Identity Crisis; The Song of the Nagual

By Al Black

For most of his youth the young man we know only as 'Al,' was a weekend warrior in pursuit of the fairer sex. All that changed while he was playing his guitar during an open mic night at his local bookstore. The change arrived in the form of a young lady who was reciting poetry. The poets name was Sara, and he was captivated immediately.
At first the relationship was like something out of a fairy tale, but like the fairy tales of old, this one did not end well for 'Al.' Things went well for awhile, but after moving in together things began to deteriorate. In a desperate attempt to salvage the relationship 'Al' proposed.
Sara refused. The end of the relationship was realized through her rejection.
For 'Al' being in the apartment he had shared with Sara was a torment. In an attempt to flee his emotional state he accepted a friends offer of a cabin he had inherited far from town. Unfortunately, hours from town an animal leapt in front of 'Al's vehicle causing him to veer off the road and into the ditch. Stranded, his only hope would come in the form of a slightly maleficent Sorcerer named Sam. When 'Al' finally found a cabin that showed signs of habitation he thought he was in luck. The assistance that he received came in the form of a very senile old man who had a strong dislike for salesman. Despite attempting to counsel otherwise, the old codger insisted that he was being visited by 'Al' Apparently they were long lost friends.
That night 'Al' wound up staying at the weirdest bed and breakfast ever.
Over breakfast he would be shocked again, because the man who served him had changed completely. No longer was his host senile, old, and decrepit. Thus beings the story of Sam and the Salesman. Sam claims to have summoned 'Al,' though the nature of who exactly wound up on his doorstep was up to the universe itself. Over the course 'Al's apprenticeship his expectations are shocked over and over again. Sam does not play by the rules, and as a result 'Al' has to swallow his pride on more than one occasion. Even so, 'Al' accepts Sam's offer of a new ticket, one as free from social constructs as his new name.
Throughout the course of their relationship 'Al' is introduced to the methodology of Sorcery, which includes the 'World of Appearances,' as well as both the Nagual and the Tonal, but in the end the ultimate introduction is too himself. One of the intrinsic aspects of sorcery is the focus on intent. Sam describes intent as being the end result of ones actions. In much the same way that Sam could not say specifically who would arrive on his doorstep, through his association with Sam, 'Al' eventually deals with the loss of his girlfriend, effectively accomplishing his own intent. When 'Al' leaves Sam's company, he is whole once again, and all the wiser as a result.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Al Black
• Release date: Oct 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311219008

Book preview

Identity Crisis;

The Song of the Nagual

By Al Black

© 2015 Matthew William Parrett

Published by Matthew William Parrett

Distributed by Smashwords

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This book was over eight years in the making.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

I would like to dedicate this book to Betty. All my love, Al.

Adversity promotes growth. The key is maintaining personal integrity in a hostile universe.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1--Sam and the Salesman

The Salesman

You Can Call Me 'Al'

Sam

The Ticket

Chapter 2--The Sorcerer

Magic and Mystery

Expectation

The World of Appearances

The Investment

Chapter 3--The Nagual

The Flame of Conviction

The Foundation

A Sliver of Eternity

The Nagual

The Tonal

The Breakdown

Chapter 4--Motive

The Convict and the Crown

Self-Awareness

Intent

The Gate

Chapter 5--The Gift, The Curse

You'll Know Your Right

The Tramp Stamp

Voices of Gaia

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

The Portrait of Man

Ghosts

Chapter 6--A Folly

The Deviant

Monkey Me, Monkey You

A Loaf of Bread

Opinionism

Chapter 7--Game

The Game of Life

The Offering

A Game of You

Passive Predators

A Penny for your Thoughts

Chapter 8--Pioneering

The Founding

A Foreign Body

The Rule of Immediacy

Purpose

A True Friend

Chapter 9--Identity

Freedom within Four Walls

The Argument

The Mechanics of Intent

Introductions

Epilogue

About the Author

Contact

Prologue

The snow began to fall about an hour into my trip. The radio faded to static around the same time. I silenced the noise with a smile. It was as if the cities’ voice had been put to rest.

