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“Jim, ask
him how I do that. I don't know how to do that.”—Blair Sandburg,
Warriors
***It’s true. He doesn’t. Doesn’t know. Or at least, he doesn’t know it all. He doesn’t know exactly what Incacha did when he passed on the way of the Shaman to him. He doesn’t know everything about my time in Peru. He doesn’t know that the Shaman is guide to the Sentinel even as the Sentinel is guide to the Shaman. He doesn’t know that the Sentinel protects the tribe by extending his senses and the Shaman protects the tribe by partnering the Sentinel…in every way. And he doesn’t know about the dreams… Or at least he didn’t.Even if I could sleep (which I can’t) and even if I didn’t have enhanced hearing (which I do) and even if I wasn’t tuned in to every minute sound coming from that room under the stairs (which I am, though I’ll deny it if asked), I’d still be able to hear the restless movement going on down there. Futon creaking, sheets riffling, a body moving back and forth… It’s been a week since everything with the Chopec went down. A week of seeing old friends buried, for both Blair and I. A week of finalizing reports, keeping up with current cases, too much take-out and too little sleep. It’s the dreams. They’re back. And I know what they mean. But I don’t think Sandburg does. I’ve always had vivid dreams, ever since I can remember. Could be its like Sandburg once said, that I dream out all the stuff I repress when I’m awake. That makes as much sense as anything. But when you factor in the whole Sentinel business, then you have to start looking at the dreams as much more than that. Oh, I’m sure not all my dreams are portents of doom, or earth shattering revelations. I mean, there was the guy with the cheese, for example—I have no idea what the hell that was about. Or the one where Sandburg is wrestling Vicky Pollard in the Manatee exhibit at Sea World… Ah, but the panther…Jaguar, to be specific…the black jaguar… My animal spirit, and even though I tend to scoff and bluff and ignore it most of the time, at least in daylight, I have to say, that damned cat scares the hell outta me. If I start seeing the black jaguar, it’s a good bet someone’s going to be hurting. Probably me. Maybe someone important to me… To be honest, I hadn’t dreamed about the jaguar for years. Not since Peru the first time round, and frankly, I’d come home from that crazy snafu with only vague memories of the jaguar…and another cat, pacing mine…something spotted—not another jaguar—smaller—I don’t know what you’d call it. Sandburg would know. And then, of course, we went back. It had been over five years, and for most of that, Peru had just been a part of my repressed life, filed away in my brain somewhere under B for Before. Before the P.D. Before Vice and Before Carolyn… And then along came Major Crimes, Sarris, the senses and Sandburg… More sly rustling sounds from downstairs and I almost get out of the bed. Then with a sigh I pull the sheets back up to my chest and contemplate the clear night sky I can see through the skylight. I’ll know when it’s time. The jaguar came back when I went back to Peru. It had been a good year. I was pretty comfortable with my senses, a little less comfortable with living with Sandburg (Doesn’t he realize that tofu is only one molecule away from Lego?) and distinctly uncomfortable about going back to Peru. But Simon was my friend and I’d be damned if I’d let another friend die in the jungle… I realize
my thoughts have gone so far off track that Amtrak couldn’t rescue
them, and I
still haven’t let myself think about what’s going to happen
now.
