organs one by one.
The heart came first, and as it did I felt a thrill of pleasure. Piece by piece, I would be completely dismembered. Next came my lungs, dripping veins and arteries, then my liver and kidneys spurting blood. Like a hooded priest, the bird lifted them up in the sky and laid them down on the ground by my side. The process went on like a ritual dance, each move done in stately cadence. I had no choice but to let it continue. An eye was removed and I felt an ecstatic shudder. Then the second eye, which was placed high on the pile of glistening parts.
I lay trembling on the bed, released into wide open spaces. The walls of the room might serve as my body, or I might stretch to the edge of the Bay. This freedom had been trying to happen for as long as I could remember.
I knew my body would not be the same. The waves of pleasure passing through it told me that. I got up and looked through the window. The Bay glistened in the moonlight as if it too had been stripped to its essence. The whole world, it seemed, had been remade.
6
I T WAS A BRILLIANT DAY . A westerly morning wind had swept the sky clean and you could catch a rare smell of the sea. There was a cheerful mood in the air. All the way down Grant Avenue I could feel it—from kids playing catch on the sidewalk, in the banter I could hear on a porch. When I bought a bag of oranges at the corner grocery, the Chinese proprietor hailed me with a greeting you could hear across the street.
I carried the oranges to the office. Casey knocked at my door and came in. Before leaving the apartment I had called to ask her to find a particular section of my manuscript and she put it down on my desk. “At least you sound better,” she said, giving me a good-natured scrutiny. “What did you do last night?”
“I’m not telling. But a mysterious cure has been worked.”
“You saw Atabet.”
“Why do you say that?” I murmured, leafing through the manuscript.
“And he likes the book. He thinks it’s the very essence of the new world-view.”
“Ah Casey,” I said. “You are clairvoyant. Yes, he likes the book and I can see why.” I had found the section I was looking for, a description of shamanistic vision. I shook my head with wonder as I read it.
“I haven’t seen you look so pleased in months,” she said.
“This is incredible. Incredible . . .” The passage described initiatory rituals in Siberia that involved long meditations on the body being taken apart. “Casey?” I asked, “do you think I look part Siberian? Do you think one of my ancestors might’ve been an Iglulik shaman?”
“Yes. That look.” She rolled her eyes back in her forehead. “That look in those articles about you. That disembodied look.”
With growing elation, I turned to a chapter on prayer. Passages from Thurston, the Jesuit priest, described a spiritual fire that left marks on the contemplative’s body. “There’s so much here!” I whispered. “It’s simply amazing!”
“What a switch,” she said wryly. “What a difference a compliment can make.”
“Did I actually write this?” I murmured. “I wonder if I knew what I was doing?” I leaned back in my chair. Something like a gentle breeze was blowing through the room.
A phone was ringing in her office, and she went to answer it. “If it’s for me, I’m not here,” I shouted. “Tell them I’ll call back this afternoon.”
She came back in the room. “It’s him,” she said. “Your friend. Jacob Atabet.”
“Jacob!” I grabbed the phone.
“This is Carlos Echeverria,” the voice said. “Jacob is very sick. He wants to see you.”
“Sick?”
“Yes, sick,” he sounded angry. “He wants to see you now.”
“Wants to see me now? Are you sure?” The old man didn’t answer. “All right. Tell him I’ll be right up. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”
I stood up from the desk. “Casey,” I heard myself saying. “I’ll call you if I need you. Something’s happened to
The heart came first, and as it did I felt a thrill of pleasure. Piece by piece, I would be completely dismembered. Next came my lungs, dripping veins and arteries, then my liver and kidneys spurting blood. Like a hooded priest, the bird lifted them up in the sky and laid them down on the ground by my side. The process went on like a ritual dance, each move done in stately cadence. I had no choice but to let it continue. An eye was removed and I felt an ecstatic shudder. Then the second eye, which was placed high on the pile of glistening parts.
I lay trembling on the bed, released into wide open spaces. The walls of the room might serve as my body, or I might stretch to the edge of the Bay. This freedom had been trying to happen for as long as I could remember.
I knew my body would not be the same. The waves of pleasure passing through it told me that. I got up and looked through the window. The Bay glistened in the moonlight as if it too had been stripped to its essence. The whole world, it seemed, had been remade.
6
I T WAS A BRILLIANT DAY . A westerly morning wind had swept the sky clean and you could catch a rare smell of the sea. There was a cheerful mood in the air. All the way down Grant Avenue I could feel it—from kids playing catch on the sidewalk, in the banter I could hear on a porch. When I bought a bag of oranges at the corner grocery, the Chinese proprietor hailed me with a greeting you could hear across the street.
I carried the oranges to the office. Casey knocked at my door and came in. Before leaving the apartment I had called to ask her to find a particular section of my manuscript and she put it down on my desk. “At least you sound better,” she said, giving me a good-natured scrutiny. “What did you do last night?”
“I’m not telling. But a mysterious cure has been worked.”
“You saw Atabet.”
“Why do you say that?” I murmured, leafing through the manuscript.
“And he likes the book. He thinks it’s the very essence of the new world-view.”
“Ah Casey,” I said. “You are clairvoyant. Yes, he likes the book and I can see why.” I had found the section I was looking for, a description of shamanistic vision. I shook my head with wonder as I read it.
“I haven’t seen you look so pleased in months,” she said.
“This is incredible. Incredible . . .” The passage described initiatory rituals in Siberia that involved long meditations on the body being taken apart. “Casey?” I asked, “do you think I look part Siberian? Do you think one of my ancestors might’ve been an Iglulik shaman?”
“Yes. That look.” She rolled her eyes back in her forehead. “That look in those articles about you. That disembodied look.”
With growing elation, I turned to a chapter on prayer. Passages from Thurston, the Jesuit priest, described a spiritual fire that left marks on the contemplative’s body. “There’s so much here!” I whispered. “It’s simply amazing!”
“What a switch,” she said wryly. “What a difference a compliment can make.”
“Did I actually write this?” I murmured. “I wonder if I knew what I was doing?” I leaned back in my chair. Something like a gentle breeze was blowing through the room.
A phone was ringing in her office, and she went to answer it. “If it’s for me, I’m not here,” I shouted. “Tell them I’ll call back this afternoon.”
She came back in the room. “It’s him,” she said. “Your friend. Jacob Atabet.”
“Jacob!” I grabbed the phone.
“This is Carlos Echeverria,” the voice said. “Jacob is very sick. He wants to see you.”
“Sick?”
“Yes, sick,” he sounded angry. “He wants to see you now.”
“Wants to see me now? Are you sure?” The old man didn’t answer. “All right. Tell him I’ll be right up. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”
I stood up from the desk. “Casey,” I heard myself saying. “I’ll call you if I need you. Something’s happened to
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