You Don't Own Me(113)

The shaman is already waiting for us.

God only knows where Jake found her. She is an ancient creature, straight out of the witches’ scene in Macbeth. Hunched underneath an old, black cloak, her face in the moonlight is craggy with deep grooves and her skin is mottled with coffee-colored spots. Her hair is silvery and surprisingly thick. One eye is completely white, the pupil covered over with cataract, and the other is jet-black and alive with an animal-like alertness. She wears a red rose tucked behind her ear.

Her body is thin and pitiful, but her movements are as stubborn and headstrong as that of a wild boar. When she extends a withered hand from the inky folds of her cloak, I see that every one of her bony fingers is heavy with an assortment of large and intricate rings. There are ancient symbols carved into the stones.

She tells BJ and me to take off our shoes, pull our prayer shawls over our heads, and sit cross-legged inside the circle that she draws with a chalky stone. Then she half-squats on a low, four-legged stool and surrounds herself with the tools of her trade. Feathers, a fan, shells, and red and black candles, which she lights and shades with glass coverings. She unrolls a long ribbon and ties an end to both our wrists.

‘Are you ready?’ she croaks.

We nod.

She starts by inviting and welcoming helping spirits and the spirits of deceased loved ones. She looks at me directly. There is something enchanted and mysterious about her dark, bottomless eye. Her mystique is bewitching. I have the impression that I am staring into the eye of an ancient mystic feline. Timeless and weightless. That my spirit has intertwined with hers in an invisible sublime dance.

‘Think of them, all the ones who have left you and they will come.’

I think of Father and call him to come.

Her black eye fixes on me again. ‘It is always as forecast and necessary,’ she says intriguingly.

Then she begins to sing in a language I do not understand, plaintively, as if she is calling to a lost love. Her voice echoes through the night. Afterwards, she burns some sweet herbs and offers rice to the spirits who have come to witness the ceremony.

BJ and I exchange bracelets made of twine with each other. Afterwards, we make our vows of fidelity and loyalty to each other. First to go is BJ. By the light of the candles, he recites the vows we have both chosen to make.

‘I, Billy Joe Pilkington, by the life that courses within my blood and the love that resides within my heart, take thee Layla Eden to my hand, my heart, and my spirit to be my chosen one. To desire thee and be desired by thee. To possess thee and be possessed by thee without sin or shame, for naught can exist in the purity of my love for thee. I promise to love thee wholly and completely without restraint, in sickness and in health, in plenty and in poverty, in life and beyond, where we shall meet, remember, and love again. I shall not seek to change thee in any way. I shall respect thee, thy beliefs, thy people, and thy ways as I respect myself.’

Staring into his eyes, I repeat the same vow and it feels as if my heart will burst with the love I have for him.

Then it is time to drink the thick brown brew. It is truly disgusting. Even the tiny little sip I consume coats my tongue and makes me feel downright queasy. BJ is the real hero of the piece though. He drinks it all without fuss.

Later he whispers in my ear. ‘I’m gonna need to forget this taste. Get ready to have your pussy in my mouth for a very long time.’

I try to suppress the giggles, but I am not very successful. I feel a great wave of love wash over me for this wonderful man.

‘Jeez, Layla, don’t look at me like that unless you want me to drag you behind some bushes and rape you.’

‘Do you ever wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t gone into your bedroom and tried to take your tiepin?’

He shudders. ‘No.’





TWENTY-EIGHT




Layla

After the ceremony my life becomes a whirl of frantic activity. There are so many things to decide: locations, bridesmaid dresses, shoes, music, caterers, invitations, photographer, the cake, videographer, invitations, stationery, rings, favors, transportation, and, of course, my dress. BJ hires a wedding planner. She is so brilliant that I can’t even imagine doing it without her. It’s a great comfort to simply call her if I have a query or worry and know that she is already on top of it.

My mother makes an appointment with Thelma Madine, the dress designer. Thelma Madine is exactly how she is on TV. Warm, talented, and a practical businesswoman to the core. She would have made a good gypsy.

‘How big do you want your dress to be?’ she asks.

‘Big,’ my mother says. ‘She’s my only girl. My Princess.’

‘Oh, Ma,’ I say. ‘It’s a shotgun wedding. I was thinking of a simple mermaid dress.’