be Kizzy, didn’t you?”
“That bugger Petar make me fool.”
“So you’ve heard nothing?”
She gave a dismal shake of her head. I wrapped my arms round her and hugged for a long time.
“This is a rundown on the shamanic journey I’ve done for you.” I pulled out my report and laid it on the bed. I’d used a lot of what I laughingly called “illustrations” in the report; pen and ink sketches of the forest, the gypsies, the wolf, and his gift and directions.
She stared at it. “What it say?”
I read the report out to her, word for word, then passed her the paper. “The stick the wolf left is a spirit gift I’d like you to offer you shamanically.”
“Okay.” Mirela put out her hand.
I smiled. “You would need to lie down, on your bed, and I’d blow it into you.”
With no further comment, Mirela climbed on the bed, lying on her back, her hands clasped on her stomach.
I spent a moment visualizing the stick, replete with dog-drool and mud. I described the gift aloud, in a quiet tone. Then I cupped my hands over Mirela’s heart chakra and blew with a huff of air, sending the image into her.
“Does such an image mean anything to you?” I asked. Mirela didn’t respond, and I spoke more plainly. “Would a stick say something? Or throwing a stick for a dog? Anything like that?”
Mirela had closed her eyes. “Where is my Kizzy?” she whispered.
I straightened up. I had meant to ask her if she knew anything about any of the four places the wolf had spoken of, but I was already overloaded and confused by his instructions and I didn’t want to pass that on to Mirela. “To be honest, I think it’s time for action. I was hoping that we could go and see Mr. Quigg together.”
“Quigg! Rubbish!” Mirela wrinkled her nose. “I don’ trust. Kizzy don’ trust.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be your advocate—help you ask the right questions and get some proper answers. That’s why I got here in good time, so we could do it before you start your shift.” I tried another smile. “How d’you feel about that?”
Mirela stuffed my report into her brown felt bag. “Okay. Let’s go.”
_____
The Agency for Change was situated a walk away from the centre of town, close to the canal and above the Polska Café. This was a lovely little joint serving Polish food from nine in the morning to nine at night. I’d been there once, with an old boyfriend, in the evening when the candles were lit on the square wooden tables and soft twenties jazz played from behind the counter. In the day it tended to service the immediate area along the canal—a tyre replacement garage, a legal firm, and a slightly amateur recording studio—as well as the Bridgwater Poles who liked to pick up their community gossip from the café.
Mirela led me up some outer stairs and through a bottle-glass door into the agency’s office. A receptionist just out of babyhood was taking phone calls that were giving her a succession of nervous breakdowns.
“Excuse me,” I said, eventually. “We were after Mr. Quigg. We don’t have an appointment, but it’s urgent. Any chance of seeing him?”
“Oh, he’s on his coffee break.” Her left hand was tangled into the tong-straightened locks of her tight ponytail. She didn’t leave off playing with the strands even when she had to take a message. She simply slammed on the speakerphone before searching for her mislaid pen. I was getting an excellent idea of the sort of problems they dealt with here. “You could try the café.”
“Won’t he mind?”
The girl didn’t reply. Mirela tugged at me. She understood what I hadn’t; you took your chances with the Agency for Change.
We followed the savoury scents down to the café. It was warm and buzzed with chatter. A woman with a face severed by premature lines was serving two office girls frothy coffees. Otherwise the café was filled with blokes. Some had the oil of car maintenance under their fingernails, or guitars slung over
“That bugger Petar make me fool.”
“So you’ve heard nothing?”
She gave a dismal shake of her head. I wrapped my arms round her and hugged for a long time.
“This is a rundown on the shamanic journey I’ve done for you.” I pulled out my report and laid it on the bed. I’d used a lot of what I laughingly called “illustrations” in the report; pen and ink sketches of the forest, the gypsies, the wolf, and his gift and directions.
She stared at it. “What it say?”
I read the report out to her, word for word, then passed her the paper. “The stick the wolf left is a spirit gift I’d like you to offer you shamanically.”
“Okay.” Mirela put out her hand.
I smiled. “You would need to lie down, on your bed, and I’d blow it into you.”
With no further comment, Mirela climbed on the bed, lying on her back, her hands clasped on her stomach.
I spent a moment visualizing the stick, replete with dog-drool and mud. I described the gift aloud, in a quiet tone. Then I cupped my hands over Mirela’s heart chakra and blew with a huff of air, sending the image into her.
“Does such an image mean anything to you?” I asked. Mirela didn’t respond, and I spoke more plainly. “Would a stick say something? Or throwing a stick for a dog? Anything like that?”
Mirela had closed her eyes. “Where is my Kizzy?” she whispered.
I straightened up. I had meant to ask her if she knew anything about any of the four places the wolf had spoken of, but I was already overloaded and confused by his instructions and I didn’t want to pass that on to Mirela. “To be honest, I think it’s time for action. I was hoping that we could go and see Mr. Quigg together.”
“Quigg! Rubbish!” Mirela wrinkled her nose. “I don’ trust. Kizzy don’ trust.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be your advocate—help you ask the right questions and get some proper answers. That’s why I got here in good time, so we could do it before you start your shift.” I tried another smile. “How d’you feel about that?”
Mirela stuffed my report into her brown felt bag. “Okay. Let’s go.”
_____
The Agency for Change was situated a walk away from the centre of town, close to the canal and above the Polska Café. This was a lovely little joint serving Polish food from nine in the morning to nine at night. I’d been there once, with an old boyfriend, in the evening when the candles were lit on the square wooden tables and soft twenties jazz played from behind the counter. In the day it tended to service the immediate area along the canal—a tyre replacement garage, a legal firm, and a slightly amateur recording studio—as well as the Bridgwater Poles who liked to pick up their community gossip from the café.
Mirela led me up some outer stairs and through a bottle-glass door into the agency’s office. A receptionist just out of babyhood was taking phone calls that were giving her a succession of nervous breakdowns.
“Excuse me,” I said, eventually. “We were after Mr. Quigg. We don’t have an appointment, but it’s urgent. Any chance of seeing him?”
“Oh, he’s on his coffee break.” Her left hand was tangled into the tong-straightened locks of her tight ponytail. She didn’t leave off playing with the strands even when she had to take a message. She simply slammed on the speakerphone before searching for her mislaid pen. I was getting an excellent idea of the sort of problems they dealt with here. “You could try the café.”
“Won’t he mind?”
The girl didn’t reply. Mirela tugged at me. She understood what I hadn’t; you took your chances with the Agency for Change.
We followed the savoury scents down to the café. It was warm and buzzed with chatter. A woman with a face severed by premature lines was serving two office girls frothy coffees. Otherwise the café was filled with blokes. Some had the oil of car maintenance under their fingernails, or guitars slung over
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