The Shamaness - ebook

Table of Contents

What the Test?!? 7

Sugar or Drama? 11

Old Wood 16

The Knock 21

The Day After the End of the World 25

Before You Remember 29

People with Shadows 33

Mother 37

The First Awakening 40

Reality vs. Magic 43

The Shamaness 46

The Message 50

The Forest That Watches 54

The Wolf That Doesn’t Howl 58

From Shadow into Light 62

The Fire I Don’t Remember 66

Althaya 70

The Seer 74

Leaf Reader 77

The Circle Tightens 81

He Moved 85

A Voice I Didn’t Know 89

The Sign of the Guardians 94

The Lawyer 99

Not Everything Can Be Googled 103

Survival Guide 107

An Unwelcome Dream 111

What He Did That Summer 114

Dreams 117

A Guy from Another Dimension 120

A Stranger in the Kitchen 123

How Not to Die 127

A Letter That Smells of Smoke 131

Bay Leaf 135

Circle of Stones 139

The Beginning of the End 143

Close 147

The One Who Vanished 152

The Child’s Name 155

The Earth That Remembers 158

Let the Magic Begin… 162

The Mission 166

Three Faces and a Wolf 170

Ordinary Life, Beta Version 174

Dream or Wakefulness? 178

Not Quite My Reality 180

We. You. They. 184

She Knows More 188

Without a Guardian 191

Heart on Both Sides 195

What Awakens 199

I Don’t Dream Anymore 202

The Choice 205

Daughter of the Shamaness 208WHAT THE TEST?!?

The queue felt like a slow march to the gallows. The waiting room smelt like anxiety, instant coffee and disinfectant — the kind that always reminded me of childhood flu and that unforgettable February of 2007. In front of me, a woman in a pastel tracksuit was telling someone over the phone that her husband had forgotten their anniversary. Again.

To my left, a man was coughing in a way that — according to my quick Google diagnosis — meant he either had
a cold or the plague.

Me? I was just there to pick up some routine bloodwork. Full blood count, vitamin D, TSH... the usual. No drama, no surprises.

The nurse called my name with the same tone you'd use to announce a parking ticket. “Gaja Laskowska?”

I stood up, tugged at my coat (which always looked like it had somewhere better to be), and walked in with the face of someone who expected nothing but would very much like to sit down.

The nurse handed me an envelope and gave me that weird kind of sympathy-smile that, in clinics, usually signals one thing: something’s off.

— Have a look, everything’s in there — she said, already moving on to the next patient.

I sat down in the corner. Opened the envelope. And then
I saw it.

Beta hCG: 1817 mlU/ml

I blinked.

Then blinked again.

Then a third time out of muscle memory.

Pregnant? Pregnant?!

PREGNANT?!

I looked at the result, then up at the ceiling — as if it might explain. Then back at the paper. For a few seconds I tried to mentally rewind the last three months. Who I’d slept with. And why the answer was: my neighbour’s cat on my lap and Netflix on the telly.

I’m not the Virgin Mary. I’m not pollen-based either. The last time I had sex was… well, long before I realised my ex wasn’t just emotionally unavailable but also physically incompatible — with dishwashers, relation-ships and reality.

— This has got to be a joke — I muttered to myself.

The elderly lady next to me gave me a side-eye and clutched her lower back like I’d just summoned the devil. Or worse — a baby.

I walked out of the clinic with the expression of a food processor trying to blend concrete. The sun was shining like nothing had happened. Pigeons were eating questionable things off the pavement. And I was pregnant.

By no one.

From no one.

I got on the tram and stared out of the window like the lead in a B-list psychological drama. Didn’t even put on music. Just me and my thoughts. Which, believe me, is not the dream team.

Maybe it was a mistake?

Maybe they entered the wrong data?

Maybe those weren’t even my results?

Maybe I was on some weird reality show and no one had told me?

I sat there staring at my reflection until the “Rogalińska” stop jolted me out of my spiral. I got off. Passed the kiosk where Mr Jerzy always read Fakt like it was assigned reading. Walked through the courtyard of my block, where someone had graffitied “Life is an illusion” and someone else had added, “But the rent’s very real.”

