Free The Shaman's Secret by Natasha Narayan

the place.
    â€œWe’d better get on, Baker,” she boomed after we’d been in the forest a mere half-hour. “We need to be at the trading post by nightfall.”
    So we were off again, keeping up the same relentless pace. Climbing the rutted track, up and up. The horses were lathered in froth before we reached the way station where we would change horses and spend the night. Not much of a place, I must admit. A wooden shack with a tin roof and another shack for the horses. Around the houseswas some pasture, and a vegetable patch, but the forest pressed in on all sides, deep and dark.
    It looked a lonely place to live.
    Waldo jumped down from his place near Aunt Hilda. He was smiling and looked fresher than the rest of us.
    â€œAt least we’ll get bacon for breakfast,” he said, pointing to the pig pen near the shack.
    The innkeeper came out at last to meet us. He was a small, wrinkled man in a gray apron smeared with blood. He greeted us courteously and offered refreshments, but when he saw Mr. Baker his face twisted in a puzzled frown.
    â€œBack already? What happened to your red coach? Did you smash it up?”
    For a moment no one understood what he was talking about. Our coach was black, a very smart black and gold. Then the light dawned. Cyril Baker stared at him, blood draining from his already bloodless face.
    â€œWhat is it, man?” the innkeeper said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. I’m only saying you left yesterday—and now look at you. Back with a new gig. Not as fancy as the last one though.”
    â€œThat must have been my brother, Cecil,” Cyril said at last. “People say we’re very alike.”
    â€œAlike? You’re the spitting image of each other. You two playing hide-and-seek over the mountains?”
    But Cyril didn’t reply. Turning away, he asked for his bagto be taken to his room, which the innkeeper’s son did. So our plan to throw his brother off our scent by detouring to Calistoga had failed. Even worse, Cecil Baker was ahead of us, which meant that if we didn’t make up speed he would reach the Grand Canyon before us.
    Cyril had warned that if he found the tablet before we did, the consequences would be catastrophic.
    That evening we partook of the most revolting meal of my life. In the inn’s rough kitchen we sat round a dirty wooden table. There were barrels for chairs, no stove, just a fire with a big pot suspended above. There were no cupboards or dressers or shelves, not even a floor, just earth packed hard under our feet.
    â€œSlumgullion,” the innkeeper said, sloshing some grayish stew into our tin cups. “Oughtter keep you going.”
    What can I say? Slumgullion is a mix of sand, bacon rind, grease, dish-rag and probably pig droppings. The others gulped it disgustedly down, along with gritty hunks of cornbread. I managed no more than one mouthful and Mr. Baker had not even that.
    After such a feast what could we do but retire early? There were no gas lamps in this simple shack so we took candles up to our rooms. I was sharing a mattress with Rachel while Aunt Hilda slept on the cot. Even if I had not been uneasy, my brain throbbing, my back aching on the hard floor, my aunt’s snoring would have made a goodnight’s sleep impossible. At midnight, Rachel put a pillow over her head. If anything, her snores became louder.
    I finally fell into a heavy sleep around dawn. I had one of those dreams in which you feel like you’ve been drugged, or hit over the head with a sandbag. I knew I was sleeping, but I couldn’t wake, as a very pale man in a very pale gown came up to me. He looked like a mummy, with no hands or feet but trailing yards of bandages. The man leaned over me, breathing in my face, his papery skin crackling.
    It was Cyril or Cecil Baker—I couldn’t tell which. His eyes drilled into my brain, and then he held out a pale hand and stroked my hair. Stroked