Kiss of the Sun Read Online Free PDF

today.” She put her arm around Martha’s shoulders, the customary partial hug that marked the conclusion of their sessions. “You’re doing great, Martha. Just keep moving forward.”
    —
    That night, Martha knew that she was dreaming when the familiar smell came to her—a gumbo of pressed leaves and herbs, the scent of beeswax candles, a whiff of pipe smoke. Then a scene slowly emerged from the shadows: a corridor lined with tall shelves, the glint of flames from a potbelly stove, StarKist tuna cans at regular intervals that glistened with globules of melted wax. Packets of dried botanicals, bound with twine, hung from the rafters.
    She knew she was lying in her bed, in her cabin. But she was also in Amberleen, inside the conjure shop.
    “Albertha?” she called out into the shadows.
    “Yes, I’m here, child. Come deeper,” replied a husky voice. “Come all the way back, into the parlor.”
    Martha was barefoot, wearing a flowing, gauzy dress, as she made her way across the worn plank flooring, past the high shelving, past bowls of shells and bones and jars of ground powders. Albertha swayed slightly in her rocker, seated at the edge of the hooked rug, in the glow of the stove. She nodded toward the chair at the edge of the table.
    Martha sat, her senses and her mind open to receive. Beyond the shuttered windows of the shop, voices groaned and murmured. Albertha drew on her pipe, and the tobacco in the bowl glowed and whistled faintly.
    “Albertha, can you tell me…the boy in the picture…”
    “The boy?” The blind woman tilted her head slightly. “Is that really a boy?”
    “He
was
a boy, six years ago. But now he’s a young man. If he’s still alive, that is.”
    Albertha nodded.
    “So it’s true, then? He is still alive, somewhere?”
    Albertha held the pipe between her hands. “You must ask the right question. Not where, but who? Who is this boy in your dreams? Who is he really?”
    “I don’t know much about him, but somehow I feel he needs me.”
    Albertha nodded. “So that is true. He needs you, and you need him.”
    Martha leaned forward. “Tell me, Albertha. Can I help him? How can I find him?”
    “He is closer than you think.”
    “But where?”
    “Feel the movement of the tides inside your heart. The answer is there.”
    Albertha reached into the pocket of her woven skirt and pulled out a carved wooden figure.
    Martha leaned forward and looked at the statue. The figure looked ancient, six inches of pitted wood that tapered downward toward a pedestal base. Along the sides of the statue, a faint suggestion of arms. The oversized head had an angular face and a deep, furrowed brow. It resembled one of the brooding statues of Easter Island.
    “Do you know who this is?” Albertha asked.
    “No, I’ve not seen it before.”
    Martha rotated the figure a half turn, so that the face was in profile. The back of its head was another face, identical to the first.
    “Who is it?” Martha asked.
    “This is Jamba. He is the trickster with two faces. Look closely. See, one face looks forward, the other looks back.”
    Martha leaned closer to the figurine, the unvarnished wood flickering in the light of the stove.
    “If you want to understand what is to happen, you must understand Jamba,” Albertha said.
    Martha reached forward to take the figure from Albertha’s hands, but the lines and shadows, the chiaroscuro of her dream, were folding together, collapsing into a murky haze without definition. Then she heard a faint roar, like ocean waves.
    No, not waves—another kind of white noise. The sound of a ghostly crowd, the din of an outdoor stadium.
    Her dream was changing and a new scene fading into view, an open field at twilight. She looked around, and though she could hear the muted, reverberating din of a crowd, she saw nothing but empty bleachers in every direction. Light towers rose against an overcast sky.
    She looked down, saw the turf, the white lime of the baseball diamond, the red