“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.
Thick rivulets of sweat begin to drip down my torso, forming small pools in the dirt just below. The incessant rhythm of Cree’s chanting and rattling causing my head to thrum—my body to instinctively sway to its beat. The air all around me adopting a light, hazy feel—until the next thing I know, I’m no longer attached to my body.
I’m released of gravity’s hold.
My physical form giving way to the astral version of me, I’m rendered weightless, freed of all restraints. Slipping easily through the domed tarp above me, I float through the ether. Surprised to find Leftfoot soaring alongside me, his ethereal form surrounded by a light film of gold, while my own is outlined with shimmering bands of blue.
Watch closely. His words swirl within me. You will see what you are meant to see, so it’s important to take careful note. You may not always like what you’re shown, but you don’t choose the journey—the journey chooses you.
With a curt nod of his head, we drift downward. Ultimately landing in a long all-white hallway marked by a series of doors with no handles or knobs, no way to open them on our own.
I look to Leftfoot, unsure what to do, when his eyes meet mine and the word patience streams into my head.
A door to my right swings open, and I’m quick to look in. Surprised to see the moment I made a quick and quiet entrance into the world. Only to have the hush soon broken by Cade’s noisy arrival just a few moments later.
To the casual observer, there’s no discernible difference between us. Yet a closer look reveals the veil of darkness shrouding my twin.
Chepi knows it the instant she sees him. Her unease made visible by the way she flinches when he’s placed in her arms.
Leandro sees it too. Evidenced by the spark in his eyes when he claims Cade for his own.
The image fades, dwindling and curling at the edges as though lit by a flame. Barely having a chance to digest what I’ve seen, when another door opens and Leftfoot guides me to an overstuffed chair set before a small screen. Where we watch a scratchy black-and-white reel of my most awkward childhood scenes.
I slink low in my seat, crossing and uncrossing my glowing blue legs. About to get up, try my luck in another room, when Leftfoot puts his hand on my arm and gestures toward the screen. And that’s when I see it. That’s when I see what I’d failed to grasp until now. Throughout my entire childhood—my entire life—every bleak moment, every humiliation, every episode of unhappiness was eased by Leftfoot’s guidance.
He was there for me then, just as he’s here for me now.
All along, he’s known what I am and what it is that I’m headed for. And because of it, he’s done his best to instill subtle lessons of magick and destiny, even when it opposed Chepi’s wishes.
When the screen goes dark, I’m humbled by gratitude, overcome by the need to thank him. But he just waves it away and ushers me back to the hall, where we watch as a series of doors open and close.
Some allowing no more than a glimpse—while others offer much bigger reveals.
And despite having already lived it, seeing my life laid out before me so neatly, proves nothing was an accident.
Nothing was ever left to mere chance.
Each step flowed easily into the next—all of them pieces of a much greater plan.
The floor beneath our feet begins to move, propelling us toward the end of the hall, where we crash through the glass wall and swirl through a constellation of shiny crystalline pieces as we lift into the sky.
We sail over mountain peaks.
Glide across darkly glistening rivers.
Flying so much higher than I did as the red-tailed hawk I merged with just a few hours earlier. The sensation so glorious, so liberating, I can’t bear to land.
Somewhere in the distance, Cree’s rattle quickens—tiny beads bouncing furiously against rawhide. Calling us home. But I’m not ready yet.
We dip low.
And then lower still.
Veering toward a landscape that’s drastically changed. A broken desert chaparral. A place of untold corruption and defeat. Its sagging homes and damaged people instantly identifying it as Enchantment.
A sad sack of a town, carelessly desecrated at the hands of the Richters—the bloodline I share.
We glide past the Rabbit Hole, seeing it cloaked in a cloud of murky brown haze I never noticed until now.
We sail past Paloma’s adobe with the vibrant blue gate, the entire width of her property surrounded by a glorious wreath of light.
The town consisting of pockets both light and dark.
But mostly dark.
Primarily dark.
And then Cade.
We swoop into the alleyway that lies behind the Rabbit Hole. Going unnoticed as he pushes a girl hard against the wall and tugs at the neck of her shirt.
A girl with long dark hair that falls into her face, obscuring it in a way I can’t see.
She turns her head—tries in vain to scream. Barely able to eke out more than a yelp, before Cade silences her with a h
and slapped over her face.