*** ***
I hear a groan from downstairs and this time I get as far as
sitting up before I stop. I wait, and in a few minutes I hear a couple
of
blanket adjustments and Sandburg makes a slurry sighing noise that
tells me
that even if he did wake up a little, he’s asleep again.Asleep, and dreaming…. So, Peru… I remember Sandburg sleeping where we’d made rough camp in the jungle. My senses were pretty much gone, but I’d been seeing the jaguar. It seemed to be following me. Following us. With the clarity of hindsight, I can see now that the jaguar was the easiest way to goad me into action. It worked that way five plus years ago, and it still does now. Of course, I don’t intend to fight it this time. As for Sandburg… It’s been a week since Incacha showed up in Cascade, bringing violence and fear and death to my home. Along with warmth and humor and a crazy longing that felt like homesickness. And now I’m dreaming. Dreaming too much. And not cheese-man dreams. No, sir. ***
“He passes
over the way of the shaman to you. He wants you
to guide me to my animal spirit.”—Jim Ellison, Warriors ***
Sandburg pleaded with me when I shut down my senses. And
when that didn’t work, he whined. That just made it worse. And finally,
when I
refused to admit that the choice was mine, when I was just about out of
my head
over Incacha’s death and when I was flinging blame like Old World
monkeyshit
over everything and everyone in sight, he used anger.Sandburg angry is a terrifying and beautiful thing. I think at that moment in the kitchen he could have kicked my ass completely. And I would have let him. I did let him. He took what he did understand of Incacha’s last actions, analyzed them as best he could in the short time he had, and demanded that I act on them. He kicked my ass on a spiritual level instead of physical, but the results were no less spectacular. I found not only my animal spirit, but also the criminals who had killed Blair’s old friend and my old guide. I found that other cat for one brief moment (cheetah? Manx? Damn I hate it when something’s on the tip of my tongue like this), and understood exactly what it was Incacha had done. And I found the wolf. Pack creatures, wolves, but this one was alone. I only had a moment to wonder what a wolf that looked like it would fit right in somewhere in the northwest forest was doing in the Peruvian jungle and then it disappeared into said jungle. Well, not completely. That wolf shadowed the jaguar and I through the whole spirit walk. It seemed afraid to get too close, but desperate to be nearby at the same time. And I remembered something else about wolves as I watched it dart in and out of the underbrush. Wolves mate for life. Another groan from Sandburg, this one loud enough that it might have woken me if I’d been asleep, something I am pretty sure is absolutely not on the agenda tonight if the last few nights have been any indication.<>Okay, so I took the spirit walk for Simon and Darryl and with Sandburg’s help we caught the bad guys (okay, killed a lot of bad guys but I don’t want to tarnish my shiny armor too much tonight) and saved our friends. And the cat followed me home, took up residence just out of reach of my conscious thoughts, and roared in approval when Blair decided we were friends. I didn’t see it again after that, and it was easy to dismiss it. And then Incacha and the tribe and Sandburg and bang! I’m back in that jungle again, negotiating with the jaguar, myself, whatever the hell it was, somehow I got through it again, and Sandburg told me in no uncertain terms that he was along for the ride no matter where it took us. But now it’s a week later, and the jungle hasn’t been so easy to dismiss this time. The cat isn’t just hidden in unremembered thoughts and deep sleep. The jaguar is making its presence known in big bad scary ways, from daydreams and nightmares to the damned hood of my car. And I keep going back…back full circle and back to Peru, the crash, the army, the Chopec and Incacha. The first dream was just an unending race through blue jungle landscape and sometimes I was beside the jaguar and sometimes I was the jaguar but either way we—I—ran and ran, leaping in and out of trees, crossing streams, scrambling through tangled underbrush, but never stopping. I woke from that dream exhausted, like I hadn’t slept at all. And I took Sandburg’s head off for toasting his bagel too loud. (I got a long suffering sigh for that one and he spent most of that day and well into the evening at the University, blatantly avoiding me, which I totally understood and which totally pissed me off at the same time). More running dreams followed the next night, interspersed with that cheese guy, but this time the pace didn’t seem quite so frantic, and every now and then as I glanced around to make sure as either human or cat that my footing was secure, I’d glimpse rough brown fur slaloming between the trees, occasionally a hint of pink