From: nomdenette@aol.com (NomDeNette) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: *NEW* "The Shaman's Eye" 1/2 Date: 19 May 1996 12:14:55 -0400 From: NomDeNette@wow.com (Laura Geist) Subject: "The Shaman's Eye" Part 1/2 Date: May 19, 1996 Thanx to evryone who sent me input! Here it is! Disclaimer: All characters seen or mentioned on the X-FILES belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Production, Fox Broadcasting, etc. and are used without anything remotely resembling permission. No copyright infringement is intended: Imitation *is* the sincerest form of flattery. All other people, things and events contained herein are strictly products of my own imagination because, while CC made them, "**I** made THIS!" This work may be forwarded or distributed to any newsgroup, FTP, WWW site, etc., so long as you keep my name and e-mail address on it. SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully investigate a series of murders witnessed by a woman during shamanic visions. FYI: Rated PG-13 only for the rather gruesome nature of the murders, and a few words, but nothing you wouldn't encounter on the show. No spoilers. 99% Straight X-Files Case. The approximate time frame is between "Born Again" and "Roland." I covet all input, comments, praise, suggestions and even constructive flames nearly as much as I covet e-mail in general, so please feel free to drop me a line and let me know what you think. More to the point, I promise to answer all e-mail. Infinite thanks to The Hub, my Best Friend and Soul Mate. You are the Mulder to my Scully. Thanx, Jefe! * * * * * * * "The Shaman's Eye" Part 1 of 2 By Laura Geist (NomDeNette@aol.com) * * * * * * * Sunday, April 10, 1994 Keats' Home Midway, Kentucky The drumbeat filled the room. Nestled in a shallow sand-filled bowl, the tiny embers of sage slowly breathed, their exhalations sending fine tendrils of smoke toward the woman. She sat cross-legged on the floor in the center of a bright woolen rug. Though the cats had scattered the moment the drumbeat began, their delicate sensitivities offended by the loud monotonous noise, the crow positively relished it. He flapped his one remaining wing and bobbed his head to the beat as he watched himself out of one eye in the mirror attached to his cage. The woman was utterly unaware of the bird's gyrations as she steadily tapped the ancient drum's taut skin. In deference to the beautiful old dyes, she beat only on the unpainted side. The many passing decades had already weathered it severely. The hide seemed to take on a translucent glow from within as it was caressed by the sunbeams pouring in the window. Her visage remained as serene as the drum's beat was constant. She tilted her head ever so slightly to the left. Her eyebrows furrowed and raised. Though her eyes were closed, she looked for all the world like someone not quite understanding what it was she was seeing. Her steady rhythmic motion never faltered, as if she were no longer even aware that she was drumming. As she craned her neck, looking down upon the unknown object, her expression suddenly went from tranquil innocence to blank denial before ultimately exploding into full-fledged horror. Her eyes finally shot open. "No! NO! Oh God, Oh God, Oh God NO!!" Her maddened expression grew and grew as she clumsily crawled backwards away from her little rug alter. The prized antique drum was mindlessly flung away as she sought to escape the unspeakable horror only she perceived. Undecipherable groans and noises choked in her throat as she ran into the wall behind her. Upon feeling its touch on her back, she recoiled and curled into a fetal position. She was never even aware that the screams were coming from her. * * * * * * * Wednesday, April 13, 1994 X-Files Office Washington, D.C. Fox Mulder clicked the button with his thumb, bringing up a new slide. The projection showed the naked body of a small girl, or rather, what was once a small girl. The gashes down the lengths of both arms were mirrored by the ones that trailed down both legs, from groin to calf. It was nearly impossible to tell that her hair, what little of it remained on the corpse, had once been golden blond, so saturated was it with her own blood. "And this is the third victim, Aimee Marie Allen, just turned eight." Mulder stated. "Reported missing from a field trip to the Kentucky Horse Park last Friday. Found Monday, dumped in a ditch off a gas well access road near Versailles, Kentucky. Same ceremonial style scalping and gashes on arms and legs as the first two victims." "Cause of death is reported as blood loss - certainly don't need an autopsy to see that," Agent Dana Scully said, looking back to the file in front of her. "The MO's are identical - victims had apparently been bound spread-eagled based on the welts on their wrists and ankles, tightly gagged. The scalping, slash marks and cutting of the jugular all indicate some sort of ritual killing. Does this fit any cults?" Mulder shook his head. "Nothing I've ever heard of." "A murder every Sunday for the last three weeks. But the choice of victims seems to be completely random - age, sex, and race are all different - what connection could there be here? It's almost as if the killer's opportunistically choosing them." Scully looked at the photos before