Rowan:
It’s fascinating. Would love to be able to go on one of these journeys with you some time.
Sharon:
Shamanic healing takes between 90mins to 2 hours. That includes the consultation either side of it and dependent on the time it takes, it's between £45 & £60 x
Rowan:
Just while I have you, from the perspective of the plot I'm working on, I've read that in ancient cultures some shaman used their gifts for less noble purposes. Could you maybe elaborate on that?
Sharon:
That's not a weird question compared to what I've heard in the past 😂 It’s all about intention of the shaman and if the recipient 'believes' it can happen, as no doubt the shaman will make sure that the recipient knows hes going to do it, a bit like a gypsy curse, if you get me? I, personally, dont believe it can actually be done, and only soul 'parts' can be lost ( but they can be returned) but a lot of bad luck can be stirred up. And yes, someone with a 'dark heart could really believe it's in their power. Hope this helps lol x
Rowan:
Is there any atonement or morality based afterlife? A Heaven or Hell of sorts? Big one, eh?!
Sharon:
I think that different cultures believe different things, but generally, the belief is that everything has come from light and will go back to it, whether good or evil. I guess there are different levels. But to be honest, no one really knows
23
Monday, July 4, 1990
Silver Birch Academy
Wast Water
“They’re just going to make you take it off again, Violet.”
“They’re just going to make you take it off again, Violet.”
Catherine sighs. She’s grown used to having her own personal echo. Every time she says anything even vaguely conformist, Violet takes it upon herself to imitate her. She wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t such an excellent impression. She even manages to get the slightly apologetic note into her voice; the sense that it’s an awful responsibility having to impart such bothersome information. Violet believes that Catherine has chosen to model herself on the wrong literary heroines. Whereas she feels a kinship for Cathy, for Jane Eyre, for Estella Havisham, Catherine has chosen to identify with Anne from the Famous Five.
“I’m just saying …,”
“I’m just saying….,”
Catherine slumps back against the cold, damp wall. It was painted bright yellow last summer but it seems to be fading, as if the old brickwork is leeching the vibrant hue from its surface. She watches as Violet applies an extra coat of lipstick. It’s a dark, plummy colour and it makes her look as if she’s been eating chips with too much vinegar.
“Like it?” asks Violet, smacking her lips together. “I nicked it from boots. Walked right past the security guard. He was too busy looking at my tits to notice.”
Catherine decides not to follow the security guard’s lead. She gives an encouraging smile, and forces herself not to ask any of the questions that are demanding attention in her mind. When did she go to Boots? How did she get there? When were they apart? She has learned how to handle her best friend, and knows that above all things, Violet hates to be caught out in a lie.
“Bet that Freya will be jealous as Hell,” says Violet, looking at herself in the mirror. She seems to like what she sees. She looks more grown-up than Catherine. Boys notice her. Her hem-line keeps travelling north and she manages to look as though she’s seen it all, done it all bought the T-shirt, which surprises Catherine, who knows for a fact that the most she has done with a boy was a rather sloppy kiss at the Young Farmers disco.
“Freya?” asks Catherine, glancing at her watch and hoping that Violet will finish up soon so they can make it to drama class before the lesson actually ends. “Why would she be jealous?”
“Cos she thinks she’s all that, doesn’t she?” shrugs Violet. “Like she’s something special.”
“She seems okay,” says Catherine, who hasn’t really given the new girl much thought since she arrived the previous month without so much as an introduction to the form group. She hasn’t spoken to them much. Hasn’t spoken to anybody really.
“Okay? She’s all look-at-me, look-at-me. Trying to be all mysterious, with her weird little spell-books and her nail varnish. God, it’s pathetic.” She sucks her cheek. “Cool shoes though.”
Violet can’t make up her mind about the new girl. Catherine quite likes seeing her friend so conflicted. She looks at her the way dogs consider one another, weighing up whether this newcomer is a threat. She wears a certain expression whenever she considers the red-haired, Irish girl. It’s one Catherine knows so well. It’s a sullenness, an air of being spectacularly unimpressed. Elora had put it best when she said that sometimes, Violet looked as though her mouth was full of somebody else’s sick. Elora has a way with words.
“Her voice is nice,” says Catherine.
“Why don’t you marry her then,” snaps Violet, baring her teeth. There’s lipstick on her incisors.
“I was just saying.”
“I was just saying.”
“What were you just saying?”
Both girls turn towards the door as the soft Irish voice startles them. Freya is watching them. She looks like she may have been watching them for a long time. Catherine is struck, again, by how much older than them she looks. She could be 16 at least, and though she wears no make-up and lets her tangled red hair fall over her face, she looks more like a woman than a child.
“I was saying I like your shoes,” says Violet, all smiles. “How are you? Settling in?”
Freya glances at Catherine, giving he the tiniest wink. She knows she’s caught them out but isn’t going to make a thing of it. She gives them a smile. It’s the first time they’ve seen her teeth. Catherine is surprised to see that they’re not in great condition; stained with a peculiar patina that makes her think of the inside of a teapot.
“Bit weird isn’t it?” confides Freya. “I mean, I just go wherever but this feels a bit like we’re in a cult or something. I did the morning yoga session my first day – all that downward-facing dog stuff with my arse right up in the air. There was only me and the teacher! You buggers could have told me it was optional.”
Catherine laughs. “We’ve done plenty of that. I still like the meditation sessions but there aren’t as many as there used to be. Mr Sixpence did all that stuff. And the Reiki.”
“Yeah, I saw that in the brochure. Reiki? I thought it was something you did to your garden in Autumn.”
Violet laughs, a little too loud. “Do you need the mirror? I was doing my make-up …,”
“Yeah, looks great. I don’t really wear it. Sensitive skin. I hate my freckles though. Do you think you could do mine some time?”
Violet can’t help but grin. “Yeah? I mean, yeah, sure. Like, whatever.”
“Who’s this sixpence bloke I keep hearing about?” asks Freya, coming closer to the mirror. Up close she smells nice, like biscuits and old soap.
“Old hippy who lived in the woods,” shrugs Violet, making room. “Sodded off one night. The police came and everything. It was cool.”
“Yeah? What happened to him?”