I was free.

The snowfall gradually increased as I drove, obscuring the sun and surrounding landscape in a white haze. Every minute that went by I was that much further from the empty consolation of my friends and family. I was that much further from my vacant apartment and the ghost that haunted me.

I was that much further from my loss.

Although the distance from the city grew, the ache I experienced every time I thought of her was undiminished. Sara. Her memory had not yet relinquished its grip on my heart. Unlike the surrounding landscape, her memory remained clear and lucid.

The cities’ voice had been put to rest. How far would I have to drive to be truly free? I could not escape myself. The time we had spent together had been the happiest of my life, even as things started to fall apart. There is something about finding love that can make every sensation more pronounced. It can make a rainy day nothing more than an excuse to stay inside.

Without the warmth of her presence, the time I had spent in the old apartment had been unbearable. I expected her to be beside me in the morning when I woke, and the shock at her absence when I surfaced in the morning was unbearable. She was with me in the shower, she was in my car when I drove home after work, and even weeks later her fragrance lingered on the couch. I dreaded crawling into bed at the end of the day, and after falling asleep I could find no respite in my dreams.

There was nowhere I could hide.

Her presence in my memory and her physical absence were palpable in all aspects of my life. When she left I had been devastated, but as days and weeks passed I grew steadily worse. There had been no option but to leave.

Frank, one of my more observant friends, came to the realization that I was close to the edge. Although I had said nothing to him about what I was going through, he was one of those who realized the depth of my despair. The winter holidays were fast approaching. One morning over coffee he told me that he had inherited a cabin from an uncle who had died. It was a few hours out of town. When he offered it to me I did not hesitate.

Christmas would come and go without me.

Before leaving I made a number of decisions. First of all I booked time off work. I had a decent job at the post office, or so I had thought before all the trouble began. My supervisor gave me the time off without question. I gave notice at my apartment and moved my things into storage.

Moving was an attempt to silence the ghost.

Afterwards it was simply a question of telling everyone I would not be around for the holidays. Sure they were disappointed, but Frank was not the only one of my friends who had noticed my withdrawal. More than a few of my acquaintances had tried to lift my spirits, but unfortunately that was part of the problem. Although they offered their support, I could not help feeling that they were in some way vindicated by the break-up. I thought at the time that it was the result of my disturbed emotional state.

What I learned over the Christmas holidays would change that impression entirely.

Having informed every-one of my decision to leave things became a little easier. I felt like I was doing something for the first time in weeks. I packed some things, got into my truck, and left.

Life had been simple before I met Sara. I was brought up in a lower-middle class family that was well-adjusted if not wealthy. After finishing high school I had gotten hired at the post office. It was repetitive, boring work, but it paid well. The girls I met would laugh and say they loved a man in uniform. I moved out of my parents place and into a house with two of my closest friends.

My work was well balanced with play. I cannot say I saved much in the way of money. Bryce, Andy and I all played for the same hockey team. Other than my roommates, most of the people I hung out with played in the rec-league as well. When not working or playing hockey, we spent a great deal of time at the local pub. Our time was dedicated to the pursuit of the fairer sex. If competition was present, the game could get a little rough. Regardless, it was all in fun.

We were weekend warriors and life was not really a puzzle I was attempting to solve.

I dated a number of girls but the relationships did not last. The running joke was that my girlfriends had an expiry date that was up after a few months. I guess I was more interested in the pursuit than the capture. This was not a source of guilt. I am sure it was the same for most of the girls. The boys and I had known each other since high school. Girls came and went.

When I was in high school I had fallen in love with music. I had asked my parents for a guitar for my fourteenth birthday. It was the best present I had ever received. Over the years I had gotten better at playing and decided to try my hand at writing. It was a slow process, but I loved it.

My writing was the one thing I did not share openly with my friends.

