Echo Soul Seekers

feeling, never wanting it to end. But with no more than a slight shake of its head, and an upward tilt of its finger, I’m off and soaring again.
    Rising. Churning. Thrusting through the waters so quickly, there’s no time to protest before I burst free.
    Free of the water.
    Free of the current.
    Left gasping and squinting through water-clogged eyes. Surprised to find myself in a calm, cool place on the waterfall’s other side.
    No longer menacing. No longer threatening. This inside view allows for a whole new perspective.
    It’s still shiny, slick, and gleaming, for sure—but from where I now float, it appears far more glorious than ominous. A brilliant cascade of crystalline waters glinting silver under the belly of a late-morning moon. The sound somehow muted—no longer the crashing crescendo I once found so deafening.
    I reach for my pouch, relieved to find it survived the journey as well. Pressing the wet buckskin to my lips, I say, “Now what?”
    Though I wasn’t really expecting an answer, the silence that greets me encourages me to go silent too.
    I silence my body. My mind. Forcing myself to grow quiet and still and see what the water reveals.
    I have no idea how long I remain like that—with my body no longer cold, my skin no longer numb, time seems inconsequential at best. All I know is that at some point my pulse begins to quicken, my heart begins to thrum, until I can actually feel the raw power of the waterfall’s energy becoming one with my own.
    It surges inside me.
    Merges with the very life force that drives me.
    Its message coming faintly at first, though it’s not long before it begins to ring clear. Rising into a beautiful harmony that wells up from the depths, until the sound of the watersong swells in my head.
I am comfort
I am death
I both take life and sustain it
I’m the lull and sway on a hot summer’s day
I’m the hardened crust of a hard winter’s spell
I’m adapting
Ever-changing
My attachments nonexisting
Follow my lead when you find yourself resisting.
    The song repeats. Playing over and over until I’m singing right along with it. And once the lyrics are lodged in my head and etched on my heart, I find my way back. The once-raging waterfall slowing to a trickle—allowing me safe passage before it returns to full force.
    Paloma and Chay meet me at the shore, warming me with a large heavy blanket she wraps snugly around me. Her hands moving over my shoulders and back, her voice thick with pride, she says, “ Nieta , you made it!”
    I gather my hair into my fist, squeezing large droplets of water onto the ground, along with a beautiful stone that glints up from below. Its color reminding me of Dace’s eyes.
    “A gift from the water.” Paloma stoops to retrieve it, displaying it on the center of her palm as I gaze upon it in wonder. “An aquamarine—a water stone. This goes in your pouch, nieta .”
    She drops it beside the other talismans as I look between her and Chay, asking, “What’s next?” Feeling more than ready to handle it, whatever it is. Sure it couldn’t be any worse than the feat I just survived—okay, barely survived, but still.
    Chay looks to Paloma. “I’ll leave that to you,” he says, giving her a brief kiss good-bye as he heads for his truck, and Paloma directs me to her Jeep, where I change back into the clothes I arrived in.
    “Fire is next.” She shields me with the blanket as she goes on to explain, “It’s the last remaining element, and some would say, the most dangerous. We don’t normally endure two trials in one day, but then again, these aren’t normal circumstances, are they?”
    “I’m ready.” My voice is determined, as I allow her to weave my hair into a long braid that falls down my back much like hers. “Whatever it takes, I’ll do it. Just tell me where to begin.”

 
    nineteen
    Dace
    After a tedious amount of nature hugging, blending, and merging, Leftfoot finally gets to the juice, saying, “Your twin is a skinwalker.”
    My first reaction is to freeze. It’s instinctive, something I couldn’t stop if I tried. My eyes darting frantically, on the lookout for anyone close enough to overhear, but of course it’s just us. Though I still don’t breathe any easier.
    One of the first things I learned as a kid was that giving your attention to something by talking about it, or obsessively thinking about it, helps make it real by delivering it right to your door whether you wanted it or not. And it works for