His eyes blaze red. His mouth fills with snakes. Transformed into the beast that he is, he emits a spine-chilling growl and gouges her chest with his fangs.
Soul stealing.
Just like the dream.
I race toward him. Ram my energy hard into his. Hoping to throw him off balance long enough to allow the girl to escape.
But in the end, it’s like tossing myself into foam—the landing is soft, malleable, bears no real effect.
Still, I keep at it. My quest to save her nothing short of relentless. Aware of a newfound power surging inside me, I crash hard into his side. Only to stare in horror when the girl falls away, revealing herself to be Daire, while my brother whirls on me with a shiny pearlescent orb balanced in the jaw of the two-headed serpent that springs from his tongue.
A scream rings out. The sound so rage-filled, so primal, I’m surprised to find I’m the source.
I continue to barrel into Cade, my energy repeatedly bashing into his. Though it’s not long before I realize I’m swatting at air. Left to watch in astonishment when the entire scene pixilates before me. The shattered fragments dissipating into the ether as though they never existed.
I whirl all around, desperate to make sense of it. Until Leftfoot clamps a glowing hand on my shoulder and gestures toward the brick wall before us where a series of words scroll across it as though written by an invisible hand. Each line vanishing as soon as the next one begins. Though despite their brevity, the words remain emblazoned in my head.
It’s the prophecy.
I know it the instant I see it.
It perfectly mimics the dream.
When it’s done, when the words return to wherever they came from, Leftfoot speaks to me for the first time since this journey began. “Dace, I am truly sorry,” he says, in a voice that reveals the full measure of his sorrow. “But the prophecy is written; it cannot be undone.”
I start to respond. A long-winded protest ready to roll off my tongue, when the rattling quickens—my essence grows heavier—and the next thing I know I’ve sunk back into my skin. My limbs feeling foreign, fleshy, and stiff, I crick my neck from side to side, stretch my arms overhead. Trying to reacquaint myself with my physical form once again.
The sweat persists in fat droplets that race toward my eyes. Forcing me to swipe a hand across my brow as I focus on a curl of steam rising from the heap of rocks before me. Its snaking vapor beckoning like a finger, begging me to watch as it splits into two.
One side light, illuminated—the other so dark it’s hard to perceive.
They waver before me in offering—demanding I choose.
I look to Leftfoot for guidance, only to find myself shocked by his invitation to soul jump.
“It’s a one-time offer,” he says. “Better make the most of it.”
Without hesitation, I plunge. Eager to witness the code of his soul.
Everyone has a soul code.
Everyone has a soul and every soul a purpose.
Though the majority of people go about their lives completely unaware of this.
But not Leftfoot. Now that I’m given full access to the unedited movie of his life, I can’t help but marvel at the sight. I thought I knew him well, but the scenes that are revealed go far beyond anything I ever imagined.
It’s a life where miracles are worked almost daily. Though that’s not to say it’s without its mistakes.
There were plenty of regrets. Plenty of situations he wished had gone differently. Though they were mostly in the younger years when he was ruled by his ego.
It’s the cautionary part of the tale. The part I’m meant to absorb. And while I appreciate the wisdom and acknowledge it for the warning it is, I’m eager to probe deeper. Locate the place where the secrets are kept.
“Sure you’re ready for that?” Leftfoot asks.
Ready or not, I’m greedy to absorb all that I can.
With a little more digging, I find it—the cache of arcane knowledge that could prove quite dangerous in the wrong hands.
In inexperienced, overeager hands.
Hands like mine?
Nonetheless, it’s an irresistible storehouse of knowledge. Like panning for gold flakes and finding yourself swimming in nuggets.
One phrase in particular standing out above all the rest. So simple on the surface—yet seeming to speak directly to me.
Sometimes you must venture into the darkness to bring forth the light.
The moment it’s uncovered, Leftfoot seals the vault and shuts me right out. His voice resigned, he says, “I’ve guided you to the best of my abilities. Shared with you all that I know. Now it’s up to you to decide what you’ll do with the knowledge you’ve gleaned. The path is yours to choose. But, Dace, you must always remember one of the most fundamental laws of the universe: Every action results in a reaction. It is a rule with no exceptions.”