My roommates worked Sundays, so I took full advantage of the time alone. The day would generally start with a nasty taste in my mouth, a remnant from the evening past. This was easily cured with a toothbrush however. Having accomplished that, the hangover was greeted with a cup of coffee, and occasionally, a cigarette. Those ingredients and an empty house were a source of inspiration.

I would pick up my guitar, and see what I could coax out of it.

Sundays became more relevant a when I decided to take my music more seriously. I was at a local bookstore having a cup of coffee and flipping through a guitar magazine. There was a notice board on the wall that caught my attention. It was an announcement about an open mic night, on Sundays no less. Local talent could showcase their work.

As I have said, I rarely played for my friends, persistent as they were. For some reason my music was a personal thing. I had no intention of getting on stage right away, but I was curious enough to show up that night and see what people had to offer.

Most people did poetry, but a few sang, or did an excerpt from a book they were working on. Afterwards we would sit over a cup of coffee and talk. Almost all of my friends were into sports, so my Sunday night excursions exposed me to a different kind of animal. At first I had little to say, but as time went on I became more comfortable.

I was finally talked into singing by one of the regulars.

Although I did not play openly for my friends, I was alright playing anonymously for the Sunday crowd. I will never forget my first time in front of an audience. Alone you are always a star. On stage you sink or swim. When I am playing hockey I know where I stand. I had never been on stage before.

My first attempt at playing for an audience was nerve wracking.

On ice you are part of a team. On stage I was completely alone, which was odd since all eyes were upon me. After a bit of a shaky start, I settled in. My hands found the chords they were looking for. My voice seemed small in a large room, but as I sang my confidence grew.

My last note rang clearly.

The applause from my newfound friends at the coffee shop was liberating. They had been waiting for weeks to see what I had to offer.

They were obviously pleased with the result.

Over the course of the next few months, I tried a few songs with success. I got better as I grew more comfortable with the stage. To be honest there were probably more people at my hockey games, but that was more impersonal. There was an intimacy between the participants on a Sunday night.

I was enjoying myself.

Not long after my initial performance my life would be changed irrevocably. The change would arrive in the form of a voice. Looking back I have often wondered if there is ever a moment that defines the rest. That voice would yield a profound relationship. It would cause me to question myself, and lead to me leaving the city over the Christmas holidays.

It would result in my introduction to someone who would change my view on reality.

To be honest I had paid little attention when a new reader was announced. I was analyzing busy analyzing my last performance. I registered her name, despite being lost in thought. Her name was Sara.

That being said I can hardly call it love at first sight. What initially caught my attention was her voice. It was layered in rich tones, playful and bold. She spoke without the slightest trace of self-consciousness.

I was captivated.

My coffee sat untouched as she read. I was drawn to that voice, lost in the rhyme and rhythm of the poem. The only thing lovelier than the voice was the poet herself. She was stunning. When she fell silent, I knew I wanted nothing more than to hear her speak again. I sat silently, attempting to deal with my chaotic mix of emotions.

It took me several minutes to get a hold of myself. I tried to pay attention to the other artists, yet found it difficult to concentrate. When the last artist had finished I waited in hopes that she would remain. I was in luck. There was no question that I had to introduce myself. I was rarely nervous around women but what I was experiencing was something new. It was like my first time on stage all over again. I took a deep breath and, guitar in hand, went over to introduce myself.

She was sitting alone which made things easier. I approached her table and asked if I could join her. She met my eyes with a smile and gestured to the seat across from her. When I introduced myself, she told me that she knew who I was, and that she had enjoyed listening to me play. I could kick myself for not having noticed her in the audience.

The rest of the evening basically wrote itself.

Sara’s attitude was both casual and disarming. She put me at ease immediately. During our conversation I learned that she was new to town. Her parents had relocated to try life in a small community. They had done very well for themselves. Her father was a doctor and had been given a generous offer to move. This put me on the defensive, having grown up with little money myself, but her attitude served to still such thoughts. She was enrolled at the university in fine arts.

And thus our mutual interest.

Over the course of the evening we discussed the artists we found most inspirational. My interests revolved primarily around music. She laughed at the blank look I gave her when she talked about painters she liked. It was her laughter that was my undoing. It rang clear as a bell through the darkening store.

