3. Willow
THREE
Willow
The door opened and I pushed myself up the bed in preparation of Doc’s visit. However, it wasn’t Doc who came around the door.
“Hi?” I heard the uncertainty in my voice, and the shaman must have too, as he gave me a kind smile.
I watched in fascination as he deftly maneuvered around the chair in his path and sat down with confidence. I found it fascinating every time I saw him that someone whose vision was impaired was able to master so much.
“How do you feel?” the shaman asked me as he settled back in the chair.
“Weird.” It was out before I could stop it. “Sorry,” I hastily added.
He waved off my apology. His eyes were sharp as he watched me, which I knew was physically impossible, given the milky film over them, but still, I felt like he was staring at me with an intensity that made me squirm.
“Weird is probably an apt description,” he told me amicably. “And since it is what I want to talk to you about, then it is a good place to start.”
“Did you have another name?” I asked him curiously, and for the first time, I saw him look uncertain. “Is that rude? To ask that?” I asked him, my cheeks flushing. “If it is, I didn’t mean to offend.”
“Then why ask?” he asked gently. “You are feeling uncomfortable, and your question is in the hopes of making me feel equally uncomfortable.”
I was already shaking my head. “No! I’m genuinely sorry, I meant no offense. I just had the random thought that you couldn’t always have been known as shaman, and I spoke without thinking.”
He smiled, an air of smugness about him that had me narrowing my eyes. “I joke with you, young Willow,” he told me with a chuckle. “Once we take the mantle of the shaman, we are known as shaman only. Possessions, desires, even attachments—they belong to the life we leave behind.”
“Like priests?” I asked, engrossed even though I knew that this wasn’t what he was here to talk about. “Or monks?”
“Both servants to their God, yes?” he asked, seeking clarification.
“Yeah.” I was nodding. “I guess they are.”
The shaman nodded. “Then I suppose we are similar.” He tapped the corner of his eye. “Worldly possessions are not the only thing we give up.”
“Why take your sight?” The question was soft, but I genuinely wanted to know.
“My sight has not been taken,” he corrected me gently. “I see clearly what the Goddess wants me to see.”
Perhaps it was the fact I’d been in this room for longer than I wanted to be, but I held up three fingers. “Does she want you to see these?”
The shaman’s lips twitched as he gave me his attention. “I see beyond the mortal realm, no matter how many fingers are gestured at me.” There was no reprimand in his tone, but still, I felt childish and dropped my hand back to the bedcover. “Your three fingers were two more than I am used to,” he winked.
“That’s freaky,” I mumbled.
“In answer to your question, the name I carried before is not the name that suits me now.” He sat at ease and didn’t fidget. I envied him for the ability to sit still and not fidget. “My duty is to the balance, to the natural order of things. To carry out the Goddess’s Will.”
“Is she fair?”
“She is Luna.”
That was the answer? She was Luna? Maybe she took more than his eyes…maybe their Goddess robbed them of their common sense too.
“I came to talk to you, to tell you what I can.”
I tilted my head as I felt unease settle in my belly. “Tell me what?”
“The situation, as I see it.”
I had no idea if he was being funny or ironic with his choice of words.
“Ten years ago, Caleb’s pack was massacred,” the shaman spoke clearly and confidently. “The few that survived were not on Shadowridge Peak the day it happened.”
“Few?”
“More than Caleb remains of the Shadowridge Peak Pack.” He frowned. “Only one still calls himself of that pack; the others, the few who survived, were told to find new packs. Caleb did not want to lead them. He chose to grieve in solitude, and he has traveled far from his duties in the years that have passed.” The shaman produced a small wooden bowl and a leather pouch. I was already slipping my hands under my blanket. I recognized that bowl. I saw his lips curve into a faint smile and knew my stealthy move had been seen. “Your sickness…where were you when you caught it?”
“Where was I?” I blinked rapidly. “You mean what foster home was I in?”
“You said you caught a fever. The fever leaves you weak, and…illness can occur?”
