Echo Soul Seekers

glance toward the door, hoping Paloma didn’t hear the commotion and won’t choose to investigate. Then I drop beside the old box and open the flaps. Instantly overcome by a whiff of dust, must, and a deeper earthier aroma of spice, mesquite, and a few other unnamed scents I’ve come to associate with this place.
    I riffle through the contents. Skimming past an old hand-knit sweater I reject at first sight, an old flannel shirt worn nearly to death, a pile of yellowing T-shirts that used to be white … until I come across a black down jacket that might be a bit on the big side but will definitely serve the purpose I need.
    About to close the box back up and return it to its place, I notice a pile of papers lining the bottom and decide to go through those too. Finding an old report card of Django’s, with A’s in Spanish and PE, a B+ in English, and C’s in both history and science, I rock back on my heels and smooth my fingers across the crinkled page. Shuttering my eyes as I try to picture how he was back then—a good-looking guy with a nose like mine—an average student headed for a-not-so average destiny he just couldn’t face.
    I set the report card aside and dig a little deeper. Feeling oddly guilty for prying but equally eager for anything I can get, I read everything. More report cards, class schedules, a folded-up note from a girl named Maria, who was obviously into him if the string of small hearts lining the edges are anything to go by. Eventually coming to the note he left for Paloma the day he ran away, having no idea his journey would be both tragic and short. That not long after arriving in California, he’d fall hard for my mom and impregnate her, only to end up decapitated on a busy LA freeway well before she could break the news.
    I take a deep breath, unable to keep my hands from shaking when I read:
Mama,
By the time you read this, I will be well on my way, and though you’ll be tempted to come after me, I’m begging you to please let me be.
I’m sorry for any disappointment and pain that I’ve caused. It was never my intention to hurt you. I am lucky to have such a kind, loving, and supportive mother, and I hope you’ll understand that my leaving has nothing to do with you as a person.
This place is closing in on me. I can’t take it anymore. I need to get far away—go to a place where nobody knows me.
Where the visions can’t find me.
You speak of destiny and fate—but I believe in free will. The destiny I choose is one that happens in a place far from here.
I’ll be in touch when I settle.
     
Love,
Your Django
    I read the note again.
    And then again.
    And after reading it so many times I’ve lost count, I fold it up neatly, slip it back toward the bottom, and return the box to its place.
    Then I drag on my dad’s old down jacket and explore all the pockets. Inching to the edge of each seam, stopping when I discover something small and smooth, with a surprising amount of heft to it.
    I uncurl my fingers, revealing a small stone replica of a bear that’s etched in the same style as the raven I wear in my pouch. The one that was mystically carved following my very first visit to the Lowerworld, when I traveled on a soul journey aided by Paloma’s tea. And I can’t help but wonder if this is how Bear came to him too.
    I always assumed that Django, haunted by the horrific visions that mark the start of every Seeker’s calling, left long before Paloma could share the ritual with him—but now I’m no longer sure.
    Still, I’m happy to have a token from my dad, no matter how small. So I add it to my collection of talismans, remembering what Paloma said just after the pendulum confirmed that I should continue wearing the pouch: You shouldn’t abandon the spirit animals when it wasn’t their choice to abandon you.
    I make my way to the yard, forging a path past the various gardens. One for the herbs Paloma uses in her work as a healer, one for the organic fruits and vegetables she uses to prepare all our meals. Pausing to survey the plot of land reserved for her hybrid experiments—where strange, misshapen plants sprout from the earth, perpetually in bloom no matter the season—before continuing past the fountain and the small stone bench, ultimately stopping at Kachina’s stall.
    When I spot my adopted cat napping in the corner, I take great care to quiet my approach. Still, the second he senses my presence, his head pops up, his ears perk high, he springs to his