She challenged me to try to find an appreciation for something other than music, her eyes glittering with amusement. I told her I did not know where to start. Taking the lead, not for the last time during our relationship, she suggested we check out the local art museum.

It took a moment for her meaning to sink in. My tongue—normally well behaved—decided to mutiny. When I regained control of myself, I accepted her challenge with what little composure I could muster. By that time most of the customers had left, not that I had paid much attention. The store was about to close.

Sara smiled playfully as she said goodbye, leaving me with her number.

I was completely taken with her.

From that point on we spent every moment we could together. It is odd how the world can recede and everything can be brought into focus on a single point. My focus was Sara and there was no room for anything else. It was not a gradual thing by any means. It felt like I had been swept up in some fairytale.

I had listened to many love songs in my time. It is odd that meaning often eludes you until you have first-hand experience.

I began spending less and less time with my friends. I think most sensed right away that this relationship was different. In the beginning I took her out with them occasionally. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that Sara and my guitar were related in some way. They were both personal. I really did not know why.

As our relationship progressed I became convinced that I would be spending the rest of my life with her. After three months I asked her if she would consider living with me. She accepted.

It was only after the move that things changed.

It started out innocently enough. It was a simple invitation to dinner. During the three months we had been together I had only met her parents briefly. I really do not know if Sara had avoided this deliberately. Having decided to live together, it was only appropriate that I spend some time with her family.

During dinner I could not believe that such a warm, caring person could have such cold parents. I was shocked. They were hardly even civil. The house really did not help things at all either. I had known Sara’s father was a doctor of course, but the grandeur of the house was more intimidating than my first session at the coffee shop, and unlike my first time on stage, this was a performance which did not go over that well. I said little during dinner but I got the message anyway.

I was not good enough for their little girl.

To make things worse, a few days later, her parent’s opinion was echoed by those closest to me. My friends were not nearly as subtle as Sara’s parents. Over a few casual beers they told me flat out that me she was too good for me. Oh, they laughed it off and congratulated me, but they wounded me at the same time.

Looking back I still can’t believe I allowed their opinions to have the impact they did. The seed of doubt had been planted. Sadly, I watered the ugly little thing until it grew roots and bloomed.

It started at work. Now I had never really liked my job but I had always enjoyed the money. For some reason I found myself growing more and more irritated while at work. The job became unbearably repetitive. It was an endless row of mailboxes that drained me of strength. In my lighter moments I managed a smile, but my darker moods had a red hue.

I was simply another disgruntled postal service employee. Unfortunately I would return home afterwards, my mood heavy upon me.

Sara and I had had our arguments but there was always a sense of play involved as well. After work I began to find myself snapping at her. Afterwards I would feel even worse, which did not help matters at all.

My dissatisfaction grew as time passed. Sara had lost none of her appeal, but for some reason she seemed to aggravate my mood. Even so, I was living with the girl of my dreams. Sara meant the world to me, but after a few weeks living together I started spending a few more nights out with the boys. At the time I simply told myself that we both needed some space once in a while.

Now I am not so sure.

The shift in our relationship continued as the months passed. Whereas in the beginning my attention had been eclipsed by Sara, my mood became more unstable and divided. Work grew steadily more difficult. I turned to my friends for solace with growing frequency, and usually there was a bottle involved as well. It began innocently enough. I had always gone out drinking with my friends and it had never been a problem. I suppose I should have realized things were changing when I would have a few beers at home while Sara was at school.

I am certain the quality of my company deteriorated.

The strange thing was that my appreciation of Sara was in no way diminished. I loved her completely. I really did not know why I behaved the way I did. I tried confiding in my friends, but they did little to soothe me. I expressed my dissatisfaction with my job, but who really liked work anyway? My situation at home, my drinking, and my problems at work grew steadily worse.

The result was a negative cycle. The more things slipped from my grasp the more I tried to maintain control. Our relationship fluctuated between our arguments and my trying to make amends. My feeling was that if I did not change something soon I would lose her, so I did the obvious thing—I proposed.

