A Rachel story.

The former things are passed away.

It is done. I am alone again. The

Land and I will be his God. And he is all

Beginning. And he ends the rest.

-- Section 5

"It's God's country. You need to be out here," he'd told me once and then promptly died. It was five years before I knew for certain what had happened to him. And suddenly there I was in the same country he'd perished in, no better off than he had been, limping along with some of my best chums. GodÕs country, I thought. I hoped God was home to get us through it. We all must have stayed alive, at least. I'm sure I would know if we hadn't.

One week later I found myself hibernating in what could loosely be considered a cave. I like the word "hibernating" because it is descriptive of my curled up self, covered over with leaves and dirt, trying to stay as warm as possible in the frigid fall... wherever I was. I had no real recollection of getting there, just some vague thing about city lights and running. Some strange memory of insanity and my urgent yearning for isolation.

As it happened, I was not far from a better, more comfortable cave, and there it was that I wasted much undefinable time causing a habitat to form for myself. It is difficult, now, for me to imagine that I must have spent what little remained of fall and all of winter there, but this is ... most likely. A person simply does not live away days and weeks and months of life immured in a cave. Still, there is no immuteable law of nature which states the contrary.

For those seasons, from what little I can honestly explain as remembering, I was, in fact, a void throbbing like weeping, though my heart wasn't really in it and I was unaware that I had the capacity to cry. It does not strike me as "true" to state that I knew I was unbalanced, not "true" again to say human, not "true", finally, to say alive. What awful horror I could not speak or discern for that time is not entirely lost to me now, though it is not something I willfully discuss, even among friends. I know that I have been marked by that madness -- as are all who have experienced such -- and am perhaps doomed to repeat my ordeal by the very fact that I had no spirit in me to prevent it the first time.

In that spring I began my great trek, slowly then becoming aware of who I was and where those I had abandoned might be. Easy to count the ways contact may be made, not so easy to understand why none of them brought familiar responses. I had to guess that we had all been affected in our own ways, all had apparently been spattered against the barriers we'd built to protect ourselves. I was only then beginning the great ponderous dripping process to form that puddle which might become me once again. I landed, first and temporarily, in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho.

Not a whole lot of a town, despite the brochures and atlases. Not much more than a grandiose truck stop, to my perception. But it was there that I had to stop and visit medical facilities. The malnutrition of my wilderness retreat had caught up with me then, as always I am least healthy on my way to completed recovery. So I was admitted briefly, and had my social status critically examined. There, too, I was reintroduced to the fact of modern life -- where's the money you are going to owe us? And it was to their dismay that it seemed I had no real name to be found; the name Nicodeemus was on the books, but no one claimed to know me.

I had got some vague and evil pleasure by explaining to them that Nicodeemus was indeed my surname and that the records should be found in Texas. Such was my healing. Not one of them was fooled, though all of them believed me. The secret truth stated so simply, uncovered and unprotected by my complex sensibilities, was compelling. Something I had not said to my friends -- or my enemy -- was that we HAD gotten married... quietly, furtively, altogether illegally. And it must have been my last gift from him that those records had just as illegally been destroyed. Of course, it had been done in preparation for the more legal options, but that is never really a good excuse to ignore that it had been meant in the first place.

So it was that a parade of well meaning and easily played social workers determined to have me placed on county record as charity. I was held far longer than necessary then, and more than my statistics were analyzed. At the end of my stay in Coeur d'Alene I was informed that a one Doctor Robert Cameron had been assigned to my case for my extended care, and that he was a specialist of unspecified nature who had taken an interest in the records generated from my stay. It apparently hadn't occurred to them that, without a recognizable name or station in life, I could not remain in Coeur d'Alene for long upon my release. I didn't feel it was necessary to enlighten them, as I did't feel the need to encourage an answer.

When he entered the room, I knew there would be violence -- of a sort. So magnetic was his personality, so amazing his demeanor, what a fine example of everything charming and clever in that treasured gender of men. He spoke immediately of my "case" and all the things he thought of it. Intelligent and insightful he was, with the beauty and gracefulness of cobra in his voice. And he wanted to know my life story, please. He was, had proven himself to be, without doubt a psychologist to the 'n'th degree. Bad ju ju.

