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Dennis McKay
amazon.com
Category:
Literary Fiction
Publisher: iUniverse
ISBN-10: 1491761784
Type: Fiction
Pages: 166
Copyright: April, 6, 2015
ISBN-13: 9781491761786
Price: $3.99 (eBook)
Following a terminal diagnosis, a synchronistic chain of events leads Peter Richards to strike out for a remote village high in the Andes in search of a shaman and a miracle.
With a unique cast of characters from Peter's guide, Aldo Coreas, a man torn between the modern world and his ancestral past; to Havo, the old mountain shepherd with a ken beyond the here and now; to Pavor, the wily and ruthless shaman of The Cloud People, McKay combines a superb narrative with an unforgettable story that coalesces with a discovery from the distant past that determines a new and dangerous course in Peter's life journey.
When confronted by inoperable brain cancer, what leads a man to dismiss modern science in search of a miracle? This question is at the heart of my mainstream novel, The Shaman and the Stranger.
Peter Richards, a successful architect with a wife and fourteen-year-old son, has his life forever altered by a synchronistic chain of events that leads him to Peru. With the aide of a guide, he scales a rugged, remote mountain in search of a shaman and his miracle.
Along the way, he discovers that he is not the man he had taken himself to be. The journey trims away his pragmatic exterior and reveals a deeper introspective side; he feels one with his new environment.
Peter’s encounter with the shaman shatters all of his logical beliefs about who he is and where he came from. The ensuing events lead to a profound discovery from the past that determines a new and dangerous course in Peter’s life journey.
Excerpt
With coca leaves between cheek and gum, they continued through another windy section, turning and curving around boulder after boulder, higher and higher.
The trail leveled off and wound around a meadow of wildflowers, deep purple and bright yellow, past which they came upon a small pool of water in a table plateau. They refreshed themselves and filled their canteens … all the while in silence, silence all around. Not a bird chirp or the trickle of water, or another human voice—silence.
Onward Peter walked, sucking slowly on the coca, eyes ahead, heart in chest beating alive with anticipation.
Through a copse of stubby trees covered in a coil of green moss and vines, they came to a sheer drop-off as though a giant had chiseled a V into the heart of the mountain. Stretching across it was a bridge made of thick, plaited rope vines.
Peter and Aldo stood at the foot of the bridge. Far beneath them, a dark green river snaked through a canyon, water caroming recklessly into the sheer rocky sides, creating a repetitive scene of organized chaos.
Aldo looked back at Peter and then at the sun in its downward arc, casting long shadows across the river.
“Just like Yachay said, the swinging bridge of maguey plant. This is a shortcut. You good to cross?”
A knot tightened in Peter’s throat at the sight of the rickety-looking bridge. He started to drop his gaze below and then stopped. “I am good.”
“Okay, amigo, you watch me cross first.”
Aldo stepped onto the first plank of the bridge, which was no more than fifty feet in length. Slowly but surely he made his way across, each hand holding the vine latticed handrails. The bridge swayed when Aldo reached the midpoint, where he stopped for a moment before continuing. When he reached the other end, he waved for Peter to cross.
“What the hell,” Peter shouted. “Die here or somewhere else—some other time, some other place.”
He put his foot on the first plank just as Aldo had done, and then took another step. Don’t look down, he told himself as he secured his hands on the railings. He continued across, not looking anywhere but at Aldo. At the midway point, the bridge began to rock, and Peter stopped to let the bridge and himself settle down. In his mind’s eye, he saw Debra at the kitchen table going over bills and Devon at his desk in his room. He could not see their faces clearly, like a bad reception. The faces then came clear, and they said in unison, “Cross it, Peter, Dad. We will be here waiting for you upon your return.”
Peter was jarred from his daydream when Aldo shouted, “Pedro, you okay?”
“Yes.” He started making his way again, one step forward, one hand forward …
As Peter reached the end, Aldo extended his hand bringing Peter back on terra firma.
“You could use a coca leaf,” Aldo said through a broad smile. “Well done, amigo.” He patted Peter on the shoulder and said, “You cross bridge like nomada al cielo, like sky walker.”
“Yachay’s way is known to few,” Aldo said, nodding as if to confirm his words. “We save time, but more difficult. As you say, what the hell.”
Peter looked at the gnarly, viny bridge and then below to the bottom of the gorge, a good three-hundred-foot drop. “Indeed, what the hell.” Peter flashed a grin at Aldo. “Well, are we going to hang over this cliff all day?”
“Ha, ha, amigo, you do have espíritu. Let us share the coca and continue our journey.”
The trail led to a series of switchbacks. The first was wide enough for two men to walk side by side, but Peter stayed to Aldo’s rear hugging the mountainside. Far below was a stream with sheep along the edge. A hut was nearby. It dawned on Peter that this was Havo’s place. A thin thread of smoke spiraled into the sky from a fire that a man, Havo no doubt, sat beside. It was like a miniature scene with the brown land and silvery stream cutting though it, and Havo and the sheep like tiny toys.
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