Echo (The Soul Seekers #2)(37)
What if this isn’t just a short break?
What if I can’t find a way to overcome the curse of the Echo?
What if I can’t overcome Cade?
How many people will suffer because of my failure?
Jennika moves toward me, starts fussing over my hair. Unraveling my braid, she gathers the strands into her hand before arranging them to spill in soft waves down my back. “I’d take you out for some ice cream, followed by some heavy-duty retail therapy, which, just so you know, are pretty much the two best cures for a broken heart. Except, we’re stuck in this dump of a town with no good shopping to be had.” Her eyes dart toward Paloma. “No offense,” she says, but Paloma just waves it away and continues preparing our snack. “But while I failed to pack any ice cream, I did manage to bring a little retail therapy to you.” Jennika kneels beside me, smiling so brightly it practically begs me to smile brightly too.
So I do.
This is Jennika trying.
Jennika doing her best to show me she understands.
Jennika determined to pull me out of my slump.
The least I can do is relent.
“I was going to save it for Christmas, but I see no reason why you can’t have it now.” She digs through a bag she’s left by her chair, retrieving a hidden cache of designer jeans and a bunch of cute tops to wear with them, along with a tangle of silver jewelry, and a new pair of black boots. All of it chosen with Jennika’s uncanny eye for all-things trendy and cool.
While the sight of it doesn’t lift me in quite the same way it used to, I pretend like it does by crowding my fingers with rings and smiling when Jennika pulls out a new red wool cardigan she gives to Paloma.
Relieved to know that her suspicions are forgotten for now. Though it’s just a matter of time before Jennika’s back on course, determined to make me explain what Paloma and I have been doing.
twenty-one
Dace
By the time we arrive at the sweat lodge, the sun has dropped, the sky has turned the color of soot, and Leftfoot’s apprentice, Cree, is already waiting for us. Focused hard on the blaze he continues to stoke, barely sparing a glance our way when Leftfoot says, “Cree will serve as the firekeeper.”
I nod, aware of what an honor it is to keep the wood blazing and the river rocks properly heated for ritual.
“One is required to fast before a ceremony—when was your last meal?”
I go over the day, conducting a quick mental review. But unable to remember, I lift my shoulders in reply.
“Good enough.” He turns to have a few words with Cree, instructing him on how he’d like to manage the ceremony, before returning to me. “Remove your clothing and shoes. The lodge is a sacred space.”
Without question, I do as he asks. All too aware of what a privilege it is to receive Leftfoot’s teachings. Despite his reputation for being kind, generous, and wise—when it comes to matters of mystical counsel and guiding one down the Red Road—the pathway to truth, peace, and harmony—he’s incredibly discerning. Refusing to educate anyone he doesn’t personally choose. It’s an honor to be here. I won’t let him down.
I kick off my shoes and shrug off my clothes. Leaving them piled neatly on the ground, I hop from foot to foot beneath the fattened belly of a December’s full moon. Taking a moment to spread my arms wide and welcome the embrace of the frigid night air on my flesh.
With my skin prickly with chills, I distract myself from the cold by remembering what I was taught as a youth. The entrance to the lodge purposely faces east in order to greet the rising sun once the ceremony is concluded. The space is dug into the ground in order to symbolize the womb of the earth. And, most important, the experiences one has during the ritual are both powerful and transformative—allowing one to emerge fully purified and reborn.
While it’s not exactly purification I seek, I decide not to share that with Leftfoot. If the experience is anything even remotely like the vision quest he guided me through, it’ll be well worth my time.
Just when I think I can’t take another second of being naked and shivering, Leftfoot ushers me toward the door but blocks me from entering. Declaring I must first seek permission from the spirits that guard it, he stands over me as I sink toward the earth and press my knees to the dirt. Appealing to my ancestors in my native tongue, and rising only when Leftfoot assures me I’m free to proceed.
He wields a bushy stick of sage across the width and length of the doorway. His voice rising in the melody of one of his traditional healing songs, as I descend the short ladder attached to the wall, and crouch toward the far end. Surprised to find the space so much smaller than I expected. Darker too. I guess I’d heard so many whispered stories over the years, I’d built up an elaborate vision in my head. Pictured it as bigger, roomier. When the truth is, its domed roof fastened by willow branches and covered with a tightly woven tarp swoops so low at the sides, I’m forced to inch toward the center in order to sit fully upright.
Leftfoot and Cree follow. Leftfoot claiming the space beside me, mumbling words of prayer. As Cree wields a massive pair of deer antlers piled with smoldering river rocks he lowers into the pit before dousing them with a liberal dose of water and herbs that infuses the space with a sweet, heady scent.
With the temperature swiftly rising, Cree closes the door, shrouding us in complete and utter darkness. Then he moves to the far side of the wall where he takes up his rattle, shaking it in a slow and steady rhythm as he chants a song I’ve never heard until now.