Psychology and me did not mix well. Like oil and vinegar were our magicks. I regarded him much as a carnivore would regard a salad.

'Very well,' he had said, 'I'll go first.' And the long soliloquy that followed did little to rend my heart. The happy ending was most interesting, though, carefully couched in our long lives together henceforth. I could say I was surprised, and for a fact I was, except surprise quickly faded. Maybe there's no modesty left in me to deny that throngs of strangers before him had proposed the same sort of destiny to me. I was at once astounded with his bravery to chance a dishonourable end to his career for such a patient-doctor liaison and appalled that he should be so brash as to assume I could be impressed by this display. But he knew me well, that much was obvious. Where he had got that sort of knowledge must have been the question of mine to me which saved me.

'Pardon me,' I said and made no motion to leave. I would not excuse myself to him; the apologetic was to gather his attention. 'I know I'm being played with,' I finished, slamming shut every mental door I had imagined there ever was in me.

He was hurt. Was it fake? The animal was crying woefully within him. He was surely less sane than I.

I began to tell him my life story. It was not terse, yet it was not focused to any final point. Drawing to the end of it was frightening me, as I knew my obligation would be to finish with announcing that I had met him. And so I stopped before that ending. Somewhen around the time that the horrors began so long ago in the cave -- I did not then know, had that been last month? He seemed interested and asked for clarification on several statements.

Yes I do believe in ghosts and spirits. I do believe in dark powers, though I must ammend that with my knowledge of perspective -- evil is certainly considered a good thing to those who are evil. And so, Mister Cameron (the insult notwithstanding), lock me away if that's your design. Go on, I dared him. I do truly believe that I have it within me to argue with hideous demonspawn. And win. I see nothing wrong with this behaviour. I'd do it again tomorrow if you'd kindly throw some my way.

He smiled, then, asking me about my opinion concerning the psychological ramifications of battling the beast. And winning.

I told him that psychology could bite my left tit. That was a mistake. He shut the door and proceeded to demonstrate psychology. We experimented with vinaigrette dressing in a most unprofessional manner.

I then had a place to be, though I discovered it was not Coeur d'Alene. Dr Cameron, it seems, was not a permanent fixture of that hospital and had only the most tentative of assignments there. Through some strange honor among doctors he had agreed to take a semi-sabbatical there and cover an absence for one of their regular staff psychologists -- a far less skilled and less educated man, from the impression Dr Cameron hammered into my brain. Dr Cameron was well respected there and got treated like a spoiled child since all who knew his outstanding reputation cherished the priceless treasure of a visit he had chosen to give them. He lived in a place called Opportunity, just across the state line into Washington, though his official assignment was at the finer facilities to be had in and around Spokane.

The accusations began almost immediately. Accusations concerning my association with Thomas, the tormentor who had so traumatized my chums and me last fall. The same Thomas who was the primary cause, I think, of the insanity I had so recently suffered, though the Doctor knew nothing of it. Dr Cameron was also jealous of Nicodeemus and my connexion, in fact, of any and all male companionship I had ever dared claim in his presence. This man was exquisitely mad. I could have loved him for that. As if because of this potential, he loudly and angrily accused me of frigidity, perversity, malevolence, and several other varieties of bitchiness. It became obvious to me that, while he was plainly mistaking my actions for those of someone else, he still knew me all too well. I thought it best to leave.

Next I paused in Cheney, Washington, having observed that West seemed the direction I was going. There I telephoned an attorney acquaintance in Ohio, finally finding a contact through which I could declare myself alive. He informed me that someone I once knew had died and named me in a will. This attorney was pleased to become retained in my service and quickly agreed to pursue contact with my dear friend and former roommate Beth as well as set about the business of gathering my assets. I also had a torrid little love affair cleverly disguised as an extended one-night stand. Never have I celebrated the rites with such abandon. It was in thinking of Doctor Cameron's brilliant, misdirected, and altogether correct assessment of me -- through whatever other person he wanted me to be -- that I decided to move onward.

