When I see the crow nailed to our front door as I step off the school bus, I know Stephen is sick again.
I walk up the driveway, the crow’s black eyes staring at me as I approach. Nails hold its black wings as if welcoming me home with a hug. Later I’ll be expected to clean off the blood that has dried in a trail from the nail holes down to the kick plate.
Once through the front door, I put my backpack down.
“Where is everyone?”
No answer. That means the basement.
On my way there I stop in the kitchen. I reach over the baby food jars filled with urine on the counter and grab a glass. From the refrigerator I take out the milk carton labeled “Real Milk” in Sharpie, careful not to take the carton next to it Dad has labeled “Bile.”
I pour a quick glass, and settle down at the table. Stephen’s shrieks are coming from below. They are muffled, only as loud as the soundproofing will allow. Mom had Dad install it last year. We haven’t had any more questions from the neighbors since it went in.
At only ten years old, Stephen hasn’t learned yet; that is why he is in the basement. He is still too young to understand the difference between feeling a bit under the weather and being truly sick. He still searches Mom and Dad out when his stomach hurts or he has a headache. And that means the basement.
One day soon though, instead of going to Mom or Dad, he will keep the minor pains to himself. When the sick feeling passes without a trip to the basement, he will know not everything requires our parents help. Then the trips down will be further and further apart. At least that’s what happened with me.
I pull my Geometry book from my backpack, and chew on a ginko biloba root as I read. The taste is bitter, but I trudge on in hopes it’ll help me remember the proofs better for tomorrow’s test. Dad’s a math whiz, so it’s expected that I should be good, if not better. At this point though, I’m certain the math gene decided to skip a generation.
The door to the basement opens, and Dad emerges carrying Stephen. I can’t tell if my brother is asleep or unconscious. His arms hang limp, his head cradled in my dad’s hands. Three acupuncture needles stick out of his inner ear, a thin line of blood down his neck. I can’t see the other ear, but know three needles are inserted there as well.
“Hiccoughs?” I ask.
“He said he’s had them since lunch today,” Dad replies. “The teacher told him to get some water. I’ll have to give them a call tomorrow.”
I watch as he carries Stephen upstairs. Dad is no stranger to Beacon Hill Elementary. We went through the same problems when I attended. One day after lunch the nurse gave me a spoonful of Pepto-Bismol for an upset stomach. When Dad found out, he stormed into her office and called her a witch doctor. He then phoned the superintendent and threatened to sue. The school didn’t interfere after that.
As I finish my milk, Mom appears at the top of the stairs, her shirt dotted in what I assume is Stephen’s blood. She is all smiles.
“Hi, honey. We didn’t hear you come in. Get yourself a snack?”
I point to the glass of milk on the table.
“Want some tofu wheat brownies? I hid them away from your father. He may work at the health food store, but I think he’s been sneaking an Oreo or two from somewhere. His stool had a strange consistency the other day.”
I tell her yes, and she reaches for a container under the sink.
“Get your chores done so you can get started on your homework,” she says offering me a brownie. “If you can, try to keep the noise down too. Stephen came home not feeling well.”
She heads upstairs. After I finish my brownie, I grab the collecting tray and head into the backyard. According to Mom, we have the largest herb and root garden in the area. I bet she’s right. It covers the better part of the backyard and contains over fifty different specimens. Some of it is for home use. Most of it though gets sold by Dad at the farmer’s market on Saturday.
Shooing away our two goats, Franny and Jupiter, I step over the knee-high fence with the collecting tray. I kneel down, and start picking herbs and pulling roots. Over the years, I’ve learned how each one can be used. Yerba buena to eliminate colds or fever, skullcap to help with sleep, and walnut leaf for eliminating acne (something I know all too much about). The list goes on and on.
I return to the house and put the full tray on the kitchen table. I then make a quick tour around the house rotating the crystals. If the crystals aren’t aligned with the new phase of the moon, the energy levels in the house can be affected. It’s a simple process of taking down the crystal in each room hanging above the window, and exchanging it with the one from the previous room. The whole process sounds time consuming, but it doesn’t take too long. I hurry through it in ten minutes and decide to put off studying for a quick nap before dinner.
Stephen is asleep on his back in our room, the acupuncture needles still in his ears. He looks pale, but at least he’s not hiccoughing. I lie on my bed and try not to wake him. I stare up at the ceiling, painted a pale yellow. It’s the same color many prisons use in their rec rooms, Dad says, for its relaxation qualities. There must be something to this because before I know it I’m fast asleep.
The next thing I know I come to and Mom is standing topless in my doorway. She is wearing her stimulators to keep breast cancer away. The battery pack is in her hand, and I can hear the hum of the electricity that flows through the red wires to the jagged clips attached to her nipples.
She looks down at me concerned.
“Your aura’s off, baby. You’re all light brown.”
She whispers so as not to disturb Stephen, but he still moves a bit.
“Is something the matter?”
I have no chance; Mom’s honed her aura readings over the years. I see no way out of it, so I tell her about my test.
“Is there something we can do about it?” I ask.