She refused.

Despite the opinions of both her parents and my friends, she had never given me any sign of a similar perspective. Her refusal left me devastated. I suppose at that point the end was inevitable. Things became uncomfortable, and she was obviously unhappy. Up until the proposal the situation had been poor but tolerable. Afterwards it was obvious that things could not continue.

At one point we had been in love. I do not know what was worse. Saying goodbye to her, or what we had had together.

Sara and I broke up close to the end of November. I was left with an empty apartment. I was also forced to deal with the breakup in regards to the people I associated with. Sure they offered me a shoulder and words of consolation, but I could not help feeling that the break-up was somehow a victory for them. I tried to dismiss the impression but it persisted. It was as if my friends suddenly wore the faces of strangers. They were also the friends I had known for years.

Lurking behind faces of those I knew so well was a face which was foreign to me. It made me decidedly uncomfortable.

My guitar and writing had gone untouched for weeks. I was unhappy at work. Staying at home was unbearable, and the company I kept was an empty consolation. I suppose it was around this time that Frank realized I was in trouble.

I had to escape.

Christmas was fast approaching and I found myself dreading it. The family dinners and time spent with friends over the holidays approached like a funeral. A change of scenery was needed—some time to sort myself out. When Frank offered me the cabin I accepted without hesitation.

After dealing with my affairs I got in my truck and drove.

I turned from my memories and placed my attention back on the road ahead of me. The snowfall had grown heavier, obscuring my view. The directions Frank had given were simple enough. I would arrive in about half an hour, if I had my distances right.

Fate had something different in mind for me. The daylight was fading rapidly and dusk was approaching. I was coming around a corner when my headlights caused a pair of amber eyes to flash. I only caught a glimpse of the creature before it leapt off the road. In my effort to avoid it I lost control of the vehicle.

I hit the snow bank with a solid thump.

The impact threw me hard against the seatbelt. I sat for a moment, stunned, before attempting to back out. I had no luck. I tried again to no avail.

My situation dawned on me slowly. I realized I was far from the city and any phone service. It was entirely possible that I was miles away from any other form of assistance as well. I got out and surveyed the situation. The front of my truck was completely off the road and buried deep in the snow.

I needed help.

My only course of action was to try to find someone living nearby. Even an empty cabin might offer something in the way of shelter. I had no choice but to leave the truck behind. I couldn’t recall seeing anything in the way of side roads for some time, so I set out in the direction I had been traveling.

I began walking. Up until that point, even with the loss of Sara, my life had been relatively simple. It was about to get far more complicated.

1

Sam and the Salesman

The Salesman

My walk was an uneasy one, to say the least. I considered my options while I made my way down the road, the light snowfall muffling the sound of my progress. How long would I walk before turning back? Would I be trapped in the truck with the engine running waiting for someone to drive by? If I even found a place, would anyone be there during the holiday season? The road had been ploughed recently, which I took to be a good sign. Obviously it received some traffic.

Regardless, my fate was truly out of my hands.

The gently falling snow, the rapidly darkening sky, and the lack of any traffic, portrayed a calm that was by no means reflected internally. I came to the conclusion that my concern would yield no result. My only option was to keep walking and hope for the best.

I was used to the noise of the city. Here everything was shadowed in eerie silence. Usually the hero is stranded on a lonely though beautiful tropical island. I was stuck in the snow. Perhaps ‘hero’ was not to be my role.

I was struck by the strangest impression that something was waiting. Perhaps it was the silence that created the sense of anticipation. I attempted whistling one of my songs, but it only made me feel smaller. I shook my head, throwing off snow, and continued walking.

After continuing for about twenty minutes, I saw what appeared to be a driveway leading into the woods on the left. I walked to the foot of it, my anticipation growing at the telltale sign of habitation. The driveway was relatively clear, taking into account the fresh snowfall. I stood silent for a moment, took a deep breath, and made my way up the driveway, breaking fresh tracks in the snow.

