The chilly night air was a refreshing shock after the close heat of the sauna. Orlando had guided him out and counseled both him and Kaz to stay silent unless they had been specifically guided to speak. Then he gave them both cups of water. 

The drink joined the air in helping to clear his head. He just couldn’t get over his awe at everything he had just learned. What surprised him most was the sense of familiarity he had experienced with this other side of Ch’usaj. Without the veneer of anger, she didn’t scare him, and he wondered if he could even grow to trust her. 

A moment later, Orlando announced that it was time to go back inside for the second round. 

“There’s more?: asked Kaz, dismay tingeing her voice. 

“Just the one, I think,” Orlando responded calmly. “We sometimes do up to four, but I don’t think we’ll need to do so in this case. The elements, particularly Chukulla, insisted on one more round. Please, Kaz, hang in there. This is important.” 

“Alright,” said Kaz, after only a short pause. 

“Well, go on,” said Orlando. “Owen?”

Owen walked towards his father’s voice until he took Owen’s outstretched hand. 

“Go on and get settled,” said Orlando. “I’ll be right in.” 

Owen crawled across the rugs, wondering. He thought he had heard something guarded in his father’s tone. Had the elements revealed something to him? Was he hiding it from Owen? Or was he just keeping it to himself because you were supposed to talk as little as possible during the break?” 

That must be it, thought Owen, settling himself on the rugs once more. Some of the reeds stuck through the wool and scratched at his bare skin as he once more removed the robe. Maria and Orlando spoke in low voices alongside the occasional soft thuds of new stones being dropped in the pit. He would ask after the ceremony, Owen decided, and tried to put the detail out of his mind. But he was still uneasy when the flap closed and Orlando began to chant. 

This time it all began much more quickly. There were no ceremonial splashes with intentions. There was no slow invocation. Orlando called on all the elements in concert, and Owen felt them descend on the small space, gathering with the oppressive clouds of steam that roiled from the center. 

Owen had trouble breathing. The hot air singed his nose hairs as it passed through, and when he opened his mouth, the steam flowed down his throat and into his lungs. He felt like he was drowning or suffocating, struggling to breathe. His heart beat insistently in his ears. He wanted to call out to his father. And then, abruptly, everything went away. 

At first he thought it was the shape of joy. The air was so light and dynamic, like the clear air at the top of a mountain that is free to dance and whirl or to stay still. Vivid. Smells and sound and feelings took on unfamiliar shapes. And textures. It was like smelling soft or hearing cinnamon. Everything took on a new definition, but nothing recognizable. As he explored this new not-smell-taste-touch-sound, it began to make a sort of sense. 

The eddies and currents of dynamic hot-cold settled into sun and shadow. Was this sight? He closed his eyes; the world reverted to normal. He opened them again. The – was it the sky? – was the texture of a simple flute melody. 

He looked around him. Something with the sweet, grounded warmth of cedar wood and the presence of a shaman rose all around him. He closed his eyes. Yes. He could hear them leaning against each other like tired elders: stern, but wise. Mountains.

He opened his eyes. The more he looked, the more he saw. Were the different textures he saw colors? 

He ran his fingers over his jacket. It felt consistent. Yet the textures – colors – snaked and played across its surface. 

He took a step and tripped. He peered at the object that had made him stumble. What was it? He ran his fingers over it. Rough bark snagged his fingers. A tree root. He followed it up to the tree itself. Magnificent. The sound of creaking ice flowing into and through the taste of rice – uniform yet separate. 

Someone approached him from behind; he heard the lightest of footsteps. Owen turned but had to shield his eyes; the joy – the light – overwhelmed. A shadow wavered out of the light, like a sound heard through water. 

The figure solidified, but the outline stayed as cool as shadow. If he squinted he could just catch shades, subtle pitches of counterpoint against a powerful melody. 

“Owen,” said the figure. It was not a question. “Do you know who I am?”

Owen almost said no, but then he realized it wasn’t true. 

“You are Músqój, aren’t you? The Dreamer herself.” 

“Yes. I need to teach you things. And you must tell no one of our meetings.” 

“No one? Not even my father?” 