her: the beautiful black woman, a University of Kentucky freshman, who had been the first victim; the elderly Hispanic migrant worker who had been the next victim; finally, the petite blonde shown in her 2nd grade school picture. Mulder took one long last look at the girl and turned off the projector. That hidden sadness haunted his hazel eyes again, if you knew where to look for it. As an FBI agent, he'd seen more than one man's fair share of horrors, but still nothing could affect him like a missing girl. Such cases always brought back the pain of his own sister's abduction, his inability to stop it, and the unspeakable fear that her dear short life, too, could have ended, unknown by him, in some similarly heinous way. The momentary lapse in Mulder's defenses not had not gone unnoticed by his partner. "And the ornithologists at the Smithsonian finally determined that the feathers found with all the victims were kestrel feathers. What's a kestrel?" Scully asked, hoping to distract him from the self-flagellating thoughts with which she knew he struggled. "Falco sparverius. A small, multi-colored New World falcon, " Mulder tossed a picture of one in front of her, facade firmly back in place. "I'd never heard of them, either, but they're apparently not uncommon. One feather with the first victim, two with the next and three with this one. Needless to say, local authorities are anxious to catch this killer before next Sunday and another body with four feathers turns up." "And what has this got to do with the X-Files?" Scully asked. "A woman notified police that she witnessed this last murder - in a vision." * * * * * * * Thurs., April 14, 1994 Leestown Pike Fayette County, Kentucky "But, Scully," Mulder insisted, "how could Alice Keats have known that there were kestrel feathers found with these corpses? That fact was never released to the media. Do you think it's just sheer coincidence?" "I'm just saying that it's more likely that she is in some way connected to the murders, rather than having some superhuman ability to see the future or have out of body experiences or whatever she claims." Mulder sighed. It was far from the first time they'd had this sort of discussion. He knew there was really no point in pursuing it further, at least not until they had actually talked to Alice Keats themselves. Once Scully embraced an opinion, she was like an entrenched, war-hardened army under siege, willing to hold its position down to the last man. He watched the gently rolling hills fall away behind them as they drove down the country road. White rail fences encased field after field, mile after mile, interrupted occasionally by dilapidated stone fences and voluminous old barns paneled with wooden windows. The scent of drying tobacco filtered in even through the car's closed vents. Near-palatial brick mansions, the kind that define Southern architecture, loomed behind foreboding iron gates. One particularly ostentatious estate caught his attention. Inside its paddock of brood mares, one tawny mother spread her dark forelegs far apart to drink from a stream while her nearly identical tan foal nibbled the bluegrass by her side. Mulder wondered to himself if any Kentucky Derby winners had ever come from any of these farms. Scully had apparently noticed the same animal. "Look, Mulder - Ben Cartwright's horse!" She said with a grin. Mulder, caught off guard by his partner's total non sequitur, grinned, too. "What do you suppose this town, Midway, is midway between - one horse farm and, what, another horse farm?" He glanced sideways toward Scully, to see if his small joke had gotten any sort of reaction from his partner. "Midway between one railway stop and another, actually." She replied with such an air of authority on the subject that it was she who earned a reaction. In answer to Mulder's quizzical expression, she elaborated. "There were lots of small towns that sprung up as halfway points for railroad lines, for refueling and such. You wouldn't believe how many Midways there are in the country - probably half the states have one. I don't know that for a fact about this particular Midway, of course, but I'd be willing to bet money on it." Like so many other things about her, the small relaxed smile that played on her lips as she surprised him with this little known fact melted a corner of Fox Mulder's heart. "But would you be willing to bet something **other** than money; that's the question," he said with a leer and a smile. It was so much easier to temper those little thaws with an equal dose of lechery than to let himself dwell on the potential he knew he had to give in to them. Scully's only response was her patented look before she turned back toward the passenger side window. "How is it that you know so much about railroads, Scully?" he asked as they hung the left that would take them into Midway. "My dad was a big model railroad fan. He'd collected model trains since he was a boy. My brothers and I used to spend hours playing with them in the basement. Dad had the whole nine yards down there. Towns, depots, you name it. He used to say that if he hadn't gotten into Annapolis, he... he'd have become a train conductor." A cloud had fallen over Dana's face as her voice trailed off. It had been so few months since her father's unexpected death. She