I did not want to get my hopes up.

By that time the darkness had settled, and the snowfall had diminished considerably. I had little to go on other than the hope of the stranded and brokenhearted. Somewhere in existence there had to be a saint for one or the other. The only illumination was the pale light of the moon. The trees on either side of the narrow driveway closed overhead, forming a canopy. It had to lead somewhere. My only course of action was to find out where.

It did not take me long to discover I was in luck.

The picturesque cabin that came into view revealed nothing of what was in store for me inside. I was unprepared for was the form of assistance I would receive. I was about to meet someone who would have both an immediate and lasting impact on my life.

Contrary to what was to come, the setting of the cabin served to ease my concern. It was a simple cabin composed of rough-hewn logs, the thick blanket of snow on the roof serving only to make what lay within all the more inviting. A large porch was situated at the top of a small flight of stairs. The chairs on the porch were obviously handmade. I imagined that the occupant enjoyed spending some of his time sitting outside.

The thin trail of smoke that rose from the chimney announced that someone was indeed home. The warm glow that illuminate the windows of the cabin cast flickering shadows on the surrounding landscape. All in all my fears were put to rest.

Further back there was a woodpile next to a large garage. I was disappointed to see that the garage housed no vehicle. The setting was wonderfully rustic, the same thing I had imagined for myself before setting out.

Having surveyed the area, there was little left to do but try the door. I walked up the stairs and onto the porch. As I approached I was surprised to see a sign hanging from the doorknob. It read ‘NO SOLICITORS’ in bold letters, and hung slightly askew. I could only wonder who in their right mind would come out all this way for a sale.

What was unknown to me at that point was that I was the salesman.

I knocked on the door and waited for my savior to answer. I did not have to wait long for a response. The door opened just enough to allow the occupant to get a look at me. From what little I could see he appeared to be in his late fifties. I took a breath and prepared to explain my presence.

He did not give me the chance.

What are you selling? He demanded suspiciously, his voice conveying both age and confusion.

This was not the introduction I had expected. The speech I had in mind escaped through my open mouth. I am afraid I probably stood there wearing a rather dumb expression.

I… My voice failed me in my own confusion.

What are you selling? he raised his voice this time, craning his neck further out the door as if looking for an item of interest. Finding none his eyes returned to me.

Can’t you read? I am not interested. The occupant was by no means as inviting as the cabin which housed him.

His displeasure was felt by both myself and any other life in the form of life in the vicinity when he closed the door with an audible ‘bang!’ I was left staring at the instrument of such displeasure, the sign swinging gently in mute accusation. My situation was now both desperate and ridiculous. In my bewilderment I had to stifle a panicked laugh.

I stood there for a few moments trying to make sense of what had just happened. I was struggling between mirth and self-pity. Why me? There seemed to be no other option but to try again. I knocked for a second time.

This time I was prepared.

Look I hate to bother you but I need some help…… he did not let me finish.

What are you doing back here? He demanded imperiously, as if hours instead of a moment had passed since our last discussion. He pushed the door open further giving me a look at him for the first time. He was dressed in a plaid shirt and suspenders, which he hiked up haughtily before confronting me again. Can I see some identification please?

This was not going well at all.

He waited in the doorway as if suspicious I would rush him with a vacuum cleaner. I could see no other option but to humor him. I reached back and fished out my wallet, removing my driver’s license. I handed it to him and watched as he peered at it, holding it up to the light as if to verify its authenticity.

I stood helplessly, not wanting to interrupt him and set him off.

I don’t want any… I heard him mumble under his breath.

He dropped his hands to his sides, looked at me once again and then squinted, as if confused by my presence and attempting to bring my face into focus. Suddenly all the hostility vanished. In a few desperate moments I had seen the old codger both hostile and bewildered. They say the most profound moment of a relationship is the first impression. Not to be confined into anything resembling rationality, he moved directly into pleasure. His eyes lit up like I was his long lost nephew.

It’s good to see you, Al! He beamed.