The water hisses—seething and whispering with impatience. Drawing my attention away from Leftfoot and back to the dueling curls of steam leaping before me.
Leftfoot’s teachings circling my mind:
Every man must decide the kind of path he’ll walk—now it’s my turn to choose.
Every action has a reaction.
The prophecy is written. It cannot be undone.
It’s that last part I refuse.
If the prophecy can’t be undone—what does that say for free will?
Why even pretend I can choose my own path if it’s already been determined for me?
The words contradict. Don’t make any sense.
It’s up to me to assemble the pieces of my life, call upon everything I’ve learned, put it all together, and prove the prophecy wrong.
Daire will not die.
Not on my watch.
I’ll do whatever it takes to make good on that.
I narrow my focus, watching the curls of steam weave and gyrate before me. Then without another thought, I designate the one that I’ll follow. Watching as it sparks and blazes, doubling in size as it consumes the other and leaps wildly before me.
I wish I could say that what I feel is relief. But the truth is, the sight leaves me unsettled.
Still, the choice has been made; there’s no going back.
There will be consequences for sure, Leftfoot promised as much.
But it’s nothing I can’t handle. There’s no price too big to save Daire.
* * *
By the time we leave the sweat lodge, the night is nudging well into dawn. Though, despite the lack of sleep, I’m not the least bit fatigued.
If anything, I feel renewed. Transformed. Like I grew from a kid to a man over the course of one night.
“I want you to go to school today,” Leftfoot says, as we dress ourselves again. “Not only because your education is important, but also because it keeps Chepi from worrying, and it gives you the appearance of normalcy. Which is something you must work to maintain, now more than ever.” He studies me closely, and I suck in my breath, ready for him to make mention of it. Give me grief over the choice that I made. But he just goes on to say, “Also, you must return to the Rabbit Hole and apologize for missing the last few days of work. Act contrite. It’ll cost you nothing but a moment of pride, which is something you should try to rid yourself of. It’s an overrated virtue that only serves to isolate, separating us from each other when we’re better off working together. Then, once you’re back in, I want you to locate that vortex I mentioned. Daire knows where it’s located. But since it’s best to avoid her at the moment, you might turn to Xotichl. She’ll be able to guide you.”
“And once I find it?” I ask, realizing that despite all he taught me over the course of the night, he never got around to telling me how he expects me to use what I’ve learned.
“I just want you to find it, that’s all—or at least for the moment, anyway. They’ve already breached the Lowerworld, so that particular damage is done. For now, I just want you to keep an eye on it. Look for anythin
g out of the ordinary, and report back to me with your findings.”
I rub a hand over my chin. Surprised to discover a wide swath of whiskers that scratches my skin. Seems like days since I last showered and shaved.
“And Dace—”
I turn to face him.
“Get some rest. You’re gonna need it.”
Despite Leftfoot urging me to rest, despite the fact that I haven’t slept for days, when I get to my apartment, I’m way too wound up to do anything more than briefly consider it.
Sleep means closing my eyes.
And closing my eyes means dreaming of Daire.
Daire smiling.
Daire laughing.
Daire loving.
My head filled with the movie of her—culminating in the way she looked just after I told her we could no longer see each other. How she slumped over my kitchen table as though stabbed by my words …
I shake free of the thought, train my focus on getting cleaned up. Changing into clean clothes I pick from the laundry basket I never got around to unloading, and grabbing a quick bite to eat before I head out for school.
Fueled on nothing more than a bowl of stale cereal, weak coffee, and the adrenaline of pure determination, I glance at the clock as I make my way out. I’ll be early—but early is better than sitting here trapped in my memories.
twenty-two
Daire
Jennika stops by early the next morning, under the guise of wanting to enjoy breakfast with us, but I know better. She wants to see me dressed and ready for school. Living the kind of life that won’t cause her to worry any more than she already does.
She knocks on my bedroom door, barely allowing me enough time to respond before she barges in and plops down on my bed. Spouting some lecture she must have spent half the night composing. Her voice rising and falling as I dart from my bathroom to my closet in various stages of dress.
It’s the same talk we parted with when she left Enchantment just a few months earlier. More warnings about the dangers of boys—especially the cute ones, like Dace. In “The World According to Jennika” boys like that live solely to sweet talk their way into your skinny jeans, only to dump you once they’ve had their way.