I stepped into my flat, kicked off my shoes and sat down on the floor.

And then the thought came. The one I hadn’t dared to say out loud:

What if it’s not a mistake?

What if I really am pregnant?

By no one. And for some readaughter… something inside me had woken up.SUGAR OR DRAMA?

I didn’t sleep that night.

I mean — I tried. But my brain decided to run a mental marathon titled “What the Bloody Hell?”, subtitled “Am
I the main character in a strange fairytale or a case study in a psychiatric journal?”

I woke up at six-thirty with eyes as dry as if someone had sprinkled builder’s sand into them overnight. The sun was bleeding through the blinds, the neighbour’s cat was howling murder through the wall, and I was staring at the ceiling, asking myself the only question that mattered:

— Have I completely lost it?”

I jumped out of bed, shoved my feet into slippers, and marched to the kitchen to make tea. Green. Herbal. Calming. Soothing, allegedly.

Ha. Ha.

I flicked the kettle on — and right that second someone started banging on my front door like the world was ending and I was the last known hoarder of yeast and loo roll.

— GAJA! OPEN UP, I’VE GOT CAKE AND A CRISIS!”

There was only one voice that could pull that off.

Wiesia. My neighbour from across the hall. Seventy-two years old on paper, thirty in spirit. Voice like a rock singer after a pack of cigarettes. One leg in a tracksuit, one hand in icing, and a temperament that could teach Italian soap stars a thing or two.

I opened the door.

She stood there wrapped in a puffy sequin-studded coat, holding a cake box in one hand and a magazine in the other — Life and Magic, complete with a witch on the cover and some bloke in a cape.

— Sweetheart, this is an intervention. I brought lemon chilli cake and a hunch that you’ll bloody need it.

She breezed past me like it was her own flat and headed straight for the kitchen without waiting for permission.

— One look at your eyes and I can tell something’s up. Start talking.

— I… I began, but right then the kettle whistled — clearly also curious.

We sat in the kitchen. She sliced the cake. I poured the tea. For a moment, silence. Just the ticking of the clock and my stomach making anxious protest noises.

— I’m pregnant. — I blurted at last.

Wiesia looked over her glasses.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t choke. Didn’t drop her fork.

She just pulled a hip flask out of her handbag (yes, really), added something into her tea that smelled suspiciously like Christmas at my gran’s, and took a slow, knowing sip.

— Well then. I always said you’ve got fire in you. — Another sip. — Who? I mean… when?

I shrugged.

— That’s the thing. I’ve no idea. Last time I was with anyone... it’s been ages. Actual ages. But the test’s definite.

Silence.

So deep I swear I heard something click in my neck.

— Listen to me very carefully now — she said at last. — I’ve seen some things in my time. Two husbands, three lovers, and one hypnotist. But what you’re telling me? Gaja, this isn’t normal.

— Yeah, I’d guessed.”

— No, darling. Not bad. Just… different.

I looked at her. Serious face. No hint of irony. And something odd in her eyes. Curiosity? Understanding?

— I’ve always thought you weren’t entirely from around here. — she added, reaching for another slice. — Like you’ve got something not-quite-of-this-world about you. And maybe — just maybe — this isn’t some fluke. Maybe it’s the beginning of something much bigger.

I laughed.

That nervous kind of laugh that ends in a gulp of tea and goosebumps on your arms.

Because the truth was…Something had been shifting. For a while now. Days? Weeks?

I’d been having weird gut feelings. Little things happening the way I wanted. Coincidences that were far too on-the-nose to be actual coincidences.

Like that woman in the fur coat who screamed at me at the zebra crossing and then immediately spilled hot coffee all over her designer handbag.

Or the guy on the tube who tried to grope me and ended up getting off at the next stop with a bloody nose — even though I couldn’t remember hitting him.

Until today, I didn’t believe any of it meant anything. Until today.

— Maybe — Wiesia said, licking her fork with almost spiritual satisfaction — this is your destiny. Maybe you’re not just pregnant, Gaja. Maybe you’re waking up.