I wanted to sit down on one of the porch chairs and hold my head in my hands. What this senile old coot was doing out in the middle of nowhere, I did not know. All I could think was that I was as lost as his mind was, and we both needed help.

Come in! Come in, Al! There is no need to stand in the cold.

Wonderful.

He grabbed me by the arm as I attempted to correct him. He would have none of it. Who ‘Al’ was remained a mystery, although the old man was obviously immensely pleased to have his company. I could do little but follow him inside.

I am so glad you decided to drop by!

I let the poor fellow take my jacket and tried to settle on a plan. I decided the best course of action would be to humor him and see what I could find out about the area. Having taken my jacket he led me inside. I got my first look at the place.

The cabin in no way reflected the confusion shown by its owner.

It was a simple, rustic structure built from rough-hewn logs. I entered one large room, which was divided into a kitchen and living area. The centerpiece of the living room was the fireplace, in front of which I imagined the old man spent a lot of time. To the right there was a darkened hallway. The physical structure, as impressive as it was, was not what caught my attention.

The interior of the cabin was in constant motion. Shadows, cast by the multitude of candles, danced throughout. The candlelight created an unending play of dancing light and shadow on the log walls. The sound of wood crackling in the fireplace served only to add to the effect. The scene was one of life and warmth.

The furniture in the living room, aimed as it was at the fireplace, was surrounded on all sides by greenery. Plants of all shapes and sizes called the cabin home. The effect of the shifting shadows cast by the candles and greenery was almost hypnotic. The walls were adorned by a number of paintings and other objects of interest. Before I could admire the scene any further, my host tugged insistently on my arm.

He led me into the kitchen and directed me to a seat at the table. The furnishings in the kitchen showed the same attention to detail that the décor did for the rest of the cabin. The table looked as if it was handmade. It was left rough around the edges, though smooth on top, bringing attention to the grain of the wood. The kitchen cabinets and doors were crafted in the same manner.

All in all it was quite the place.

After I had looked around and taken my seat I took a breath, gathering myself to deal with my apparently senile host. Looking up I found him smiling at me like we were old pals.

So why did you decide to visit old Sam?

Is that your name sir? Sam? I asked. Finally I was making some headway. That being said, I am willing to admit that my voice portrayed my own anxiety.

He looked momentarily uncertain. I decided it was in my best interest to give him time to think.

Of course it is! He responded emphatically, as if dispelling all doubt.

I did not come to visit you, Sam. I tried, in the hope that there was in fact a saint for either the stranded or the brokenhearted. I had been told that god protects drunks and fools. Maybe there was also a saint for the senile. I really did not know.

I was driving out to stay at a friend’s cabin when my truck went off the road and into a snow bank.

I gave him some time to digest this.

You did not come to visit me? He looked crushed, and I felt almost as sorry for him as I did for myself. I sent a brief prayer out to god and any saints applicable, which seemed to have a remarkable effect because he perked up quickly.

That being said, my prayer was not as effective as I would have hoped.

Nonsense, Al! You are here are you not? Sam’s logic was undeniable. It’s been so long. I had to stop myself before I said something inappropriate. He simple beamed and offered a smile, which I felt obligated to return to the best of my ability. Would you care for some tea?

To be honest I was rather chilled from the walk. The warmth of his cabin was helping, but tea sounded wonderful. When I nodded I watched as he struggled to his feet and made his way to the stove. It was an old gas stove, which he managed to light with little difficulty. With the kettle on he returned to his seat.

Sam, when I spoke tried to keep any form of confrontation out of my voice, I believe you have mistaken me for someone else.

He looked at me suspiciously, and I was at once reminded of the sign hanging outside. He let it pass however.

Nonsense! He repeated, with authority only the elderly can muster.

I briefly considered telling him that I was obviously more certain of my own name than he was of his. I decided it would be a bad call. Given my situation it seemed a foolish thing to do. Sam and Al would have to do. I decided to try him for some information.

Sam?

He looked at me as if suddenly realizing I was there once again.

