The Shaman's Gift
by Lee Fishman
Genre: Ecological Thriller, Women's Fiction
Leaving everything behind, Carrie Mullen, a young scientist, travels to the Central American country of Belize to study with Don Rodrigo, one of the last Mayan healers still practicing the old ways. At his side, Carrie learns the secret healing powers of plants, but when her aging mentor’s health starts to fail, she must move on. As her finances dwindle, she meets an expat tech millionaire who promises a chance to use what she’s learned. When he offers laboratory space to do research, she signs on. With the help of Don Rodrigo, Ronnie, an ex-soldier with PTSD, finds relief in an ancient ayahuasca tea ceremony as Carrie sets up a therapeutic haven. But instead of using her talents to benefit others, Carrie finds herself caught in a web of conflicting and dubious schemes.
Shaman’s Gift / Excerpt One
Fresh off the airplane, in Belize City, I did my best to shrug off what I was leaving behind, a world still recovering from the financial crisis of 2008 and the ongoing strife in the Middle East. Hopeful young people had elected Barack Obama to the White House. But unemployment was rampant and gas prices were running close to four dollars a gallon.
I made my way to San Ignacio, a small town near the Guatemalan border. On a map, it looked close to the village of San Mateo, the village where Don Rodrigo made his home, and I was determined to get there. After settling in at a local hotel, I found a taxi stand with a driver who knew where I wanted to go. “Si, Sen᷉orita. Everyone knows Don Rodrigo. I can take you to him for ten dollars American.” Grateful that the driver seemed to know the way to the farm, I agreed. Only later did I laugh at myself, as I came to realize how much I overpaid.
Driving the backroads, the village of San Mateo would have been easy to miss. There was only a small grocery with one gas pump, a few small houses and a roadside stand where two women sold vegetables and handmade crafts. The driver turned off at the end of the dirt road and for the hundredth time, I questioned myself, wondering if what I hoped to do made any sense. My heart fluttered as a traditional Mayan house with a roof of thatched palm came into view. It was nestled between vegetable gardens on one side and a small barn on the other.
An old man sat on the small front porch, dressed in a faded shirt and well-patched pants. As he stood and waved to the driver, he couldn’t have appeared more modest.
I waved. “Buenos dias. Sen᷉or Montoya?”
He eyed me quizzically as I emerged from the taxi. “Buenos dias, Sen᷉orita? How can I help you? Are you ill?”
“No, I wanted to meet you,” I said.
“Visitors are always welcome, and I am not busy today.”
The driver called out, “Sen᷉orita, do you want me to wait for you?” When I nodded, he turned off the engine, pulling his hat down over his eyes for a siesta.
Don Rodrigo beckoned, telling me he liked speaking with Americans. “Come in. I will make us some tea.” Near the door was a wood-fired adobe stove. Metal pans hung from pegs on the wall. He led me to a small wooden table and offered a chair. And I spent a pleasant hour, sipping hibiscus tea and learning about how he came to Belize as a young man.
When he asked where I was staying, I told him of the small hotel in San Ignacio. He clucked his tongue. “By yourself?” he asked. “Se᷉norita, be careful. Sometimes, I hear about people selling the drugs there.”
After that first social call, I visited two or three times a week, making a pest of myself, turning up uninvited. Those early months, I couldn’t even be sure he knew my name. More than once, he’d ask, “But why are you here, Sen᷉orita? What do you want of me?” I would tell him then of my desire to study with him. But my words seemed to fall on deaf ears. Other times he would wave me away like a pesky fly. “I have no time for you today. I must go to the forest and go quickly. You will slow me down.”
It took weeks before the elderly herbalist would tolerate my presence, but I wasn’t willing to give up. Often, I tried to tell him that my work would not only help him, but it would have value for others. “There are many who believe in your natural healing ways and want to learn more about them,” I said.
Finally, after a hot day spent together watering his crops, he turned with a sigh, asking, “What is it you wish to know?”
I almost cried. “If you will let me learn from you, I will work hard and record all I can.”
“Why?”
“To make sure your work will not be lost.”
Shaman’s Gift / Excerpt 2
As the jungle’s shadows deepened, heat lightning flickered across the sky. The only participants at the tea ceremony would be Ronnie, Mel and me. Not a large gathering. Julio suggested we add one more participant. Perhaps, Gabrielle, Mel’s girlfriend?
Mel shook his head. “Just the three of us will be fine,” he said
Once the sun had set, we gathered in the gazebo. Julio placed us in a circle around the shelter. We were ready, and a ball of excitement filled my core. I was happy to see Don᷉a Luisa, the short, brown-skinned woman standing quietly next to my teacher. Her dark eyes looked out kindly from a face weathered by years of living.
As the moon rose, we watched Don Rodrigo roll the dry leaves of tobacco into a sphere. Before placing them in a pipe made from the root of the Ceiba tree, he sprinkled crushed herbs on top. When all was ready, be brought flame to the pipe bowl. The tobacco ritual was the first step in a cleansing that would continue through the night. As Don Rodrigo stood before Mel, a smell of tobacco mixed with the aromatic herbs hovered above us, drifting into the night air. Mel squirmed in his seat like a kid. Unfazed, Don Rodrigo brushed Mel’s eyes closed before exhaling the pungent mixture over his head, and shoulders. He went to Ronnie next, and as the billows of smoke wafted above him, the ex-soldier relaxed with a sigh. I was next. Breathing in deeply, the tobacco tickled my nose.
