51. A Blank Wall Of Silence

There’s a blank wall of silence in my mind when I try and think back, to capture the essence of what it was like to live and work with a boy from Kent who called himself a shaman, who’s still out there, working. I’m exhausted by it. I don’t know where to start. Is it enough to say that we ran sweat lodges every three weeks, hordes of naked crying people crawling in and out of a pitch-dark dome in the mud while he intoned and chanted and spat water, hot rocks hissing? How we stood about afterwards, flushed and confused eating baked potatoes. The hauling of those heavy blankets onto strings in the barn to dry in time for the next one, how everyone wanted to feel like they were his special helper. How he skipped about the kitchen, a firecracker of energy, taking up all the space. How he let me be seduced by him – and I’ve worded that sentence carefully because I knew, even at the time, that he had no interest in me as a lover. Yet that was my language of devotion and he needed me to stay at heel so that’s what he did; he let me in occasionally, just often enough for me to feel that between us there was something precious. If only women talked to each other. How much time we’d save if instead of staring up at some f****r we turned to each other and compared notes. Did I mention his long-suffering girlfriend? No, nor did he, not until he was properly ensconced, feet firmly under the table. And once we’d all got used to that reality he brought in his Spanish lover, she who he said was a shaman too, his equal, and no, I didn’t take offence at the inference, I just lay in bed listening to them having sex down the hall. My god he rode roughshod, it’s shocking to think of it now. And I believed in him. I believed every word he said. What he didn’t say but should have, if he’d had an ounce of conscience, was that he wanted the farm, its beauty and power, the sheer force of these hills and land, he wanted it all to himself. And he got it, almost. That’s the trouble with shamans, the white ones anyway, the ones not born of the lineage, they think we’re all idiots. They think the power is in them. If he hadn’t got high on his own supply and overplayed his hand, I’d have lost this place. But he did. The Literary Obsessive has a paywalled archive. To access the full gamut, and support my work, upgrade now. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit eleanoranstruther.substack.com/subscribe