“What are you doing here?” she asked in strained Spanish.

“I smelled smoke and I—”

“No one comes here.”

The donkey stopped a moment, wagged her head as if annoyed by the bit in her mouth, and started to trot along again, the lure of the plantain too much to resist.

“I’ve been wanting to thank you for what you did. Warning me about the eel.”

She scowled and spit out a hot brown stream of tobacco. “Maybe I called the eel. Did you ever think of that? Maybe I dreamed his spirit to you.”

I looked around. Wicker baskets overflowed with leaves, seeds, dried fruit, flowers, and bark. Old plastic and glass Coke and Fanta bottles full of strange black and brown liquids stood in neat rows on a colorful blanket. “Did you?”

“I could have. I could have had you killed in front of everyone. He would have stung you, then you would be paralyzed and fall in the water and drown. They would have let you drown, too. They are afraid of the eel spirit.”

“But you warned me instead.”

In my head, I heard her growl the words, “I WAS TESTING YOU.”

Her mouth hadn’t moved. I shuddered, closing my eyes and shaking my head to clear it.

She pushed herself to her feet, dipped a calabash into a metal pail of water and handed it to me. Desperately thirsty, I drank it all down. As I thanked her, I stared down at her tattooed face, high cheekbones over sunken cheeks, mouth a stern line. I felt a helpless vertigo, as if I were gazing into an abyss of human strangeness I could do nothing to bridge.

“What is the name of your village?” she asked.

“Boston.”

“Are you the only shaman in Boston?”

I laughed. “I’m not a shaman.”

Her face remained expressionless. “But you heard me speak in the old language. Why didn’t you answer me?”

“You mean, speak to you in your head? I can’t do that.”

“Of course you can. You can hear me, right?”

“Yes.”

“So, it’s not so hard. Just shine back to me.”

I had to laugh. “Boston shamans can’t shine.”

She gestured to a small thatched stool next to her potions. “Maybe you’re tired. Sit. Rest. Eat.” She set out a bowl of roasted plantains and a clay pot of dark honey warmed over the fire. After settling herself back on her rock, she watched with strangely hungry, impatient eyes as I dipped the pieces of plantain in the honey with my fingers; never had anything tasted so delicious.

“Now. Try,” she said, and closed her eyes.

The forest ticked, looming. I closed my eyes and thought the words, “MY NAME IS LILY. I’M FROM BOSTON, AND I’M NOT A SHAMAN. I WISH I WERE.”

She opened one eye. “I don’t hear you. Why are you playing this game with me?”

I squeezed my eyes shut, doubled down, and shouted the words in my head. “I’M NOT A SHAMAN AND I NEVER WILL BE! I’M JUST A DUMB AMERICAN KID.”