opened her mouth again as if she wanted to continue the story, but then slowly abandoned that idea and sat in silence, staring into the distance. The flawless pearl complexion seemed paler and the lipid sea-colored eyes darker. His heart went out to her. Looking at her, Fox couldn't help but acknowledge the full-fledged spring flood going on in his heart now. He longed to reach out and comfort her, and debated actually doing so. There was such a fine line between being partners and being more-than-partners. Fox knew he could never cross it. he swore to himself again for the uncounted time, like a mantra. Just as he struggled to find some safe yet comforting comment, they came over the rise of a small steep hill, and entered "downtown" Midway. Mulder stopped the car at the crossing and looked down the lengths of the dual set of railroad tracks that divided Main Street into parallel rows of quaint antique shops and tea houses. Both agents took in the scene and they traded glances. Scully tried to contain a knowing grin but finally gave in, smiling outright. Mulder even acknowledged Scully's vindicated expression with a heartfelt chuckle as they slowly bounced over the tracks. The relief in the car was a palpable thing, and Fox was overjoyed to see Dana's beautiful eyes free again from the cloud that had touched them. * * * * * * * Mulder and Scully pulled into the driveway of Alice Keats' home. It was a tiny, white Cape Cod with baby blue trim and shutters, the matching picket fence surrounded with impatiens and the last few daffodils of spring. A wind chime, its silver quarter moons dangling from a smiling sun, tinkled on the porch. The house and yard together were barely bigger than a postage stamp, but so immaculately kept that everything about them virtually screamed, "Welcome!" Scully couldn't help but think that Missy would insist this house had good vibes, or a beautiful aura, or some nonsense to that effect. A tall handsome blond answered the door and let them in. "I'm Agent Fox Mulder and this is Agent Dana Scully." They held up their badges for his inspection. "Yes, hi, we were expecting y'all. I'm Hal Keats, Alice's husband. She'll be right out - she's nursing the baby right now. Can I get either of you something to drink or anything while you're waiting?" "No thank you, Mr. Keats. I take it you've just become parents?" Scully said, gesturing to a still-fresh bouquet of balloons on an end table. "Yes, indeed! Jackson Lee Keats. Almost three weeks old now. Cutest little baby on God's green earth, too, if I do say so myself!" Hal beamed with the proud glow of new parenthood. Mulder let Scully engage the man in small talk while he examined the living room. The crow watched him intently from inside the largest bird cage Fox had ever seen. It took up nearly all the fireplace hearth. On the mantle above the bird hung an exquisite two headed drum, an antique from what he could tell. In the center of the drum, the figure of a claw holding a circle had been painted. The symbol reminded Fox of pre-Columbian artifacts found in Ohio, made by the ancient and enigmatic Moundbuilers. Above, below and on each side of the claw were four other circles; white, red, black and yellow. A brace of calico cats perched on the open steps leading upstairs, holding vigil over the crow. Mulder didn't envy that bird, should he ever get out of his cage. The walls were covered with photographs of wild animals - buffalo, eagles, whales, songbirds - as well as some interesting scenic shots - some mountains Fox didn't recognize, a sunset over the ocean, and a magnificent portrait of Devil's Tower. That last one brought the hairs on the back of his neck up. he thought. In one corner, a bookshelf reached from floor to ceiling. Two shelves held a wide variety of books on Native American tribes, history and religions, as well as two rawhide rattles, shells and wooden carvings. The remaining four shelves were filled to overflowing with titles that really caught Fox's attention. He had half expected to find something like this here. "How long have you been a shaman, Mr. Keats?" he asked. "Me? Oh, no, not me. I'm no shaman. Those are Allie's books, though she'll be the first to tell you she's not a shaman, either; she's just been studying it for the last umpteen years. She says calling yourself a shaman is one sure way to piss off the spirits. But, that's her story and I'll let her tell y'all about it herself. I'll go see if I can't hurry things up in there." He excused himself and went into an adjoining room. "Shaman, Mulder? As in witch doctor?" "Yes, Scully. Mrs. Keats is a certified shamanic counselor, as well as working as a technician in a Lexington humane center. Modern day shamans use the rhythmic beat of drums and rattles to enter an altered state of consciousness. They then 'journey' to their spirit helpers to gain insight and assistance for themselves and their patients." "And Mrs. Keats' vision of this murder came in a -" Scully began. "Shamanic journey, yes." Alice Keats entered the room. Her husband renewed the introductions while the agents took in the woman who had brought them here. Mulder had long tried to school himself not to expect the people he met to fit any particular molds. Nonetheless, she was not what he'd expected. He would later wonder