This book is based on real events. Only the people, places, and events are fictionalized. The stupidity is 100% real.
Noah chewed thoughtfully on a pulled pork sandwich as Cynthia, Carlos, and Monica finished recounting their story. The sun had long since been replaced by a bright panoply of stars in a cloudless sky. A fire in the middle of the ongoing drum circle cast flickering shadows across the four companions.
“Jumped out of a train, huh?” Noah’s demeanor was calm and accepting.
“Yeah,” answered Cynthia.
“And got caught in a battle on the Bulge?”
“Battle of the Bulge Part 2,” corrected Monica. “Moronic Boogaloo.”
“Right, right,” he chuckled. “That’s… a lot.”
“I know,” replied Carlos. “And we hit a wall in the investigation, so we’d really appreciate your help in letting us review some core samples taken from around the Bulge just to see if there’s anything going on underground that we missed.”
“Yeah, no problem. My lab opens tomorrow morning and I’d be happy to take you there, but first,” he pointed his sandwich at Cynthia and Carlos. “It seems like you two could use this ayahuasca ceremony more than just about anyone else here.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Carlos. “I’m not really one for recreational drug use.”
Noah shook his head.
“Good, because ayahuasca isn’t a recreational drug. It’s medicine. It’s a gateway to insight, self-examination, inspiration, and, most importantly, cleansing—something, I think, that could help you both.”
Carlos shifted uncomfortably and looked at Cynthia. She shrugged her shoulders.
“This isn’t like coke, or molly, or anything else you’re likely to come across at a concert, or club, or whatever,” continued Noah, noticing their apprehension. “It’s a guided ritual practiced for centuries that helps you shed your ego, preconceptions, and anxieties. It really is life changing. But look, I’m not going to pressure you into doing anything you don’t want to do. The choice is absolutely yours. You’re welcome to join us if you like and, if not, I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
Noah finished his sandwich, stood from the ground, and made his way toward the tea lights, where several other participants were gathering. Monica also rose from the rapidly shrinking circle. The drumming stopped to the sound of a collective celebratory shout and the percussionists began saying their goodbyes.
“Well, kiddos, I’m going to drop acid with some strangers. Here you go.” she tossed Carlos her keys and narrowed her eyes at them both. “Just don’t fuck in the van.”
“You want to do this?” asked Carlos once they were alone.
“Yeah, no, I don’t know, maybe,” vacillated Cynthia in prototypical Miami diction. “I could use a little bit of cleansing and inspiration right now. I’m game if you are.”
Carlos stared wide-eyed at the ground while he thought it over.
“Yeah, fuck it,” he replied. “When’s the next chance I’ll get to do this? And God knows I’d probably benefit from dropping some of my anxieties and preconceptions. Let’s do it.”
They walked across the meadow toward the tea lamps. Their soft yellow glow illuminated a circle of radiating yoga mats. They looked like multicolored petals, each with a large metal bucket next to it. Standing in the pistil of this ceremonial flower was Sherman, who had started briefing a half dozen people, the only others left in the meadow after the drummers had departed. Dreadlocks on a white guy were usually a massive red flag for Cynthia and Carlos, but he spoke so knowingly and so serenely that it allayed most of their apprehension. They sat on two empty mats beside each other.
“Welcome my friends!” exclaimed Sherman with a broad smile as he saw them take their places.
Cynthia and Carlos waved at the shaman and the other participants, most of whom greeted them back, some with enthusiasm, others with trepidation. Noah, sitting opposite them in the circle, was one of the former.
“My name is Sherman,” he pressed a hand to his heart. “I studied and trained to become an ayahuasca facilitator for a year among the tribes living in Peru’s and Colombia’s Andean high rainforest. This will be the 42nd ceremony I’ve led and I can tell by looking around that some of you are a bit nervous, but I promise you’ll be OK.”
An uneasy chuckle rose from the group.
“I’ve never seen anyone injure themselves, or lose their minds, or anything like that after taking this medicine,” continued Sherman. “I won’t lie to you though; it can be a difficult experience. Physically, it is perfectly normal to laugh, cry, vomit, and yes, even diarrhea.”
Carlos’ eyes bulged in panic. He looked at Cynthia, who shook her head. They’d committed. It was too late to back out now.
“These are all perfectly normal, healthy, and good reactions,” said Sherman as he slowly paced the inside of the circle, making eye contact with the people sitting on the edges of their mats. “That’s what the buckets are for. Use them as you need them. The Andean tribes believe that these are cleansing actions. They will remove the stress, depression, and self-hatred modern Western society has built in your body.”
An owl hooted from high up a nearby slash pine. A cool wind blew across the pond into the grove, filling it with the smell of blooming bromeliads and damp earth.
“It is also very common to experience hallucinations,” he went on. “This is also good. You might encounter people you know, people who have passed, spirits, gods, animals. This is good. Talk to them if they’re willing. Listen to what they have to say. Let go of your defensiveness. Much of what you’ll experience, humans simply don’t have the language to describe. This is also good. We are all on our personal journeys and we take what we can from them. I will be here guiding you throughout the night. I won’t let anything bad happen to you and I’ll help you work through anything distressing you see, hear, or feel.”
Two assistants brought a pair of large platters—each filled with dozens of clay mugs holding a thick, dark brown liquid—and placed them in front of Sherman.
“You will drink four cups tonight. You’ll know when to drink them because I will ring a bell to inform you.”
He pulled a small brass bell from a hoodie pocket and rang it. Its crisp tone bounced among the trees.
“You may feel disoriented at times. You may want to quit the ceremony. You may hate the way you feel. But, through all that, I want you to keep a single thought in your head: drink, don’t think.”