And then my phone buzzed on the table.

A message.

Unknown number.

Just one line:

— It’s time to come home.

I stared at the screen. Then at Wiesia. Then at myself.

And in that moment, I felt the world shift. Like it was making space for something new.OLD WOOD

I didn’t reply to the text.

I just stared at it for a full hour like a magpie staring into
a mirror, hoping to find some deeper meaning that clearly wasn’t there.

— It’s time to come home.

Come home to what, exactly?

Back to my sofa? To some inner version of myself? To
a mountain retreat? A bloody Steiner kindergarten?

I had no clue. But one perdaughter might. The only human being I knew who combined reading Nature magazine with burning white sage on the porch — my mum.

Which is how, three hours later, I was on a train, knees crushed against my suitcase and an elderly man’s sudoku puzzle, while he sighed into my face every five minutes.

The mountains.

Mum lived in a village so off-grid it didn’t even register on Google Maps.

Officially: “a tourist region.”

Practically: a black hole where mobile signal was
a rumour, and the local shop sold everything from woollen socks to incense sticks. There was nothing there but nature, silence, and enough nettle tea to irrigate a forest.

Last time I’d visited was two years ago. We’d had a row about something ridiculous — probably the fact that
I preferred antibiotics to onion syrup. But the moment
I stepped off the train and inhaled the cold, sharp air, something inside me calmed.

Silence. Real silence.

The kind that doesn’t ring in your ears, but smooths the edges of your thoughts.

Mum was waiting for me at the station. She wore a thick woollen cloak and looked like the lovechild of a teacher,
a forest witch, and a shepherdess in an Icelandic indie film.

— Gaja. — she said softly.

Then she hugged me. Long. Firm. The kind of hug only
a mother gives when she knows your world’s about to come apart.

— Hi, Mum. — I said.

And to my own surprise… I cracked. Not crying. But something inside me split — just slightly. Like something was loosening. Moving. Crawling out of the dark.

Mum’s house smelled of wood, herbs and old books. It was warm. A kettle was already boiling on the table, beside mugs painted with mandalas. In the corner, a cat purred like a therapist with better credentials than most.

— What’s going on, Gaja? — she asked as we sat down.

Mum never sugar-coated anything. Cotton wool was for scarves, not conversations.

— I’m pregnant. — I said. Again. And watched her eyebrow twitch.

— But… — I added — it doesn’t make sense. I don’t... remember. I mean... I don’t think I… — The words withered in my mouth.

She looked at me. Really looked. Then got up, reached for a leather-bound book from the shelf above the fireplace, and set it in front of me.

— It’s time you knew. — she said.

— In our family, some things are inherited… differently than genes.

I frowned.

— Mum, please don’t tell me I’m descended from elves or was conceived during some equinox ritual.

She smiled. Quietly. Sadly.

— No. But your great-grandmother died in the woods — and came back three days later. After that, she started healing people with her hands.

My mother could stop bleeding no surgeon could. And me... I see other people’s dreams. And I know when someone’s going to die. I always know.

She fell silent.

So did I.

For a long moment.

— Mum... — I said. — Am I going mad?

— No. You’re waking up.

That phrase again. The same as the one in the text. I felt a cold shiver, even though the fire was crackling in the hearth.

— This child — she said — it’s opening you. Just like you opened me. And me — my mother. It’s no accident. In our line, women give birth to the future. And the future doesn’t care much for logic.

I looked down at the book.

Old writing. Hand-drawn. Sketches of moons, plants, people with closed eyes and open palms.

I didn’t know what to think. But before I could ask anything, the fire gave a sharp hiss.

Then went out.

And then we heard a sound. A single knock.

Like someone tapping gently.

On the window.

But we were alone. The house stood at the very end of
a long path. No neighbours for a mile.

Mum jumped to her feet. Looked straight at me.

And for the first time in my life, I saw fear in her eyes.THE KNOCK

I always thought that if something ever knocked on my window in the middle of the night, it would be one of the following:

a) a desperate ex,

b) a drunk neighbour who’d got the wrong flat,

or c) a rogue wind in full percussion mode.