what, exactly, he *had* expected; perhaps some facial tattoos or at least a mystical glint in her eye. But she was, in fact, quite a painfully average woman. Mid-twenties, average height and weight, light brown hair in a simple pageboy cut. Her only noteworthy feature was her eyes, which were a striking pale blue, but even they were half hidden behind round wire-rimmed glasses. She looked more like a spinster librarian than someone one who could commune with the spirit world. Alice's eyes stared squarely into Scully's. "I realize that not many people believe in paranormal things, Agent Scully, though I think a lot of them secretly *want* to believe." "I know I do," Mulder said softly. Alice's attention zeroed in on him with a gaze that seemed to take in all of him in an instant. A softening in her expression acknowledged his comment before she continued. he thought. "I was skeptical of shamanism myself when I first began studying it. And to this day, I still couldn't tell you exactly why or how it works," Alice admitted. "I used to try to dismiss it as coincidence and synchronicity. But I've had so many profound and powerful experiences since then that I've *had* to accept it. You know, I don't know exactly how my telephone works, either, but I accept that it does. I assure you I wouldn't be bothering the police, let alone the FBI, if I wasn't convinced that this was literally a matter of life and death. I just had a baby, for heaven's sake," she said with a put-upon smile, "and witnessing a murder wasn't exactly on the birth plan." Mulder took advantage of that opening to ask, "Exactly what did you see, Mrs. Keats?" "Please call me Alice." She sat down on a small wooden bench next to her husband. He protectively draped his arm over her shoulder as she continued. "I was journeying, sitting here in the living room. It was the first time since Jack was born that I've had both the time and the energy to journey. For some reason, while I was pregnant, I had a hard time journeying. I think because I was so incredibly grounded to my body, what with the baby and all. Anyway, it was a really wonderful journey at first - I had no trouble at all entering non-ordinary reality. I contacted my power animals and we just had a reunion of sorts..." "Excuse me - 'Power animals'?" Scully asked. "Sorry," Alice said with a chagrined expression, "that's why I'm such a lousy teacher; I always assume that everyone else knows the same things I know. A power animal is a spirit, in an animal form, who protects and helps a person. Everyone has at least one, whether they know it or not. The first step in shamanism is to connect with your power animals and teachers, who are spirits in human form, and develop a rapport. You can then go to them and ask for help for yourself or others. "So, anyway, as I said, I was just visiting, so to speak; touching base again. I was with my main power animal, and she and I were flying together. It was really beautiful and it was so good to be with her again that I was just enjoying being there, feeling the wind through my feathers..." Scully looked at Mulder, knowing he would be able to read her thoughts on her face without her ever having to voice them. Mulder's responding look said, and she turned her attention back to Alice again. "While we were flying around, I saw a clearing below with a stream running through it. There was a huge boulder and a man standing over it. He was dressed in a buckskin shirt decorated with a fringe of kestrel feathers. I flew down to see who he was, and that was when I saw the girl. She was tied to the rock in front of him." Alice stared unseeingly toward the floor with a glazed, far-away look. She unconsciously shook her head. "She was cut all the way down her arms and legs. Blood was gushing down the sides of the rock, and then he grabbed her by her hair..." Her skin had gone pasty white and she held onto her husband as though for dear life. "I could never have imagined anything so grisly. I've never been so terrified of anything. Hal came racing down the stairs to find me curled on the floor screaming my brains out. I can't tell you how long it took for him to calm me down. "I didn't know what to do. This was not like any journey I've ever had, I can tell you that. This was not just a symbol of death. See, some things you see in a journey might be literal, but a lot of them are just symbolic, and it's not always easy to sort through what's what. Death often just signifies change of some sort. I prayed I was wrong, but I knew that little girl's death was literal. A few days later the paper told about how she'd been found, scalped and slashed, and I knew - I knew I had seen it happen. "It wasn't til then that I even found out that two other people had died the same way. I'd been so busy taking care of the baby and getting back on my feet that I hadn't even heard a thing about it. That's when I called the police. They didn't believe me either, Agent Scully. Not that I really blame them; I know this sounds kinda... fringe. I don't treasure the idea of the entire world thinking I'm a complete lunatic. But I couldn't live with myself if this happened again and I hadn't done whatever I could to stop it." With a deep breath, she seemed to clear both her conscience and her lungs. "Can you describe the man