Home Forums Hunting & Shooting Hunter's Campfire A shamanic tale

“ . . .So,” said the shaman, “As it turned out, the buck was just pulling my leg the whole time. All that talk about him being too gamey and tough was just a bunch of hooey. Those bucks, they’re such liars!”

“There was probably nothing strange in any of it!” said the gobbler, hopping back down off the stump to snatch something he’d spied moving in the leaf litter. “He might have just been saying all that to save his skin.”

“Oh, undoubtedly.” said the shaman, remarking to himself on the capacity of the turkey to draw such a quick conclusion. “I’ve learned over the years that you just cannot trust talking deer.”
“Talking deer! Phooey!” said the gobbler. “Whoever heard of anything so preposterous?”

“I would quite agree,” said the shaman. “By the way, am I keeping you from anything?”

“No,” said the turkey. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing.” said the shaman. “It’s just that I usually see you this time of day out wandering with your compatriot—what’s his name?”

“You mean Jake?” said the turkey. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll be along. I heard him arguing with a coyote this morning. I’m sure he’ll be along any time now. He never misses our time together under this oak.”
“Oh.”

“So, “ said the gobbler. “How did it all turn out?”

“With . . .?”

“With the buck.”

“Oh! Him? I shot him and ate him.” Said the shaman, “He was wonderfully tender, and we got lots of meat off of him. It was all good.”

“I’m glad you did not take him too seriously.” Said the gobbler. “All that wasted effort and all—it would have been a tragedy for you. I had that happen with a spring lizard once. He ran under a log, and I had such a time getting him out.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, when I finally did, he tasted awful. It put me off lizards for a long time.”

“Tragic,” said the shaman. “I’m so glad you recovered.” The shaman got up and stretched. “Well, it seems that I must be going.” He said.

“So soon?”

“Yes,” said the shaman. “I can go on like this all morning, but eventually even I find myself insufferable. Say hello to your friend Jake when you see him. If you all stay around here until Spring, I’ll endeavor to have you both for dinner.”

“That would be most gracious,” said the gobbler. “We will look forward to it.”

Great story. Made my good cuppa joe a better cuppa joe. Have a wonderful day, Shaman.

Thank you shaman.
I hope that your breakfast was wonderfully tender.

good story

“Whatcha doin?” asked Regin. This was one of two ladies that inhabited the trailer just up the road from the shaman’s cave. The shaman had once suspected them of being lesbians, but now knew a wholly different story.

“I’m writing my address,” replied the shaman. “I will be giving it to mark the occasion of my ten-thousandth post.”

“Fence posts?”

“Posts on the 24 Hour Campfire. It’s a. . . ”

“Oh, that place you told me about . The place where they talk twaddle all day.”

“Well, that isn’t exactly the way I’d put it.”

“Well,” she replied. “Most of the stuff you’ve shown me was twaddle.”

“I invented you for it,” replied the shaman. “I invented you and Kira as a device to show Ken Howell that writing fantasy was just as powerful as . . .”

“Twaddle,” replied Regin.

“You’re certainly in a mood.”

“I am,” she replied. “Humor me. I am in a bad mood. Read me what you’ve written so far. It will get my mind off my headache.”

“There is not all that much yet.”

“Read it.” Valkyries had this odd thing that happens when they get angry. Their eyes kind of light up and stuff across the room starts melting and catching fire. The shaman saw a bit of a smolder in Regin's and decided it was not a morning to antagonize her.

“Okay. Errr. . . um . . . My address to the 24 Hour Campfire on the occasion of my 10,000th post and assumption of duties as official Campfire B’wana. Delivered on . . . well, I’m not sure when Rick is going to schedule the event so that part is not filled in yet. I’ll skip down . . . AH! Here! Good day to all of you, gentle people of the Campfire, and your sock puppets.

“I can see this was a mistake, but go on.” Regin looked peeved.

“That’s all I have so far,” replied the shaman. “I just got started before you showed up.”