“He already knows. And has been given the only guidance he will be allowed to give you. You must tell no one, lest Ch’usaj find out.”

“How will I keep her from knowing?”

“That will be our first lesson,” said the Dreamer. “Follow me.”

She walked past him, and he caught a glimpse of panpipe skin and storm-breeze hair. 

“You said before that there would be meetings?” Owen said, as he started walking. “Are we going to meet again?” 

“We will meet as much as is needed.” 

He followed, closing his eyes whenever he felt lost. 

“Is this sight?” he asked, as she led him down what sounded and felt like a path. But it looked...his eyes told him a story of a great branch meandering through the air.  

“Yes, Owen. The restrictions of the physical world do not apply here, though this realm looks little like the world you inhabit consciously.” 

“Will you teach me to see?” Owen asked eagerly, trying to catch up. 

“No. There is too much else to teach. You must learn that for yourself.”

Owen gazed around him at the texture-colors and the sound-shapes. He wanted to explore this new world. But if anyone knew what she was talking about, Músqój did. And he thought it best to listen to her. 

Soon, they reached a clearing, trees rising in lazy curves like a gentle melody. The joy shone down on them, warming his skin. Owen found that if he looked directly at it, the rest was overwhelmed by its intensity. He looked away again and caught up to Músqój, who had knelt beside a rock. He only discovered this after running his fingers over it. He realized that what he had taken for a sadness in its center was actually the depression of a bowl. 

“Before we begin,” said Músqój, “we must bind this part of your mind, to keep it separate so that not even Ch’usaj can access it. Only you will have the key.” 

“I understand,” said Owen. “What must I do?”

“Take this bag,” said Músqój. “Place it on the rock. Whatever you place in it will stay within the bag. Your father will give you a bag to be its counterpart in the physical world. He will give it to you as a protection gift so that no one will know what it truly is. For every lesson, you must place an object in the bag both in this world and in the physical one. If anyone asks, it is a way to mark your journey so you can find your way home. Wear it around your neck always. As long as it is with you, so too will I be.” 

Owen reached out a hand, suddenly trembling and sweaty, and picked up the bag. It was made of no material he had ever felt before. It was soft and so smooth that he couldn’t feel any evidence of the weave. It had a long string, which he placed around his neck. 

“Good,” said Músqój. “I have only one more thing to tell you this time. And that is that every once in a while I need an agent in the world. It has been thousands of years since the last time I took such an action, and that individual became a hero of legend, though the storytellers don’t know the half of all that She did for me. Owen, I have chosen you to be my agent. Normally, those I choose openly become my priest or priestess. But you must study in secret, as you already know. You will be my priest. Perhaps one day you will even be able to be open about it. But to start with, I will teach you in the secrecy of your dreams. Do you have any questions?”

Privately, Owen thought this a rather foolish question coming from the goddess that created the world. But perhaps she knew that, because her eyes glinted with starsong, and her mouth turned up in what he realized must be a smile. The first one he had ever seen, and he would never need to see another to reach the incredible warmth that it lit within him. 

“I’m sure I have a number of questions,” said Owen. Why me? He thought. And who was your last priestess? But he didn’t say either of these, or any of the throng clamoring for his attention. Instead, he asked. “Can you tell me which version of Ch’usaj is true?” 

At this, Músqój’s smile widened, making Owen feel like he had just drunk a mug of his mother’s best hot chocolate. “I know the other questions in your heart, Owen,” she said. “And I will answer some of those as well. But for now, I will say that your choice of question is evidence enough of why I chose you. This is a very important question. All I can tell you is that neither is entirely true, and yet both are incomplete. And much of the answer to that one question rests with you, Owen.” 

Before Owen could begin to digest the enormous weight of this statement, Músqój spoke again. “That is enough for now, Owen. You must go back. Kaz needs your help. All you need to do is reach out to her.”

Before Owen could even begin to gather a protest, the alien world of sight had vanished and he heard Kaz start to scream. There was an unsettling sizzling hum in the air, making the hairs all over his body stand on end. 

He heard Orlando yell something, but he was already scrambling across the rugs towards Kaz. 

Next Chapter: 17: Kaz - Chukulla