For the first time, he sounded unsure, and I didn’t think he knew how human that made him appear. Relatable. “Yes, I got glandular fever, or mono as it’s more commonly known. I developed ME not long after.” He nodded, but he looked at me expectantly. “I was in a place called Werben Hills, it’s south of Colorado Springs. Small, but big enough.”
“Your foster parents were already deceased?” he asked me.
“Yes, a month or two before, I don’t remember.” I looked away. “It’s a bit fuzzy.” Clearing my throat, I looked back at him. “I mourned them,” I added quietly. “The following months were hazy.”
The shaman listened, watching me, and then he opened his pouch, and I inhaled the pungent herbs as they hung heavy in the air. “I wish to make a potion for you. Will you drink it?”
“Do I have a choice?”
He laughed, his hand patting the bedside table that stood adjacent to my bed. “There is always a choice, child.”
I wasn’t sure there was, but I didn’t say that. “Does it taste bad?”
“Probably.”
“You’re not selling the whole ‘drink the funky potion, Willow’ thing.”
“I’m not selling it, as I don’t expect you to buy it, but I would prefer you drink it. I feel It would aid us all.” He had my tumbler, using the water I had left over from lunch to make his concoction. From one pocket, he produced a knife and from another, there was a brown cube of something unrecognizable to me. I watched him deftly cut thin slices off the cube and add them to my tumbler. He stirred the liquid vigorously but didn’t spill a drop.
As he held it out to me, I peered into the cup at the thick sludge-like substance. “Do I want to know what’s in it?”
“I would say it’s not needed.”
“Right.” Taking the cup off him, I sniffed it and then wished I hadn’t. “Jesus Lord, what the hell?”
“Drink.”
I could already feel my stomach roiling as I put the tumbler to my lips, and then with my eyes fixed on the shaman’s, I took a gulp, fighting the urge to spit it out.
“All of it,” he encouraged. “Don’t think about it, just swallow.”
That’s what he said. The joke made me grin, but I drank faster, and then with a triumphant gasp, I placed the empty cup on the table.
“Done.”
“Excellent.” He scooped the cup up and peered into it. “Nothing left, very good, Willow.”
The praise made me blush, and then I realized I was being an idiot. “Now do you tell me why?”
“We have a situation, it’s one you’re familiar with. Your illness, your dreams, your tie to Caleb, they are all connected.”
“I don’t think I needed a foul-tasting concoction to know that,” I muttered. “I know it’s all connected, excluding my ME.”
“You developed a sickness at the same time that a great evil was done on shifter land. A terrible wrong was done to Caleb and his pack. I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to say it’s connected.”
“Werben Hills is nowhere near Shadowridge Peak.” The potion aftertaste was almost as bad as the original taste, and it was distracting me from the conversation.
“It doesn’t matter where it is located. What matters is when you first got sick.” The shaman poured some water from the jug and handed me the tumbler. “It will remove the bitterness.” After I took several gulps, he continued. “The act of the Cristone Pack that day leaves a scar on the land.” His fingers tapped off his thigh, and I decided he fidgeted after all.
“You are weak?—”
“Whoa, thanks.”
He smiled tightly. “Your body is weak, your mind is strong. Now.” The shaman stroked his chin as he watched me thoughtfully. “But as a child, after losing your parents, you would have been weak in body and mind.”
“Foster parents,” I corrected him. “They never adopted me.”
The shaman waved that off too. “The lack of a piece of paper making something formal does not make their love for you any less real.”
“True.” Chewing the inside of the corner of my mouth, I was almost afraid to ask. “What does this have to do with Caleb?” Saying his name sent a pang through my chest.
“When you started drawing him, how did you feel?”
“I felt normal. I didn’t know that I was drawing a real person at the time.”
“Cannon tells me that you referred to it as an awareness of Caleb?”
“Yeah, I…” I blew out a breath. “I just needed to draw him,” I added lamely.
“Landscapes, flowers, meadows, that’s more your preferred scene?”
“I sketch my friends, my parents,” I clarified.
“People known to you?” He didn’t wait for me to confirm. “You didn’t think it strange you started drawing a man you’d never seen?”
“I thought I’d maybe seen him before,” I mumbled. “It’s…it’s what it is. What is this about?”
