I made it through my 3000 word goal, although I am seriously not feeling well today. (I also made it to work). The fun today was writing in a bit of urban shamanism:
The collective had offered me a place on the floor of the Commons building, which I took with gratitude. I suspected my days sleeping in a bed would be over, and I suspected that I would sleep in the cab of my truck after I left this place.
I laid out my bedroll, using my backpack as my pillow as always. The moment I laid down and closed my eyes, a voice behind me, low and gravelly, said, “Tina and I need to talk to you outside.” I turned around and saw some of the few white people from dinner, a man of about average height with long, wavy greying hair and goatee; and a diminutive blonde woman, all dimples.
“Okay,” I queried. “What’s the reason for the secret meeting?”
“You looked really freaked out back there. During dinner.” He raised his eyebrows, and I noted that he looked much like the Asian Boys in Duluth, only with stunning hair they wouldn’t have sported.
“Well, David talked to me about hearing voices in my head. I got uncomfortable.” The shorter woman shot me a sympathetic look.
“David’s not crazy,” the man shook his head. “Streetwise, like me, but not crazy. You might want to listen to him.”
I knew I should be taking these notes down in my head, or in my notebook. The collective had a tendency toward superstition - the tree that protected, the wise crazy person — but that wasn’t the story I looked for.
“So who are you?” I asked “And why are you here?”
“I’m Allan Chang, and I should tell you I’m a shaman so some of this makes sense. This is my partner, Celestine Eisner.” Celestine, who looked about twenty, waved in acknowledgment.
“A shaman. How does that fit into the collective?” Most self-identified shamans in the post-Industrial era did not come from a culture that believed in shamans, and the likelihood was that they used mysticism to compensate for being powerless.
“They think it’s strange, because they’re not used to Asians hearing spirits.” He grinned, a wolfish grin that for a moment made me believe in totems.
“So, what’s our business tonight?” I hoped it was a story of the Alvar, because I hadn’t gotten my quota for the day.
“We need to consult the subway oracle.” Oracles in subways? That was a new one to me; previous to this, I had thought the conjunction of fortune-telling and technology had been limited to tarot readings and Miss Cleo.
“And you need a ride?” I asked, realizing that my sleep time would be shortened.
“No. By we, I mean you need to consult the subway oracle.” Allan emphasized. “I can feel the agitation David is causing you.”
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Incidentally, Allan and Celestine show up in a couple of earlier books. Celestine, it turns out, has something in common with the protagonist of this story.
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