lolling tongue, a sparkle of dark blue eye…<> The wolf I’d encountered when I recovered my senses was still here. Still by my side. Regardless of my appearance, human or otherwise, in the dream world, he was still there. I wasn’t quite as surly the next morning, but Sandburg looked worn out, hanging off the blender as he mixed some vile green thing he’d decided was breakfast. Hair falling in his face, robe tied sloppily so I could see the soft curl of chest hair where it gaped open… When Incacha appeared the next night, I felt like a five year old encountering a ghost. Amazed, but at the same time piss-scared. That was probably the weirdest dream. I know that we talked all night, sometimes in English, which I know was impossible, but the next morning I couldn’t remember a word of it. What I did remember was the feelings. How scared five year old gave way easily to lonely teenager. And the rebel at twenty became a cold man nearly thirty. And Incacha talked to them all. Talked and then he did more than talk… And when I woke up, I discovered I’d cum in my sleep. No mere wet dream this, I was sticky and my hand was still wrapped around my half hard dick. I avoided any embarrassing encounters on the way downstairs, grabbed up most of the hot water from the old pipes and was absolutely famished when I finally turned my attention to breakfast. I couldn’t get Blair out of bed. He told me he had the flu, and even though I couldn’t quite believe it—Sandburg’s never sick—I had to admit he sounded like shit. Not hoarse like a cold would have it, but rough, like he’d been Lost Weekending somewhere. I felt a sudden desire to touch him, maybe check for fever or something…or something more… So I stayed in the doorway and casually asked him if he wanted me to fetch his drums, or maybe I could boil up some birch bark and grubs for him. He flipped me the bird from the depths of his blankets, and my universe fell neatly back into alignment. And when he joined me that afternoon at the station, he said he was fine and even did up a couple of reports for me without any whining on my part. ***
“Tell him that I learn from him. He learns from me. It's more like a partnership. . .He doesn't buy that, does he?”—Blair Sandburg, Warriors ***
I’m dialed way up and I can hear him talking in his sleep,
but the words are mushy and unformed, so I can’t tell if he’s pleading
for help
or lecturing a class full of students. Likely the second one, although
if this
is Sandburg we’re talking about, it’s probably a classroom full of
scantily
clad co-eds…<> Since there’s no way I’ll be sleeping again tonight—two nights ago the wolf ate my head, and last night Incacha and I caught the wolf and the jaguar in a trap and they--yeah, I’m awake; so I may as well think about where this is going. Incacha was my guide. Blair is my guide. Incacha was the Shaman of the tribe. He made Blair the Shaman of the Great City. Incacha was my lover. Blair is…. Blair is straight. Maybe. Mostly. I think. Earrings and bracelets and trendy clothes notwithstanding, he’s always got his eye on the ladies, whether it’s Sam in forensics, whiny Maya (I did not just think something so petty, I swear) or some nameless nurse who faxed him my stats. He considers himself something of a ladies man, I guess, and the evidence I've been able to gather does indicate he's never with the same girl twice, so I could give him that one... Granted, I’m a pretty big pot to be calling his kettle black in that department. But whereas I know not only about the ladies, but also about my Toms, Dicks and Harrys, I’ve no conclusive proof that Sandburg’s ever taken a walk on that side of the street. Oh, sure, he’s always got a ready compliment for Rafe, his last assistant at school was some athletic looking blonde named Chip, or Chuck or something (“He files like he was born doing it!” Sandburg enthused one day), and I know I’ve seen him checking me out if I come out of the bathroom towel-clad. But that could just be that typical guy thing—you know, the “who’s bigger?” crap that somehow nobody tells us we have to do as soon as puberty hits but that we do anyway. But I’m a Sentinel, and my gifts let me see fingerprints that others miss, let me smell C-4 before the city is nothing but a smoking crater, let me feel imprints on notepads that lead to drug labs…. And sometimes I hear Blair’s heartbeat speed up for no reason, and sometimes I smell something musky and warm, like Laura but subtler, although I’m left feeling that same “good” feeling I had when… It’s destiny. God. Just the thought that I might not have the control over the situation that I need, that I want, it makes my skin crawl—and what about Sandburg? If ever there was a free spirit, he’s it. I can’t ask him—but I will. Or he’ll ask me. Damned destiny. Incacha taught me about the bond between Sentinel and Guide, and when it was over he sent me home with a promise that there was another to whom I would