You remember what I said about my truck being stuck in the snow bank? How do you get in and out of town for supplies? Do you have a vehicle?

Well yes, but I lent it to a friend for the holidays. He considered before continuing. I do have a snowmobile!

My hopes rose a little. Perhaps there was someone close by that I could reach.

Do you know anybody that I could go to for help?

Well I do have friends, Al. He answered somewhat haughtily. You’re not the only one who visits me.

If Sam and Al were old friends, I had to admit that the old coot might be very popular indeed. I held my tongue and tried once again for information

I leaned forward. Do they live nearby?

His brow furrowed as he considered.

Well there is William’s place just up the road, of course… Maybe this was the break I needed. But he’s in town visiting family right now.

I began to realize I might be well and truly stuck. The snowmobile was a good thing but it was too dark to be exploring. It was entirely possible that nobody was around for miles. I could not have picked a worse time of year to get stranded, as far out of town as I was.

My shoulders drooped.

I know, Al. I looked up. He was smiling as if my prayers had been answered and he had received divine inspiration.

I looked at him helplessly.

Yes, Sam?

You can stay here with me.

I groaned inwardly. This was the very thing I had been trying to avoid.

There are people out this way occasionally, and if all else fails the grater comes by once in a while to keep the road clear.

Ah, my vacation was off to a wonderful start! Apparently my Christmas gift this year was to come in the form of a new name. It was certainly not what I had requested. I considered for my situation for a moment. I had to admit that there was a small blessing. I had not thought of Sara in quite some time.

Tomorrow I would find a way out.

It was late. I accepted Sam’s invitation for the night, assuring myself that it would be no longer than that. We spent the rest of the evening talking over our tea. I did my best to hold his attention, though he wavered despite my best efforts. My host had a good heart, even if his mind was not up to the task. Although he was obviously very suspicious of salesmen, I thought that he appreciated my company. The fact that I was not ‘Al’ mattered little. I entertained as best I could.

As the night drew to a close he led me to the spare room and wished me a good night. Well, he actually wished ‘Al’ a good night, but I accepted just the same. I settled down under the covers in a spare room, and tried to plan for the next day. It wound up being a rather futile exercise.

I fell asleep quickly.

You can call me ‘Al.’

My dream that night began innocently enough. I was at a party with a group of people who were unfamiliar to me. I kept to my own as a result, looking around for someone I recognized. Eventually some unknown celebrant waved me over. When I drew close he offered a greeting.

‘Hello Al, I am glad you could join the party.’

For some reason that introduction struck a deep chord of fear in me. It took a few moments to identify the problem.

My name was not ‘Al.’

Although I was very aware that my name was not ‘Al,’ for some reason I could not recall who I was or why I was at the party. I drew back from the gentleman, my fear growing. I was surrounded by people I did not know, but that was not the problem.

The problem was that I did not know myself.

There was a bathroom by the entrance. In order to escape I entered the washroom with the idea of splashing some water on my face in hopes of jogging my memory. I took a look in the mirror and was horrified to see I was wearing a nametag.

It read ‘Al’ of course.

The fear I experienced as I looked at the nametag was palpable. There was only one thought on my mind. I had to escape the house.

I fled, out into a winter landscape.

I have no idea how long I walked. I was utterly consumed by confusion and the necessity of escape. My path took me deep into a wooded area. I had torn the nametag off when I exited the house, but for the life of me I could not remember who I was. The only thing that remained was a stubborn denial that I was not ‘Al.’

I continued walking as I struggled with my memory. I could only wonder where I was. Eventually a structure came into view. I could make vaguely make out something in the center of a snow covered field.

As I emerged from the tree line I was overcome by the feeling that I was being watched. The feeling persisted as I drew closer to the structure in the center of the clearing. It was only when I looked over my left shoulder that I saw the large predatory cat emerging from the forested area. It approached at a steady pace, stalking me.

I began to run. My

Reviews for Identity Crisis; The Song of the Nagual

[Khalil Tajee Woods · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Great literacy. I actually enjoyed the book so far, even though I didn't read it all.