shaman said as he opened the door wide.

The detective entered the dark cabin. The curtains had been opened, but it was early enough in the day that the wan morning light only dusted through the panes, leaving most in shadow. Incense burned on the coffee table. The shaman stooped and extinguished each wick with a practiced pinch. The detective noticed the man did not wince, nor was any ash left on his fingers.

Have a seat, the shaman said, motioning to a wooden chair with a gingham cushion. The detective lowered himself into it, and the shaman sat on the sofa across from him.

Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee?

No, thank you. How long have you lived here in this cabin?

Better part of twenty years.

Got it. And your neighbor--

He was my cousin.

Sorry, what?

He was my cousin. We share this land. Or, shared, I should say.

Got it. So were you two close?

We had a common history, that much is sure. I'd known him, and Gwen too, my whole life.

So would you know anything about Richard's mental state recently?

The shaman cast his eyes down to the floor and nodded slowly.

He and Gwen had been struggling a lot the last few years. Richard was always ruminating, always striving and asking questions. Gwen was more passive. She was a mirror of sorts, reflecting whatever it was that was occupying his mind.

The shaman leaned back on the sofa, spreading his arms across the back and looking out the window. Course, they told me things were better than ever.

What were they struggling with?

Infertility, mostly. Both of 'em always wanted a kid. Never happened. This was particularly hard on Richard, you understand. He has always had this incredible force of will. What Richard wants, Richard gets.

Did Richard ever say anything to indicate that he would go down this path?

The shaman laughed. Path? You mean burning down their cabin, killing his wife, and then offing himself?

Yes.

The shaman shrugged. We didn’t see each other much.

I thought you were neighbors?

You have to understand, this cabin is where I live all the time. Their cabin was just for getaways. They lived down in the city. I'd look after their half of the property while they were away. Outside of when they came up here for an escape, I'd scarcely talk to either of 'em.

But surely, he must have opened up to you when you did talk. You grew up together. Do you think their fertility struggles played into this?

The shaman was quiet.

I couldn't tell you, he finally said. They tried for almost ten years. Assisted techniques didn't take. Adoption fees weren't workable, either. Eventually, they gave up. Gwen started volunteering at the elementary school. Richard found religion--pretty recently, at that. I suppose they found their own ways of coping.

What was the last thing Richard spoke with you about?

The shaman stared. Still blue pools. He found religion, the shaman said. Buddhism, specifically. Said the idea of nirvana and all of creation being one really assuaged him.

The shaman reached into his back pocket and pulled out a carton of cigarettes, tapping one out into his hand. He produced a metal lighter from inside his flannel coat, flicking the little chrome wheel. 

Please, whatever makes you comfortable, the detective said. The shaman nodded.

Now. Where was I? Ah, yeah. Richard called me up a few months ago. Starts asking what I know about Tibetan mythology. Tulpas, specifically.

What is a tulpa?

The shaman breathed out smoke, and it washed away in the dark.

A manifested being. Created by the cosmic. Buddhists believe they can be created through intense meditation and become something like a companion.

What sort of companion? Like an animal? Or a person?

The shaman considered this. Sometimes. A man can’t create, but he can pervert creation to his own end. Of course, that means there’s always some element outside your control. 

And why did he ask you about this?

I've always had a certain sensitivity.

Meaning what, exactly?

I pick up on things unseen. Little patterns, pushes and pulls, the gravity wells of reality. I think anyone can do this, really, but most aren't aware. The shaman took another puff of the cigarette. At any rate, it's led me to be a student of all the world's religions. But I don't claim fealty to any particular one. I just stay here, in my cabin, and commune. You need the peace and the quiet and the isolation here for the strongest spiritual connection.

And this is the last you spoke of him? About tulpas?

The shaman shook his head. Not quite, he said. Few nights ago, Richard rings me. Says he and Gwen are coming up to the cabin for the weekend. Now I was surprised by this. Usually they only come up in the summer, not late October. But I say okay, I'll have the cabin ready, and he thanks me and hangs up.

The shaman finished his cigarette, grinding out the flame in a little crystalline ashtray on the coffee table.

Now that night, I had a dream.

Oh?

It opened at Richard and Gwen's cabin. In my dream, everything was exactly as it is in reality. The shaman was no longer making eye contact; he had withdrawn into himself, pulling something out.

I'm standing on the little porch. Front door to the house is open, but it’s deserted. The lights are all off, interior doors closed. And then their bedroom door opens. I see a massive spider -- legs at least five feet long, bristled hairs all across them -- it was walking out of the room. Still obscured mostly by shadow.

The shaman stared out the window behind the detective. And then what, the detective asked.

Well, the shaman said, the spider crawls up the wall, onto the ceiling, and comes into the living room. Now, the cabin is dark, but a little light is streaming in through the window. Gray sky. I can’t make out the time. As it comes closer to the sunbeam, I see more. It has the face of a child.

The shaman took another drag. The detective was silent. The shaman stubbed out the cigarette and continued.

The instant the spider crawls directly into the sunbeam, it bursts into flames, and they burn up to the face, and its skin starts melting. Exposed bone beneath. Terrible, terrible screams. Not just the child’s voice, but legion of voices. The curtains catch, and the flames run down to the shag rug. The spider sees me and hurls itself toward me as if to attack. And I knew it hated me and I could hardly blame it.

And that is when you woke, the detective said.

However you want to say it.

The room was quiet. The shaman continued smoking the cigarette, almost casually. He gazed thoughtfully up at the ceiling.

What does that have to do with speaking to Richard, the detective asked.

Well, the next morning I called him and Gwen. Told them about the dream. Like I said, I have a sensitivity. I told them not to come to the cabin. He got upset, said I needed to shut up and stop scaring Gwen. They had important plans this weekend. And then he hung up. And that was it.

Richard said they had important plans? What does that mean? 

The shaman continued to stare out the window. Gray light from a muted sun spanned the lower half of his face. What Richard wants, Richard gets.

The detective decided there was little point in continuing this discussion. He would ask the station’s psychologist to interview this shaman next.

I’m afraid I have to be on my way, the detective said as he stood.

The shaman stood and shook the detective’s hand. I hope I was helpful. And detective?

Yes? 

Drive carefully.