But not here. Not in a house on the arse-end of nowhere, where the closest thing to a social call was the occasional deer giving you a withering look from behind a tree.

We froze.

The fire in the hearth was dead. The cat had vanished — like he’d melted into the floorboards or relocated to
a dimension where naps aren’t interrupted by plot twists.

Another knock. This time — two quick taps.

— That’s not the wind. — Mum said. Far too calmly. Too calm to be normal.

— Thanks, Sherlock. Maybe it’s your fairy godmother from Tesco?

She didn’t answer. Just walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside with one sharp move.

Nothing.

— No one there. — she whispered. But her voice… trembled.

I stood up. Heart in my throat, but determined not to be afraid of my own shadow — even if that shadow decided to speak in Old Norse.

We stepped outside.

The air was damp. It smelled of moss and burnt wood. But the footprints were there. In the snow. Light, almost barefoot. Or… not quite human.

I looked at Mum. She had the expression of someone who had just realised something they’d rather not know.

— That’s impossible. — she murmured, more to herself than to me. — She can’t… not yet.

— She who? — I asked, already knowing I wouldn’t get an answer that made sense without a pot of psychedelic herbal tea.

She didn’t respond. Just turned around and went back inside.

I lingered.

The night was silent. Too silent. As if the silence itself was holding its breath.

I closed the door behind me and said:

— Right. Okay. I’m officially scared now. And when I get scared, I talk. A lot. And badly. So if I suddenly start quoting tampon commercials

— Sit down. — she cut in.

I sat.

Mum fetched another book from the shelf. This one looked like it had survived Krakatoa. She flipped through it. Finally found a page, and slid it across the table toward me.

A drawing.

A woman with a large belly. Surrounded by circles, symbols, strange runes. And something that looked like light — coming out of her.

— Each of us has a different way of opening. — she said. — For me, it started with dreams. My mother had visions. Your great-grandmother — voices. You, it seems, have contact with something I don’t fully understand.

— I’ve got contact with nonsense. — I muttered. — And my own rising panic. Not quite the same thing, I reckon.

— Gaja. — she looked me dead in the eye — women in this line have always carried more. Not all of them could handle it. But you’re not random. What’s happening to you… it matters.

I took a deep breath. My head was spinning with thoughts like pigeons in Rome. Only less cute. And more full of crap.

— And those footprints? — I asked. — What was that?

Mum went quiet for a moment. Then said a single word:

— Ancestor.

I blinked.

— Ances… what now? Are you telling me that the ghost of some great-great-granny from three centuries ago just dropped by for a visit because I’ve got a mini-shaman brewing inside me? Seriously?

She just nodded.

And something inside me moved.

Literally.

In my belly. Not like butterflies. Not like a cramp. No. It was conscious. As if someone — or something — wanted me to know that this was all very real.

I placed my hand on my stomach. Looked at Mum. Her eyes welled with tears.

— She already knows. — she whispered.

— Who does? — I asked, for the second time that night.

But this time, I already knew the answer.

My daughter.

THE DAY AFTER THE END OF THE WORLD

I came back to the city.

Not because I wanted to. Mostly because the fridge in my flat was starving to death and my boss had started sending messages with that special corporate tone of voice: “Come back or we’re turning your desk into a break room.” Classic way of saying “we miss you.”

I stepped off the bus with the distinct feeling that I was returning to someone else’s life. Because I was. Two days in my mum’s cottage and I felt like I’d just come out of
a soul detox. Now I was heading straight back into the toxic club of suppressed emotions and vending-machine coffee.

The lift in my building was still jerking around like it was reconsidering the meaning of existence. And my flat… greeted me with dust, drafts, and a notable absence of any social life.

— Hello, loneliness. — I muttered, dropping my bag on the floor.

I made myself some St. John’s Wort tea. Mum had shoved a jar into my hand — “for calming the mind and sharpening the intuition.” Sounded like something you could sell to hipsters for a fortune.

I drank it. It tasted like hay and nail polish remover.