Song of the Shaman Read Online Free PDF

warranted serious attention. Still, what should she say? Mother had always praised her work, but Father never seemed to be impressed. I do believe that’s a tree, he’d uttered recently upon viewing one of her sketches. He handed her the paper and went back to whatever was on his desk or his mind.
    “I studied art in school.”
    Benjamin squinted at her, the overhead sun accentuating the hollows of his face.
    “Art is a gift from Sibo, the Great Spirit. You can’t learn it.”
    She paused, feeling both flattered and conflicted. He surveyed the grounds before him.
    “Where in Panama do you live?” He parted a bush and pulled thick vines together to chop at its roots. Louise picked up the sack, holding it open for him.
    “In the city. My father works for the Canal Commission.” She watched him shove a bunch of tangled vines into the bag.
    “Many Costa Ricans went to work on the canal. It’s either that or the coffee plantations.”
    “What about you?” Louise shook the bag to settle the vines.
    “Grandfather is training me to become an awa. I spend hours at his side learning the songs and rituals.” He inspected a thorny twig cutting before wrapping it in a banana leaf.
    “How interesting! What kind of songs?”
    “Mostly healing songs. There are hundreds of them.” They traveled a bit further, stopping in front of a sprawling hedge with hanging red blossoms. “I have to learn them all from memory.” He began plucking flower buds from the tree.
    “Do you know the healing song for my sister? I’d love to hear it.”
    Benjamin cradled an armful of blossoms like a newborn baby.
    “The songs are sacred. They’re meant only for the person who is sick.”
    “Of course! Stupid of me to ask,” Louise added quickly, feeling her cheeks redden. What was she thinking? Benjamin studied her for a moment. He casually picked a few more flowers. She opened the sack to catch the waterfall of crimson that spilled from his arms into the bag, wondering if it matched the color of her face. He then reached into this shirt pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a small white whistle. There were half a dozen holes drilled into it, and one end was plugged with wax. He blew slowly through the larger opening. Several soft, shrill notes floated into the air. All was still; even the insects and birds seemed to hold their breath. Louise took a step toward Benjamin, captivated by the sound.
    “That was lovely…like a bird’s call. What is that?”
    He held out the whistle in the palm of his hand.
    “It’s a kind of flute made from the bone of a pelican’s breast,” he said, turning the smooth, curved instrument over with his thumb. “The tune was meant to call the quetzal. I sometimes see them here in the aguacatillo tree.” He looked up, peering through the branches of the fruit-laden tree. “They love to eat wild avocado.”
    “Oh, I hope we see one! Their green tail feathers are so long and stunning. My mother used to read us stories about the quetzal.”
    Side by side they searched the rain forest trees for a glimpse of the resplendent bird. Benjamin described its habitat between curious glances at her.
    “The quetzal is a shy bird; they make their nests high in these trees. You can hear them sing in the morning and at dusk when they mark their land. Some tribes believe they symbolize the Quetzalcoatl—the god of the sky, sun, and wind.” He stooped to snap a leaf off a plant and put it to his nose. “Others say he is a trickster.”
    “What do you believe?” she asked, watching him draw the plant from its roots.
    “Grandfather says he is a wisdom teacher. He calls on the quetzal for guidance as part of a ritual. If he sees one, it’s a sign the ceremony will be successful.” Benjamin collected a bunch of the crisp aromatic leaves. Louise opened the sack for him to deposit them and turned her face to the cloudless sky.
    “My father is very worried about Maud. She’s been ill for some time.”
    “Don Pedro