“I have just the oil for this situation,” she says turning to head down the hall. “Let’s do a quick massage before dinner.”
I follow her to her bedroom. I have to squint when I enter because last month Mom painted the room a brilliant orange, a color known to help with impotency. It must be working because I can hear them most nights again. I strip naked and climb on the massage table as Mom searches through the small chest of oils by the bed. She holds up a small vial of red oil, a triumphant look on her face.
“Honeysuckle Strange. It should release any negative energy or blockers you have inside,” she says and pours a shallow pool into the small of my back. “If anything, it should help you focus later when you study.”
The warm oil feels good. She begins to smooth it over my skin, kneading deep into my shoulders and working her way down my back. I close my eyes and try to envision all negativity leaving me. Then her hands move over my ass, oil slipping in between my cheeks. All the while she is humming a Crosby, Stills, and Nash song.
This goes on for ten minutes. As usual, I’m hard the entire time. When she finishes though, I feel a hundred percent better. I lay like a lump on the table, unable to move. She stands back, and focuses again on my aura.
“You’re all indigo now, so you’ll be fine,” she says smiling. “Why don’t you keep resting? I’ll call you down when dinner’s ready.”
I wait a few minutes after she leaves, just lying on the table, my eyes still not adjusted to the glare of the room. My mind feels as if it’s been sanitized. I force my body to get up and dress before heading back to my bedroom.
Stephen is asleep still but is mewling a bit. Dad’s gotten better at the acupuncture over the years, although I still think it feels like being stabbed with tiny daggers. In the beginning there were a lot more tears though and a lot more blood. The more books he has read though, the less painful it has become. These days he is mostly his own guinea pig. In fact, some days he’s been known to work the counter at Natural Wonders with a needle sticking right into the tip of his nose to keep the flu away.
Feeling much better, I work a couple of geometry problems, checking the answers in the back of the book. I’m hitting about fifty percent, but anything is better than before. When I look up, Stephen is sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Feel better?”
“My ears are killing me,” he says, his hands going up to the needles sticking out.
“Dad’ll take them out after dinner.”
Stephen reaches for a comic book. “I knew this was going to be a bad day. This isn’t going to be a good month for Geminis.
I work while Stephen reads. Minutes later, Mom calls us down to dinner.
A green leaf salad and pine berry soup is waiting for us. Dad is already seated, pouring each of us a glass of red wine. He says the antioxidants are good for our immune systems, but mostly it just makes me tired. My friends, of course, are jealous. It seems they’re always asking to come over for dinner.
Stephen lets out a groan when he sees what awaits him. Mom has boiled the crow from the front door and has placed it on his plate.
“Awww, Mom…”
“You know it’ll make you feel better, sweetie.”
“But I’m not feeling sick,” he says standing a few feet behind his chair.
“That’s not what you told us earlier, Stephen,” Dad says. It is the final word on the subject, and the conversation comes to a quick halt.
We sit down, and Mom sings a quick prayer to Mother Earth. I sneak a look at the dead crow. A good deal of feathers has come off during the boiling, but what remains Stephen will have to eat.
One winter after a long day of sledding I had a nasty cold and was given crow. If you fold the feathers up, they go down a lot easier than you’d expect. The meat is tough, but tolerable especially when you know it will make you feel better.
Luckily, Mom’s never made us eat the bones.
“How was school for you today?” Dad asks me between bites of salad.
“Fine.”
“Any tests coming up?”
I slump inside. “Geometry test tomorrow, but that’s about it.”
“Are you ready for it?”
I shake my head. My math struggles have been ongoing, but I’m not ready yet to let Dad know. Like I said before, sometimes it’s best to figure things out yourself.
“Well, eat up on your greens. It’ll help. And maybe a palm leaf compress on your chest before bed.”
Mom nods with him, then looks at Stephen.
“Don’t forget the feet, sweetheart,” she says. “Lots of proteins and revitalizers in those.”
I finish my dinner a short time later, and head back to my bedroom. On my way up, I can hear Stephen arguing with Mom about having to eat the beak. Strange how something I love so much he finds so disgusting.
With the room to myself, I attempt to get some studying done. I open my geometry book and try to get started. Five minutes later though, I am still unable to concentrate.
I shift onto the floor and do a quick meditation to realign my chakras. Then, in a moment of clarity, I realize my recent difficulties might be a symptom of poor feng shui. Before I can get any real studying done, I decide I must rearrange the room.
First, I move the dresser closer to the window. Rooms are much more susceptible to positive energies when furniture tied to clothing is located near open air. After a brief struggle, I have it where I think it will work better. Then, knowing the third eye opens more when closest to the North Star, I work on centering my bed more on the north wall. Dad appears in the doorway and joins me moments before I collapse from exhaustion.
“I need you to bring one of the goats into the basement,” he tells me when he is sure the bed is aligned.
“Stephen?” I ask.
“He looks pale, and says his stomach really hurts,” Dad says. “He’s had a rough day and nothing’s working. Your mom and I think a reading would be a good idea.”