Cynthia considered cracking a joke about how she manifested that mantra every weekend.
“Drink, don’t think,” repeated Sherman. “That means you just ignore the sensations and visions you may be experiencing, and simply drink the next cup when the bell tells you to.”
He smiled again at the participants.
“Before we begin. I want you all to consider what you want from this ceremony. What is your intention? Do you want to heal yourself physically, spiritually, psychologically, emotionally? Do you want to connect with yourself, learn who you really are? Do you want to process trauma? Do you want help making a decision or filling a void? Is it something completely different, something no one else understands? Or do you want to discover your intention through your journey? These, and many others, are all good reasons for being here tonight.”
A minute of silence passed while Cynthia vacillated between different potential intentions. Eventually, unable to decide, she told herself she’d just find out as she went.
“OK, everyone,” said Sherman. “We’ve come to the point where your journeys begin. I ask that you all enter the middle of the circle, take a cup, and return to your seats.”
Cynthia rose, shuffled to the platters, grabbed a mug, and walked back to her mat.
“It might take a bit for the first dose to kick in. Feel free to sit, lie down, or walk about as you wait. I just ask that you come back to your mats when your perception starts to change. Also, be careful and don’t wander around too far. Noah tells me that there’s a sinkhole just beyond the meadow.”
He once more took the bell out of his hoodie.
“With that, I wish you an illuminating journey.”
The bell’s clear tone rang across the meadow.
“Good luck!” said Cynthia to Carlos with a nervous grin.
“You too!” he replied.
They both downed their mugs. The liquid was thick and sour and stuck to the back of Cynthia’s throat. It took some effort but she swallowed it all.
Copying the participants around her, Cynthia lay back on her mat and stared up at the stars. She tried to make out the constellations she’d learned as a child, but nothing came to mind. They just looked like a random assortment of twinkling lights. Cynthia closed her eyes and exhaled. She waited a while. Her stomach rumbled to let her know it didn’t agree with the drink. And yet, nothing really happened.
She sat up. Carlos sat cross-legged beside her, hands on his knees, breathing deeply. She stood, approached Sherman, and opened her mouth.
“It’s OK to wander around,” he said before she could ask. “Just remember to come back when the medicine starts to affect your perception.”
She nodded.
Cynthia walked to the pond and marveled at the glittering stars reflected in its surface. A night heron barked overhead while alligators grumbled at each other somewhere deep in the sawgrass.
A few miles to the south, the Bulge’s yellow-orange lights blotted out a quarter of the sky. Cynthia scowled. It was like throwing fluorescent dye on a masterpiece painting and calling it progress. To her left, the full moon began its nighttime ascent. She stared at its silvery surface, enormous as it emerged from between the pines, and her face relaxed.
Then, out of her peripheral vision, the stars all jumped a few inches to the right.
Cynthia snapped her head in all directions, staring at the sky intently, skeptical, unwilling to admit she’d been fooled by the universe. But the stars remained rooted in place, perhaps sharing a little laugh at the trick they just pulled.
Cynthia heard a low rumble and then a high-pitched squeal from behind her. Ignoring every lesson she’d ever learned from horror movies, she turned away from the pond, walked through the meadow, and entered the underbrush.
The palmettos bent and parted away from her, forming a smooth dirt path through the otherwise featureless rockland. The slash pine waved in the breeze and leaned ever so slightly forward, down the trail, toward the source of the sounds.
They grew louder and more familiar the closer she approached, alternating and blending baritone groans, falsetto squeaks, and shrill clicks. Something was trying to communicate with her, but she couldn’t quite make out the language.
“Whale song,” muttered Cynthia.
She went to take a step, but the ground disappeared below her foot. Cynthia twisted around and fell to her stomach, grasping desperately at rocks and roots as her body slipped into the chasm. Grabbing a tentative hold of a sabal palm’s rough, leathery trunk, she stopped her fall and lurched back to her feet.
Panting and shaken, Cynthia stared at the 30-foot-wide inkwell she’d almost tumbled into. Its darkness seemed anathema to the glimmering stars above, to the plants around her, to the animals she heard rustling in the undergrowth. It was beyond black, beyond shadow. It was anti-light, its very nemesis, enemy to all things alive and beautiful.
Cynthia patted the dirt off her shirt and jeans.
“Must be the sinkhole,” she gasped.
Thin, dark arms rose from the hole’s interior. They grasped at Cynthia’s head, crawled into her nose, down her throat, and made her gag.
And yet the whale song continued. Cynthia tottered on the edge of the hole, nauseated and lightheaded, but desperate to understand what it said.
“What are you trying to tell me?” she asked as her vision blurred.
The singing voice said something just on the edge of comprehension.
“What?” asked Cynthia. She leaned precariously over the pit. “I can’t understand what you’re saying.”
The lilting song condensed into a concept and then a single word.
“Run,” it whispered.
Cynthia ripped herself from the shadow that had almost enveloped her and sprinted toward the meadow, the trees making way for her, the world rushing past, as the darkness followed, grabbing at her heels while she ran. She burst back into the open, wheezing and coughing for air when she heard a bell ring.
“It’s time for your second cup,” said Sherman.
Cynthia stumbled toward the center of the circle and grabbed the shaman by the arm.
“The darkness… the darkness is coming,” she exclaimed. “It’s coming! We have to…”
Sherman put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
“Drink, don’t think,” he said.
“We have to run… We have to run right now…”
“Drink, don’t think,” he repeated, and gave her another cup.
His voice was so calm, his face so placid, that she simply acquiesced and downed the contents of the mug.
Sherman led Cynthia by the arm to her mat.
“You’re on your way now,” he said. “Don’t fight it but try to stay put if you can.”
He left to care for his other wards.
