Unraveled Visions (A Shaman Mystery) by Nina Milton Read Free Book Online Page B

shaman cannot give advice over issues they refuse to explore themselves. It is true that the paths can be snarled, but that is part of the Tides of the World of Spirit. ”
    Tides of the World of Spirit? I’d never heard the phrase. My shamanic teacher, Wolfsbane, had certainly never used it, and he did love his high-flown archaisms.
    “You sang to me when I was ill. When I was unconscious and lost from the world. You brought me back; you and Bren Howell between you.”
    She bowed her head. “That was then. Now, you are enduring again.”
    “I remember something you told me once. That I was a survivor.”
    “Indeed, but you should not linger here. Return to the solid world, Sabbie. Heal yourself.”
    So much was happening in the one journey. I had to sort it out in my mind. Was the ice temple Drea’s spirit world? Why had the snake attacked me? And who was this river goddess that returned each time I was desperate for help? My mind was filled images and I tried to slow them down. I looked round for Trendle, but he was probably still battling the serpent.
    As he’d sprung at Anaconda, I had caught a micro-second’s glimpse of the girl. She had rolled onto her back, her arms over her face, her body revealed—a sudden vivid image of her rounded stomach, like a fairy hill on a flat landscape.
    Everything slotted into place. I’d felt some disturbance at the sacral chakra when I was giving Drea Reiki. I’d thought it might be some sort of upset or disorder. But now I was sure; Drea was pregnant, or hoping to be.
    _____
    I was numbed with cold as I roused from the journey, and too exhausted to think. I sat cross-legged on the floor cushions, the fleece pulled round my shoulders as I scribbled down my journey notes. There was a tingling at the base of my stomach. The psychic attack had followed me into this world. Anaconda had aimed at the place I’d felt Drea’s disturbance … the sacral chakra.
    I went over to where I kept my aromatherapy oils. I pulled up my black dress and rubbed a drop of lavender into the invisible wound. The box containing my chakra crystals lay close by. I chose a smooth piece of carnelian, a deep and beautiful blood orange, and lay down on the cushions again, placing it over the little spot of lavender. I pulled both fleeces over my bone-cold body and closed my eyes, trying to visualize healing.
    I lay half-dazed. It took all my efforts not to fall asleep. I tried to think through the events of the shamanic journey, but it was hopeless; I was too exhausted for thinking. A roaring sound took over my head. It might have been rushing water, or the hiss of snakes, or the shifting of glaciers.
    Or the song I’d first heard when, eight years ago, I had been unconscious and in hospital. I finally understood that the Lady of the River had known me long before she’d made herself known to me.
    I polished the carnelian and placed it in its box. I put the lavender oil away in darkness. I shifted the floor cushions into a pile at the side of the room.
    Something fluttered from a cushion and floated to the ground. The scrap of paper Drea had written her question on lay like a moth resting before dark, still folded over and over.
    A shaman must search out the hidden inside people. They see around corners, understand subtle energies. By being curious, questioning, they can bring back amazing answers. But me … sometimes I’m too inquisitive for a shaman’s good. Nosey is the word. There’s no helping it.
    It wasn’t my place, as her therapist, to pry into anything Drea had not given me permission to know, but my whole being was burning up with curiosity. Anyhow, permission is a subjective term. If she’d not wanted me to know, surely she would have stuffed the paper into her bag.
    I lifted it between finger and thumb and opened it as if it were ancient parchment. Drea had printed three words:
    AM I SAFE
    My mouth refused to shut. I’ve never been as happy as I am now, she’d insisted, but in my mind