bond someday. Naturally, I repressed it all. Until now. Now, that so much of that past has been thrown up in my face. Now, that I’m remembering far too much too fast and hating it even as I revel in it. Now that I know that Blair is my Guide and that we’ve bonded spiritually in our dreams. My hearing is dialed up to the max and it’s like he’s standing right next to me. I startle and turn and when the jaguar roars it nearly deafens me and I clap my hands over my suddenly ringing ears. Closing my eyes seems to help too, and for a few moments all I can do is rock and groan. It feels like a drill bit has been lodged somewhere between my temple and my jaw and it’s digging itself a new home. Finally I can open my eyes. I can’t hear Sandburg at all now, so viciously have I dialed back my hearing. In fact, I’m having a hard time even hearing the big cat at the foot of the bed. But the snarl on its face says more than the sound would have, and I swear I can feel something rumbling in my chest. Cautiously, my hands poised to clap over my ears once again, I extend my hearing. “Jim…” Another growl from the jaguar and I stare at it, then quickly look away, trying to remember where I’d heard that you never look a wild animal in the eye, because it’s a threat (probably Sandburg, or maybe in the jungle, or hell, maybe I just made it up). As soon as I look at it, though, the beast turns with a flick of its tail, which reminds me of the way Simon flicks his cigar ash sometimes, with something like boredom flavored with contempt.<> My spirit guide this animal might be, but I’ll never be master of it. I’ll never control the strength and grace and power of it. The only thing that controls the jaguar is the wolf. I know. I saw it in a dream. Huh. It’s time. The jaguar has taken the stairs in two great bounds and at the bottom it roars again and I can hear Sandburg’s heartbeat suddenly spiking. I take the stairs in almost the same way and just catch another lazy tail snap as the cat pushes its way through the French doors like they were jungle plants. I pause at the same doors. I’ve spent most of this night awake, doing things I never do. Analyzing myself. Thinking about dreams and visions. Dredging up more repressed memories in one night than I have in years. But I have one more thing. One more thought. One more important step to take before I yield to the destiny of the Sentinel. I am standing outside my friend’s door, wondering if he’s awake, wondering if he’s aware of his own destiny, wondering if he wants me. And I know that no matter what the jaguar has to say about all this, no matter what great words of wisdom my former guide wants to pass on from the afterlife, no matter how messed up my dreams are, no matter what sort of Sentinel/Guide imperative is at work in me or on me…. No matter what, I wouldn’t be opening this door now if I, Jim Ellison, didn’t love Blair Sandburg. I turn up vision and see the jaguar on the bed, eyes on me, Sandburg’s throat gripped lightly in its jaws. We stare at each other a long while, the Sentinel spirit and I, and at the edge of my vision, I can see Sandburg batting ineffectually at the great head so close to his own. He whimpers and starts to struggle a little harder. “Mine.” I keep my voice low, my tone serious and like a well-rehearsed ballet, the jaguar releases Sandburg and leaps from the bed just as I slide in between the sheets. I can’t hear or see it and I don’t care. “Jim…” My name a third time, and I see that Blair is still asleep. But he doesn’t sound as scared as he did those other times, and his heartbeat, which I’d been listening to all this time, is slowing down to something approaching a normal level. I turn towards him, thinking to take him into my arms, but he turns away so we’re front to back now and I just have a moment to think “oh my God we’re spooning!” and then he pushes his way back and I swear I can hear the sound of two giant puzzle pieces suddenly clicking. His legs are straight and when he bends them at the knee I do the same, which makes a perfect cradle for his ass to nestle right up to my suddenly very interested dick. I think of box scores and crime scenes and Blair wriggles around trying to get comfortable and in the end we call it a tie. While he’s still squirming I get an arm under his side and I’m happy to find I can bring it around to rest a hand on his chest. The hair there is softer than I thought it would be. He sighs and his own arms come down over mine. Neither one of us is going anywhere. His hair tickles my nose and smells like cinnamon. I think tomorrow morning is going to be wild and I have just discovered that I am exhausted and that you cannot yawn and smile at the same time. Destiny. Love. Magic. Whatever it is, I know that I can do this. “Jim….” Barely a sigh as Sandburg tucks a little tighter into me. And I think he knows how to do this too. |
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