I felt a genuine tugging to go West at that point. My brain caught the idea that I would not be returning East for quite a long time, if ever. I could not imagine that Washington state would be more than scenery for me, so I took a Southward heading as well. By the courtesy of some pleasant and platonic drivers, I arrived in Pasco, a city neatly cradled where the Columbia and Snake rivers meet, still inside of Washington. I could have known that magic was afoot and might have avoided stopping there if I'd been paying attention to that sort of thing.

It was in standing on the awesome bridge which crosses the Snake river at Pasco that I had my first true reconnexion with things spiritual and supernatural. As I watched the waters dance below me -- knowing full well what direction they were headed, yet washing around, yielding that direction seemingly on their own terms -- I knew that these waters would soon join with other, perhaps more determined waters from the Columbia river. From there it would all dump into the ocean -- after whatever long journey it had left to wind through and whatever other rivers it accepted among itself. Its destiny was the ocean, but its personality was somehow all its own. The profound understanding this gave me is lost to many people ... therefore another thing I rarely mention. The effect of this understanding was to reopen my spiritual eyes.

When I glanced up -- upriver, to the East -- I saw that there was a work being done to it. There was an emanation from the shore. Something was being added to the water by someone of the Arts. I jumped to one side as the wide strand of magic rode the waters almost directly below me. Peculiar sight; it would attract alot of attention from ANY persons sensitive to it. I left the bridge. Fortunately for my curiousity, unfortunately for my better judgement, the emanation came from the Pasco side of the bridge. I went to investigate it.

There was an older man standing at the shore. He had just removed a staff from the water, and was then tapping it on the dirt where he stood. He looked in my direction and smiled; I wasn't really surprised that he knew I was there... the site was nigh unto impossible to approach without making notice, and I had lost much skill in the ways of don't-mind-me invisibility over the past few years. We make the compromises which we must, so I had gone boldly through the area to reach where he stood, now extending a hand to me. I approached, but did not accept his hand.

"I am Shah-Nayn," he announced, taking a step. He was perhaps in his fifties with shoulder length greying hair. His face wore the marks of a hard worker -- I was surprised; I didn't think there had been much of that in the last 50 years -- and he was clothed in an almost fictional manner. He wore jeans and sneakers with a collared flannel workshirt and tee, but over these things he had draped a cloaklike robe of brightly colored fabric and indian design. Another cloth was also loosely laid over his shoulders, hanging midchest, draping to his back. He had a leather headband. There were beads and feathers attached to his headband, his cuffs, at his belt, and woven in the laces of his shoes. His appearance was altogether that of a native american shaman who had decided to go with something of a modernesque/romanesque look.

My distraction with his garb had given him an opportunity he did not miss. He let his staff fall beside him and grabbed my right arm, just back from my wrist in the manner which causes an instinctive clasping to occur from the recipient's hand. "Truth hold," he said, demanding that I look into his eyes, "I have been sent here to get you."

All pretense aside, it had been years -- a decade -- since anyone had used the truth's hold on me rightly. At one time it was like a fad among the circles I travelled, so that it had become cliche, banal, average. It had lost much meaning to me at that time because it was used so commonly. It was not a part of the native american tradition, that much was certain to me. Thus I knew he knew me, but through someone else. Surely an old and very much empowered friend. I could not deny that I had been caught at Pasco. Pain in the ass; I liked Pasco, the place where two rivers meet, and now knew I had no time to admire it.

Another person emerged from the now deepening shadows. But 'Shah-Nayn' -- and I even then knew his name's spelling to be Siochanain, Celtic though that is -- retightened his hold and called my distraction back to him, "Such awesome things await you that I have not been given specific knowledge of them. You have been through the fire, dear one. You are tempered. Be now prepared for the rest of your life." It was a surge of energy which cinched his words, that it was mystical energy made no difference. I broke the hold.

I rejected his words, I rejected his presence. I rejected his tradition and association to my past in very clear phrases, enhancing my denials with a pretty story concerning the long line of fatherless children he most surely had been sprung from. I spun about and spat on the feet of the newcomer, quitting his obvious relation to the summons to which I had fallen prey. And, oh yes, I cannot spit. It was a truly amazing sight.

