Fated

ask if she’s all right when she faces me and says, “There is an old and very wise Native American saying: Every time you point a finger in scorn—there are three remaining fingers pointing right back at you. ” Her gaze settles on mine. “You must always bear that in mind, nieta. You must never be quick to judge. Though, that said, you must also be aware that Seekers have enemies. There are those whose sole intent is to overpower us, if not destroy us. Which means I will teach you how to deal with the dark, just as I will train you to embrace the light.”
    She moves toward the shelf along the far wall, thumping the red-painted drum as she passes—the move causing it to reverberate in a way that prompts me to cover my ears and cower in fear. My reaction so odd and unexpected, Paloma turns, eyes narrowing when I say, “Sorry. It’s just … that sound really bothers me. I know you didn’t mean to hit it—but, still, I really prefer not to hear it.”
    She leans against the shelf, tissue still pressed to her nose. “The drum is a sacred instrument,” she says, pausing long enough to allow the words to settle, take shape. “It’s like I told you before, everything contains energy—everything maintains its own spirit—and the drum is no different. Its sound is akin to a heartbeat, a life pulse. It’s often referred to as a Spirit Horse as its tempo provides a portal, allowing one to journey to the otherworlds.” Then, catching my expression, she adds, “There is nothing to fear, nieta. ”
    I toy with the hem of my sweatshirt, not the least bit assured by her words. “That may be so,” I say. “But back in that Moroccan square, as well as in the Rabbit Hole, it was the sound of the drums that made the world stop and urged the glowing people and crows to appear.”
    Paloma’s eyes shine as she crumples the bloodstained tissue into a ball. “And so you have already experienced its power,” she says. “Tell me, nieta, did the air grow hazy and shimmery?”
    I twist my fingers, digging my nails hard into my flesh. Watching as she makes for the sink where she disposes of the tissue and washes her hands.
    “Had you followed them and done as they asked, you would’ve found yourself in another world—another dimension.” She drops the towel, reaches into a cupboard, and pulls out a small black bag.
    “So … you’re saying I should’ve gone with them?” I tilt my head and shoot her a skeptical look.
    “No.” She flings her braid over her shoulder, allowing it to fall down her back. “I’m not saying that at all. It’s better you ignored them. You weren’t ready to heed their call, and there’s a good chance you would’ve been lost. Of course, I would’ve found you … eventually. But no, you did the right thing. Much like the tea allowed your soul to journey, the drumbeat allows your body to journey. Though it’s just a matter of time before you will require neither. Soon you will be able to determine the portals on your own. Enchantment has several, as you will soon see.”
    “And exactly why do I want to travel to these other dimensions?” I ask, tracking her moves as she whirs about the room, collecting an assortment of what appear to be random, completely unrelated things: a small box of matches, a red bandanna, a slim white candle, a few stubs of chalk, a small rattle made of rawhide, along with a few other items I can’t quite make out.
    “Because you have important work to do there. You’re about to journey down the Spirit Road where many things will be revealed—your greatest gifts, your greatest weakness, along with your true purpose for your time here in the Middleworld. Though be aware, they may not all be revealed at once. In some cases, it takes years to decipher them—though I have a feeling that for you, the reveal will come quicker than most.”
    “But I thought you said I was about to start my vision quest, and now you’re talking about a walk down the Spirit Road, and, well, I’m a little confused. Which is it? What’s the difference?”
    “It is all a part of the same, and it will all become clear soon enough.” Her shoulders rise and fall, signaling the explanation is over, despite the fact that she only succeeded in confusing me more.
    She motions for me to sit as she riffles through a drawer, returning with a small buckskin pouch that looks a lot like the one she wears. Draping it around my neck, she says, “A Seeker has many tools, and this is