I nod and head downstairs. On the way, I pass Stephen lying on the floor in the bathroom. His knees are pulled up to his chest, his underwear around his ankles. Mom kneels next to him, snaking the enema tube into his anus. Fortunately for him the acupuncture needles are gone.
In the backyard, I put a rope around Franny. She bleats as if questioning what is going on. I walk her back into the house. It takes a little coaxing and a lot of pulling, but I soon I get her into the basement.
All three of them are waiting for us. Lit yellow and green candles surround the room to soothe Stephen’s stomach. The concrete walls are covered in Nature symbols drawn in chalk that Mom took from a book. Dad’s library of holistic medicines and New Age cures sits on a desk in the corner.
Dad takes the rope from me, and pulls Franny into a circle outlined in bone powder. I sit cross-legged on the cold floor. Stephen is on the Healing Stump, Mom behind him with her hands on his shoulders. Even in the candlelight of the room I see how pale he has become. The crow has not helped.
Dad wastes no time. He wraps his hands around Franny’s throat, and in one sharp twist, breaks the goat’s neck. She falls to the floor, twitching and jerking before going still.
I watch as Dad removes the Cutting Stone from its hook on the wall. It was purchased on a pilgrimage to Africa before I was born, and Dad has honed its edge sharper than any knife in the house. He kneels in front of the goat, and draws the dagger across its stomach. Blood pours out onto the floor in a rush splashing over Dad’s shoes. When the flow subsides, he reaches inside and drags out a slippery rope of intestines. He pulls hand over hand for almost thirty seconds before stopping. From where I sit, the pile looks like a bloody garden hose.
Mom steps from behind Stephen, and he slumps a bit without her support. She steps into the circle while taking a white candle from her pocket. Standing next to my father, she lights the candle from one on the wall. Together, they both look down at Franny’s innards.
“What do you see, dear?” Dad asks.
She leans in, illuminating the intestines trailing out of the goat. The blood has stopped flowing now, and in the candlelight is a beautiful deep red. Mom moves the candle around the pile probing each twist and turn. She then kneels down into the blood and moves her face in close to examine the intestines as if searching for a tiny clue.
When she stands up, she has a smile on her face.
“Sweetie, Mother Earth has chosen you,” she says in a soothing voice and taking his hand. “You are to become one with the Mother. That is what She has been trying to tell us through your pains. You will help replenish the Mother’s powers. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Stephen, looking delirious, grins from his spot on the Healing Stump. He glances from Mom to me. My first instinct is to look away as I feel a twinge of jealousy.
“You are such a lucky boy, Stephen,” Dad adds giving him a hug. “You will be a part of Her and us forever.”
Mom helps my brother up. He appears weak and staggers a bit, but still retains a smile. As the two walk to the Collecting Trough on the other side of the basement, Mom sings a song in praise of Gaia.
Stephen steps inside the bin. Mom and I stand on each side of him, each holding one of his arms out. Maybe he knows what is about to take place, or maybe not, but he stands calm as we support him.
Dad smiles down at Stephen, then makes the first cut across Stephen’s wrist using the Cutting Stone. The skin spreads apart like an opening mouth. He winces, but remains quiet, the blood streaming down his wrist into the Collection Trough.
A second cut is done on his other wrist. Stephen wavers a bit from the loss of blood, but watches as if fascinated. With my free hand, I reach out and steady him.
Mom smiles and runs her hand through Stephen’s hair. She pulls back gently exposing his pale neck. Dad draws the Cutting Stone across his throat, severing the carotid artery. Blood spurts onto the wall in a crescent moon as Stephen jerks about in the final throes of the Healing.
I look away from my brother, drawn to the dripping stain on the wall. I follow the blood traveling to the floor. Images suddenly appear in the red dripping lines on the concrete wall. In them I see Stephen’s body breaking down in the garden over the years. I see Stephen’s body nourishing the Earth. I see Mother Earth feasting on his gift. I see us replenished once again by Her.
The vision disappears from the design, and I look down at Stephen. He lies in the Collecting Trough, blood now coming out in a trickle, staring up at me with an angelic smile on his face.
“Someday we will all be lucky enough to join Stephen in his giving,” Dad says, his arms covered in blood. His words make me think of Lily, my sister who was chosen first by Mother Earth. On the days I miss her, I go to the garden and think of the beautiful flowers she fertilizes in the springtime. I wonder where I will get to go to remember Stephen.
Mom crouches down and runs her hands through Stephen’s wet hair. “Our baby will be a wonderful gift to the Mother.”
They remove Stephen’s clothes and lay him on his back. His serene, lifeless eyes look up at us in a final goodbye. Mom prepares for The Carving by lighting three blue candles for concentration while Dad plots out the cuts.
I pray a quick thanks for my brother’s Healing and also for his selfless gift. Not only will he be giving to Her, but to us as well. I smile to myself realizing I am no longer worried about tomorrow’s test. My mind is now at ease.
Dad slices a thick strip of flesh from Stephen’s inner thigh. My stomach rumbles in anticipation of the Feast of The Giver. And I smile knowing the human pancreas has the amazing ability to boost brain power.