Don Rodrigo and Julio stepped outside to the open fire where the tea, made from plant essence, bubbled. The two men took turns stirring the vat of liquid. When it was ready, Don Rodrigo scooped out a dipper-full of the brew. Pouring the liquid from the dipper into a mug, he transferred the steaming brew from mug to dipper and back again, waiting for the beverage to cool. When all was ready, he divided the tea into small cups, one for each of us to drink.
Mel went first, gulping until the cup was empty. “Lentamente, go slow, go slow,” Don Rodrigo said. “Not so much.”
Ronnie did the same. When it was my turn, I sipped at the bitter mixture. Don Rodrigo stood beside me, waiting until I drained all the liquid in the cup.
In the dim candlelight, Julio took the center of the space and began a chant. Our eyes were alert and questioning, waiting for what would come next. As I listened, the words seemed to come from a distance, growing fainter and fainter. After some minutes, Ronnie sat up, a startled look on his face. Suddenly, he ran out into the night. On his return a few minutes later, his expression was difficult to read.
It was Mel’s turn next. He bolted, running out into the darkness. We heard sounds of gagging in the warm jungle air. I was not surprised when my stomach began to churn, and soon I was lurching out into the night. Supporting myself against a tree, an internal spasm sent the contents of my stomach pitching onto the ground. More internal tremors followed. Once my stomach was empty, I allowed myself a few moments rest before I staggered back into the communal space. Once the purge was over, it was time to rest. Each of us had prepared pallets to make ourselves comfortable. Now we sought refuge in the cushions waiting for us.
As Julio turned in a circle, he called on each of the nine benevolent spirits by name. When the wind picked up it was as though they were heeding the call. Don᷉a Luisa began her song, repeating the phrases over and over, the sounds sweet and soothing, like a lullaby. Though the words were unknown to me, I seemed to grasp their meaning.
The night sounds of the jungle grew faint as Julio lowered the netting. We closed our eyes. The inward journey had begun. Like a leaf fluttering slowly to the ground, I drifted into a trance.
My thoughts turned to Don Rodrigo and his gift. I reached for it in my pocket. As I held it in my hand, the small stone fetish grew warm, seeming to vibrate. I heard a buzzing, as though a rattle was being shaken somewhere close by. As I shook my head to clear the sound, I fell into a space between sleep and wakefulness.
Strangely, I felt neither fear nor surprise as I saw myself at the edge of a lake, climbing on the back of a giant green toad. As the toad broke the water’s surface, we plunged together, through murky water, touching bottom. At that point, a reed drifted past. I grasped it and held it to my chest. Slowly the toad turned, swimming upward, breaking the surface of the water, then gliding to shore. I stepped onto dry land, but before the creature returned to its watery home, I felt a sense of trust pass between us. There were no words. The time passed slowly by.
It seemed hours, minutes, years were all one. I woke at dawn, stiff, cold and exhausted. Lifting my head from the pillow I sought out my fellow participants. Mel was still asleep while Ronnie sat silently, tears streaming down his face. Don Rodrigo slept soundly. Next to him, Don᷉a Luisa rested her head on his shoulder. I heard running water and saw Julio in the outdoor shower, his face turned upward to the water. When he felt me watching, he shook the water from his hair, letting his dark eyes rest on my face as he smiled. My face grew warm and the tug at my heart surprised me.
How long does it take you to write a book?
My first book, Edge of a Dream, took shape over a period of four years. It started as a NaNoWriMo project and I am proud to say that I did my best to complete the “1500 word per day” challenge that is the biggest part of that month-long writing adventure. NaNoWRiMo also known as Write Your Novel in a Month, calling for participants to complete a goal of 1500 words every day for the month of November. The biggest challenge is just to keep writing, no matter what your topic. To accomplish this, I set my alarm for 5:30 a.m. every day for the month of November. That would give me at least an hour to write before heading out to work. Once November was past, I was thrilled to have created a very rough first draft of about 40,000 words. After course of three more drafts, I was ready to send the manuscript to my editor.
My second book, Mediums Guild, took about two years. I’d been thinking about it for months before I began to write. Once I began to put words down on paper, I found that I had many ideas and past experiences to draw on. The characters seemed to motivate me to tell their story.
The Shaman’s Gift, my third book took longer. I began the story with a different main character but things weren’t working out. Gradually, I came to realize that this character could only function as an observer instead of being part of the action. That’s when writer’s block kicked in. I stopped writing for almost a year as I continued searching for direction.
Luckily, I came across a short character study I’d written earlier, a part of a previous scene. This character began to speak to me and I realized she would become Carrie, the young healer who travels to Belize in search of a new life. Thankfully, after this character revelation, I was able to complete the book in a little over two more years.
Lee Fishman arrived in Philadelphia as a college student, fell in love with city living and stayed. Even after traveling to Italy, Greece, France, Holland, Spain, Portugal, Morocco, Turkey, England, Belize, Guatemala, Columbia and other beautiful countries she still can't think of anywhere else she'd rather live. OK, maybe Paris.
Fascinated by ancient civilizations, Lee dreamed of being an archaeologist. As a student, she spent time at digs and worked in a lab piecing together pottery shards from the ancient ruins at Tikal. Many trips to Central America, rekindled her fascination with the Maya culture and inspired her to write The Shaman's Gift.
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