Free The Shaman's Secret by Natasha Narayan Page A

it as if he wanted to pull it out by the handful. Then I noticed the snake on his neck, crawling up to his cheek.
    â€œWHAT’S THE MATTER? KIT, ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?” Rachel was holding me, her face inches from mine. In the background I could see Aunt Hilda was upright, awoken suddenly from her sleep.
    â€œFine,” I gasped, backing away from Rachel. My face was sweaty, my hair damp. “Just a bad dream.”
    â€œYou were screaming, child!” Aunt Hilda snapped.
    â€œHush, everything is just fine. No need to worry,” Rachel said. “Shhhh,” she murmured to me, as if I was a small child. Her soothing voice stilled my heartbeat and gradually I found myself calming down.
    Aunt Hilda and Rachel were both gentle with me.Indeed, after a good bacon breakfast with the bright California sunshine streaming through the window, it was hard to believe in my night fears.

    After breakfast Rachel and I went to collect our bags and things. As soon as I entered our room, I knew something was wrong. Not that anything had been disarranged—but I could sense something. Rachel didn’t notice anything and we packed away our nightgowns and toothbrushes and so on while she chattered on about the amazing beauty of the West. She was nervous about the trip through the desert, where nothing grew except cacti. Finally everything was ready for our departure. Except one thing.
    â€œHave you got my hairbrush?” I asked Rachel.
    â€œNo.” She turned round and scanned the room. There was no place to hide a mouse in the dingy little chamber. Just bare wooden floorboards, a chest of drawers, a wash bowl with a cracked mirror above it.
    â€œHave you looked in the chest of drawers?”
    â€œWhy would I put my hairbrush in a chest of drawers?” I replied. “I left it by the washbasin. I know I did.”
    I could conjure up a picture of my hairbrush. Wooden-backed, full of my tangled brown hair.
    â€œRachel, I brushed my hair before breakfast. I know Idid, and then I left it right there.” I pointed to the empty space by the wash bowl.
    It was a mystery of the kind you will be familiar with. You lose a favorite hairclip or purse. Usually you blame imps, or borrowers, or your own absentmindedness, but this time the disappearance of my hairbrush struck both of us as odd.
    Rachel looked at the floor and stifled a small scream. There on the boards was the print of dusty shoe. A large shoe, far too large for either of us—or Aunt Hilda. I saw another footprint by the door—clearer than the first.
    That settled it. Though the room was dingy, it was very clean and the floor had been mopped before our arrival. The footprint belonged to a stranger. While we had breakfasted downstairs, someone—a man, by the size of his feet—had crept up here and stolen my hairbrush.
    â€œWho would want your grubby old hairbrush?” Rachel said. She attempted a smile. “Unless it’s Waldo, as a sort of love token.”
    I blushed. “What are you talking about?” I said. “He can hardly stand the sight of me these days.”
    â€œWitchcraft,” Rachel whispered. “Witches were stealing your hair. What do they say? A lock of hair, a piece of skin, fingernail clippings. That’s what witches use, isn’t it? This smells of witchcraft.”
    â€œRubbish. All that stuff is just gibberish. Look out of the window at the mountains and that green grass and the pigs snuffling at the trough. That’s what is real. All the rest is just—”
    â€œThat’s what you
say
, Kit,” Rachel interrupted. “I know what you’re up to. You’re keeping something from me … I saw how you looked a moment ago, just because your hairbrush was lost. Well, tell me that’s normal.”
    â€œIt is normal,” I said. But I was lying. Nothing about this situation was normal. Not the feeling of something crawling in my head. Not the fear the