Having spent my energies thus, I turned my back toward them, refusing to acknowledge any potential danger there, disdainful of the time it would take to move away from the riverside. Not much but leaving was in my mind when I had turned, now the more mundane questions were beginning to seep inside. Where would I go? West, obviously. But where? And would these two jokers be tracking me? I began and completed the process of getting away, though not before I had overheard the discussion behind me.

"We have failed," said the younger. A hopeless remark. Even to my educated yes-you-most-certainly-have-failed ears it sounded faithless. "We should go after her." Utterly faithless.

"She has a great spirit within her, Donnell. It's not ours to guess how best she will use it." He paused, slightly dismayed. "Ours was to offer, not to command." Siochanain's counterpoint held an unmistakable wisdom. He, I was most positive, was genuine. I wanted none of it.

That evening and night I kvetched most critically over the problem -- because it had become that -- of where I might go. Pasco was the kind of town which by nature presented one with multiple options. I had proven no exception to this effect. I could go SouthEast across the bridge over the Snake River or West then South immediately to cross a bridge over the Columbia and be in Oregon tomorrow. I could go West in almost any number of ways -- head NorthWest toward Seattle, West and SouthWest toward what the roadsigns had promised would eventually be Vancouver, or West until there was no more direct West available on major roads and bash into Yakima Indian Reservation. I could throw a wrench in everything and go NorthEast again, back toward Cheney, knowing there were many other options for Westward movement before reaching that town. All of the Eastern options caused my soul to cringe. The Northward options seemed provisional. By morning I was walking Route 182 on the advice of a disregarded coin toss. NorthWest, with sacred promises to myself that I would absolutely under no circumstances allow me to get shuffled into a space within fifty miles of Seattle.

Too many of the people driving West on Route 182 were in too much of a hurry that day. It felt most specifically dangerous. I decided that they were all going to Seattle, and sat comfortably just a ways off the road. There, before I slept, I realized just who it must have been to send Siochanain and his dubiously appointed apprentice Donnell out to meet me. Vanyaer's style was like this, though Vanyaer had never been noted as having any sort of philanthropic or generous streak in her. Well, perhaps there was one in her hair, which might explain why she kept it short. In all fairness, though, Vanyaer had been an ardent student. So passionate was she to fully comprehend the Arts that she had mistakenly overlooked their purpose. Directionless and obscure had been her motives when I first met her. Only the smallest hint of something yet alive within her which might save her from the consequences heaped upon her through the actions she had chosen. It was very definitely Vanyaer's unique style I had encountered in those two... Siochanain was unquestionably a friend to her now, Donnell -- as volatile as she had ever been -- now looking avidly to the Arts, sucking after any and all teachings in an annoyance to try the gods. A new generation had begun. And it had no doubt fallen to Vanyaer to curb the young Donnell. I smiled; she must have made it. I laughed; I had been a bug on the butt of the gods myself back then, and I had made it, too.

In the morning it was easy to catch a ride. This driver intended to reach Sunnyside rather quickly. Seatbelts were a requirement, since she was speeding and didn't want an excessively costly ticket. We passed a blue Yugo and marvelled to each other that it could still exist. Behind the wheel of the Yugo sat Donnell, in the passenger seat was Siochanain. I might seriously have thought they were trying to track me, but it was clear that, instead, they were arguing.

It was still morning when I arrived at Sunnyside. The driver understood my most urgent request to be left near a telephone, food, and possibly a shower. Going slightly out of her way, she dropped me at a gas station quickmart, thanking me for the company -- her only excuse to pick up a hitch hiker. I called Ohio and arranged to have money wired to me at Yakima -- the town, not the reservation -- ate a comparatively healthy Denny's anytime breakfast, and called Ohio again from outside the restaurant. As I gratefully listened to Beth's voice on a machine, I spotted a Yugo in the parking lot. Daring words I used, expressing sorrow and regret for my unfortunate malady, spilling forth love into a box on an almost anonymous desk, making promises to call again and begging forgiveness from my friend. There wasn't a second between the end of my message and the cutting-you-off-now beep. I walked casually across the lot and sat on the hood of the car.

Donnell might have preferred having a stroke to the gesture and noises of surprise he accidentally made when he saw me. Siochanain, for all that I knew I never would like him, was unperturbed, the picture of maturity in matters metaphysical. The contrast was, again, striking.