“The tie between you two was curious before,” the shaman told me, leaning back in his chair once more. “But now, with his blood in your body, there is something deeper at work here, something unusual…hidden.”
“Describe unusual,” I asked, leaning forward.
He rested his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers. “Shifters’ blood is potent, Willow. It carries our essence—strength, resilience, even pieces of our spirit. When Caleb’s blood mingled with yours, it seems to have left an imprint.”
I frowned, shaking my head. “He didn’t mean to—he was trying to save me.”
The shaman’s expression softened. “I have no doubt. But intent matters little in these things. Blood is blood. And though it may not have taken hold yet, it’s there, waiting. A seed, if you will, planted deep within you.”
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. “A seed for what?”
“That’s harder to say. What I do know is that it may be tied to your illness. Your body isn’t used to holding something so foreign, so…primal. They tell me you are having dizziness, correct?”
“I thought it was part of my recovery,” I told him bitterly.
“And the dreams? Are they still vivid?”
“The urge to draw him has lessened, but it’s not gone.”
The shaman puffed out his cheeks as he considered my words. “To me, they’re signs of a struggle within you. You and Caleb are connected now, more than before, and possibly more than either of you realizes.”
I sat back, my head spinning. The room felt smaller, the air heavier. “So…what? I’ll turn into a shifter?”
The shaman let out a chuckle, but this wasn’t funny. “No, nothing so dramatic. At least, I don’t expect it. I expect Caleb’s blood to leave its mark, one way or another. It’s not just a bond of the heart, Willow. It’s a bond of the body, and the spirit. And bonds like these can be…complicated.”
I clenched my hands into fists, my nails digging into my palms. “Can it be undone?”
He hesitated, his silence louder than any answer he could have given.
“That’s what I thought,” I muttered, my voice as bitter as I felt inside.
“Caleb will not yet understand the full extent of what he’s done,” the shaman said gently. “But he’ll feel it too, in time. You’re tied to him now, Willow. And whether you choose to sever that tie or nurture it, you’ll both have to face it eventually.”
I didn’t respond, my mind too tangled to form words.
The shaman tapped his thigh, his gaze never leaving mine. “For now, focus on healing. Your body is there, but your mind may need more time to process. Your own strength will determine how this plays out. And remember, the bond may feel like a weight now, but it could also become your greatest asset—if you let it.”
I stared at him, my stomach twisting with equal parts fear and anger. Whatever Caleb had done, whatever this “seed” was, it was already changing my life in ways I couldn’t control. And though I didn’t want to admit it, I wasn’t sure I could face it alone.
“This was a very depressing conversation,” I griped as I shuffled up the bed, while the shaman stood.
“You’re standing at a crossroads, Willow. One path leads you back to what you’ve always known—a life of stability, safety, maybe even happiness in time. The other?” He paused, letting the words linger in the cool air. “The other ties you to something greater, something primal and wild. Caleb may have started this connection unintentionally, but it won’t be undone without consequences. You have to decide if you’re willing to carry that weight.”
I stared at him, the words sinking in like stones. “And what about Caleb? Doesn’t he have a say in this?”
His lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile. “Caleb is as bound as you are. Perhaps more so. His choices may feel like his own, but the bond shapes both of you, pulling you toward a shared fate.”
My pulse quickened. “You’re saying I have no choice but to accept this?”
“I’m saying that choices have consequences. And sometimes, the harder path is the one that leads to freedom.”
I swallowed hard, the weight of his words pressing against my chest. His role as a shaman might have stripped him of personal desires, but it gave him a clarity I couldn’t ignore.
“Think carefully, Willow,” he said, his voice softer now. “This isn’t just about you. Or Caleb. It’s about what this bond could mean—for both of you and for the balance you may be destined to protect.”
“Protect? What are we protecting?”
“Possessions, desires, attachments—they mean nothing to a shaman. But to you, Willow? They may mean everything.”
I didn’t understand half of what he said. He left not long thereafter, but my thoughts were a storm, his final words lingering in my mind like the echo of a distant drumbeat.
And not for the first time, I wondered if Caleb’s absence wasn’t just painful—it was dangerous.