you saw?" Mulder inquired sincerely. "Like I told the police, I couldn't see his face clearly - it was all in shadow - almost like there was no face where his face ought to have been. I saw buckskins and I saw kestrel feathers." "How did you recognize them as kestrel feathers?" Scully asked. "Oh, I handle the wildlife rehabilitation at the humane shelter," she explained, gesturing toward the one-winged crow. "We get in a fair number of small hawks and falcons; they sometimes have a tendency to fly into windows when they're hunting the small songbirds and concuss themselves. Plus, we had a tamed kestrel at the center for the longest time. Someone found him half-starved on a windowsill one winter. He was tamer than a parakeet, and had clearly been imprinted by humans as a hatchling. He could never fend for himself, so we could never rehabilitate him for release into the wild." "Would it be possible for you to try another journey, now, to see if you could see him more clearly this time?" asked Mulder. "Oh, Agent Mulder, I've drummed myself silly trying to get back there and see what he looked like, or find out something else more concrete. But I just haven't had any luck. I have no idea why. I'm sorry." "I can certainly verify that for y'all, Mr. Mulder," Hal confirmed. "Allie's drummed for hours on end and the only thing she's accomplished has been to calm the baby down. Drumming seems to put that child right to sleep for some reason. I suppose because he heard it so much in utero." "Is there anything else you can tell us that might pertain to this case, Mrs. Keats?" Scully said, wanting to get the interview back on track. "No, ma'am, not another thing, I'm afraid." Alice replied. After a quick check with Mulder to make sure he had no further questions, Scully said, "Here are our cards with our cellular numbers; the local hotel's number is on the back. Should you think of anything else, however insignificant, please do not hesitate to contact us." Alice took the proffered cards with a nod. * * * * * * * The doors of the rental car were barely shut behind them before Mulder and Scully began to discuss Alice Keats. "Well, now we have at least one substantial lead," Scully began. "She knows what she's talking about," Mulder stated simultaneously. "What?!" Scully balked. "Mulder, the woman knows unrevealed details of a crime scene, has had access to unusual feathers found with all the corpses,..." "And has voluntarily admitted all that to the authorities, Scully. If every murderer was that forthcoming, this would be an awfully easy job." "Maybe she thinks she's cleverly hiding things right out in the open or she's trying to cry for help, Mulder. I don't know. I find those possibilities much more plausible than the idea that she can drum herself into a psychic frenzy." "Scully, for tens of thousands of years spiritual leaders all over the world have been able to reach altered states of consciousness through chanting, dancing, and drumming. The powerful psychic nature of these 'journeys' has been well-documented. "Numerous brain studies have shown that listening to a monotonous, rhythmic beat actually produces a measurable change in the theta patterns of the brain. That's been *scientifically* and *quantifiably* proven by the electroencephalograph, my empirical Dr. Scully. Theta waves are believed to be connected with creativity and psychic energy. They say that the drumbeat acts like a carrier wave, taking the shaman to an altered state where those who have the shaman's eyes can see through the darkness of ordinary reality to the true reality that lies beyond. "Besides," Mulder continued, "what possible connection could there be between Alice and the victims - a schoolgirl, a teenager from 40 miles away, a vagrant that nobody knows anything about. And why would a woman who just gave birth suddenly start running around the county murdering complete strangers?" "Post partum depression can cause women to commit a lot of hideous acts, for one thing." Scully paused with a resigned sigh. "And Mulder, if this shamanism of hers is so reliable, answer me this;" she ticked off the items as she went, "Why can't she see his face clearly, or tell where the murders took place, or even 'go back' again and find out more? Why didn't she see anything about the first murders? Even if she's not involved with this case in the slightest, Mulder, the best possible explanation is that she just happened to coincidentally daydream about kestrel feathers." Fox had to admit that her points were good ones. He could not yet refute them. Nonetheless, he sensed that not only was Alice Keats not lying, she was telling the truth. * * * * * * * ===================================================================== ====== From: nomdenette@aol.com (NomDeNette) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: *NEW* "The Shaman's Eye" 2/2 Date: 19 May 1996 12:15:14 -0400 "The Shaman's Eye" Part 2 of 2 By Laura Geist (NomDeNette@aol.com) Disclaimer, etc., in Part 1. * * * * * * * April 18, 1994, 2:07 a.m. Keats' Home Midway, Kentucky Jackson Keats' relentless wails filled the small house as his devoted, if exhausted, mother attempted to rock and walk and sing him back to sleep. The combination of the colicky spell and the harrowing visions last week had frazzled her somewhat.