The youth lay still, not moving, except for the occasional wheeze of air escaping his lungs. His mother had done all she could for the boy; His head rested on grain-filled cloth pillows, and every few minutes she dabbed a cool sponge across his head, clearing the heavy beads of sweat from his brow. But in the silence of those moments spent waiting for the Shaman to arrive, the tears she had worked to contain during her vigil broke through.
     Finally, she heard the shuffle of movement outside the cottage door. The boy's father entered. Trailing him was a tall, simple man dressed in poorly stitched clothes. He wasn't as old as she'd expected, in fact no older than the boy's father. His jet-black hair was surprisingly neat-cut, but his dark eyes seemed wise, and he carried a carved walking stick with a scuffed base, which told her he'd spent those years deep in the darkest woods, no matter how many or how few.
     "Is this your son, Madre?" the Shaman asked. "Is this Juan?"
     Setting down his walking stick, he moved past the boy's mother to the side of the bed. The Shaman was a big man, strong of muscle beneath his simple-tailored clothes, but he carried himself with a grace uncommon for his height and stature.
     "He was walking in the forest, Shaman," the boy's mother said, her voice broken and panicked. "With his father, gathering wood for the fire."
     "The boy is a dreamer, Shaman," his father snapped. "Easily distracted by sights and places in the glen."
     Shaman quickly assessed the boy, then turned to the worried faces of his parents. "Perhaps he has the making of a Shaman in him, if the trees and wildlife interest him so deeply. But first," he said, indicating the dark purple bruise that blemished the honey-colored skin of the boy's left foot. "Madre, stand back."
     The boy's mother joined her husband at the distance Shaman had requested. Over his shoulder, both parents watched, sickened for their ailing son, as the Shaman clapped his large, rough hands together and began to rub them, one against the next. The summer heat inside their cottage seemed to grow with each circle of his fingers.
     "Is it a bite, Shaman?" Padre asked. "Venom, from some creature in the woods?"
     "Silence, please," Shaman whispered. "This will be delicate."
     Padre's grip on his wife's shoulder tightened. They stared at the Shaman's intricate movements, transfixed by what happened next. The Shaman gripped Juan's left foot by the ankle with one hand, and then placed the pointer of his other flush against the purple discoloration. Juan jerked suddenly on the bed.
     "Remain calm," Shaman said. "Madre, a bowl if you would, at once."
     Madre's paralysis broke. She hurried into the kitchen and quickly returned with a small stone basin. She held the bowl at ready as Shaman withdrew his touch. Trailing his finger, suspended in the very air, a string of viscous red fluid emerged. Shaman maneuvered it carefully into the stone bowl. Once he had finished, Juan's labored breaths grew noticeably smoother. Shaman wiped his hands and stood. Similar beads of perspiration now pooled on his forehead.
     "A toxin," he said, steadying himself again on the carved walking stick. "I have removed all that I could, but he has already absorbed much of it."
     Madre set the bowl down. "Will he get better, Shaman?"
     "I cannot say," he answered, shaking his head, scattering raindrops of sweat. "This bite-" He indicated the discolored bruise. "I don't recognize it, or the toxin. But have hope, Madre. He is a strong boy, and out of immediate danger. If I can find the source of this toxin, I may be able to help your son further. Padre, will you show me where you found him?"
     "Yes, Shaman, right away."
Stopping only long enough to embrace his wife, he extended a hand toward the door. Shaman, too, comforted the boy's mother. "Keep him cool and resting. I will return with as much hope as I can find up there."
     "Thank you, Shaman," Madre said, trying her best not to cry, but failing.
     "Save your tears, Madre," Shaman soothed. "We might not need them."

     The lush pathways of the deep woods grew steadily darker. At some places, the trees had grown so close together they totally blocked the sun. In these regions of the glen, plants with leathery leaves and brightly-colored blossoms covered the ground. The perfume from orchids carried in the humid air, heavy and hypnotic.
     "The boy, he is our only child," Padre said as they walked at a brisk pace deeper into the woods. "Sometimes, perhaps I am too hard on him. His head is so filled with dreams."
     "A boy needs dreams," Shaman said. "But also, discipline."
     "I love my son, Shaman," mumbled Padre. "I could never forgive myself if something happened to him."
     Shaman stopped suddenly in place. The boy's father was several steps ahead when he realized the familiar click-clicking of the walking stick had ended. When Padre revolved, he found Shaman standing at a place on the path where the canopy of vines and branches had opened enough to let in the sun. Padre knew what was visible beyond the break in the trees, the tall metal remains of the old city, growing less and less distinct as the years passed.
     "Shaman?" Padre asked.
     Shaman shifted in place on his walking stick and nervously fingered several of the intricate grooves in the patterned carvings. "Padre, it isn't that long since we returned to the woods. Even those of us who have given our lives to understanding the forests, even we don't know all the dangers that surround us here. There's no telling how that old life-" he pulled up his walking stick and aimed it at the ancient city, "how it affects our new."
     "We are close to where Juan was injured, Shaman," said Padre. "This way to where I found the boy after he cried out and collapsed."
     Gentle slopes rose up on two sides of the glen. Light spilled down through breaks in the canopy, enough that a meadow had taken root beneath the stretches of pine forest, nourished by the sun and a small, spring-fed pond and its estuaries. A decent armful of sticks lay scattered on the path, right where the boy had dropped them.
     "He comes here often," Padre said. "To dream."
     Shaman nodded. "It is a beautiful place for such notions. Padre, tell me what you yourself have seen in this place."
     "Birds," the boy's father said. "As bright as the Quetzlcoatl, but only from time to time."
     "There are no venomous birds," Shaman said. "And none that would attack a youth the age of yours in this manner, on the foot. Whatever bit or stung him did so from the ground, not the air."
     The soft hum of summer insects drew Padre's eyes to the meadow reeds. "Some insecto, Shaman?"
     "Perhaps. Remain still and calm, Padre."
     Balancing the carved walking stick between both hands, Shaman rolled the wood back and forth, faster and faster, forcing air through the furrows. A subtle whine filled the glen. It grew quickly louder, higher, until almost too precise to be heard.

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Water Whispers © 2004 Gregory L. Norris

Illustrations © 2004 Pam Marin-Kingsley