“ I’m going home and take Ibuprofen,” she said flatly. “Come down later. Kira’s making pancakes. That’s why I came up here. Kira says to bring Pooh.

What makes a Shamin a Shamin? Are you a Shamin?

A shaman does 3 things for the group:
1) Interprets dreams, omens, etc.
2) Heals
3) Intercedes beyond the veil for the benefit of the group

It's a position that acts somewhat tangentially to all the other positions of power and authority-- political, religious, etc. It's not something a fellow seeks. It's not even what you'd call a calling. For me, folks just started treating me as a shaman until I relented.

There was a fellow shaman I knew many years ago. He put it this way: "I'm here to comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable."

As I am preparing for the rite of marking my 10,000th post, I'm not able to go into detail right now. It's a rigorous bit of cleansing, purification, meditation, ritual sacrifice and communication with my spiritual guides. We can go into this later, once I have made the transition.

Years ago, I compiled a bunch of the early work I did on this august forum. It does not address your questions directly, but I think you will find a lot of your answers.

http://www.blackholecoffeehouse.com/the_shaman_papers.htm

I'm sorry. I've got an appointment at the sweat lodge this AM, then I have a fitting downtown at the tailor for my official B'wana arrayments.

Picasso with a keyboard

Having read this before hanging a lip on my first cup, I can see where we went, but only murkily. Will endeavor to revisit after second cup.

I enjoyed it.

I've had many conversations in the woods with critters.

Little one sided typically. But I've enjoyed myself!

-Jake

So you’re a listener aye?

The shaman decided that it would be easiest to just sit by the cave and wait for Pooh to show up. He usually did at whatever time he felt most propitious for obtaining a second breakfast. While he was waiting, he heard a rustle on the gravel and looked up just in time to see his old doppleganger, Nosmo King strutting out of the shadows.

“Shaman! Babes! How’s it hanging?”

“Hello Nosmo,” the shaman replied. “I have not seen you in quite some time.”

“I’ve been busy you see. Making the deals and makin’ girls squeal”

“. . . and getting’ it done all the way around,” finished shaman. “So how badly in debt are you now?”

“See, that is why I came here, my friend, I wanted to announce that I am in fat city, so to speak.”

“The outdoor industry is finally yielding its rewards?”

“Naw! That’s old stuff. I’m into something far more promising and lucrative.”

“Oh, and what might that be?”

“Guess.”

“Selling time shares?”

Nosmo shook his head.

“Reverse mortgages?”

“Shaman, I’m surprised at you. I would never get into anything like that.”

“Brokering east Asian body parts?”

“I dabbled in that for a bit, but this is far more fashionable.”

“Okay,” relented the shaman, “I give up.”

“What would you say if I told you that I had the inside line on a pile of Ninety-Nines in 6.5 Creedmire.”

“It’s Creedmoor.”

“Whatever. I got them surplus. Six point five is the in thing these days. And you’re not going to find a brand new Savage 99 anywhere.”

“OK. I’ll bite. Let’s see what you’ve got.” The shaman’s doppleganger reached behind himself and brought out an ugly looking bolt action. “That’s one of the worst looking rifles I’ve ever seen.”

“That right there is history. That’s absolute best rifle Japan ever produced in 1938. They were sitting in a warehouse in Estonia.”

“ It is not a Savage 99.”

“As I said, you’re not going to find one new. This is a used rifle.”

“It’s not even a lever action.”

“The Japanese were smart. They knew lever actions weren’t the way to go. This is far more reliable in battle.”

“It’s a dog. It’s not even a decent relic. Someone has gone and chopped a foot off the barrel.”

“It’s sporterized. Think Scout Rifle. Think carbine”

“It’s trash. You said it was 6.5 Creedmoor.”

“No. I said it was 6.5 Creedmire.”

“OK, Creedmore- Creedmire. It’s still a 6.5! I’ve got a whole warehouse full of these.”

“So you’re trying to sell me a warehouse full of de-milled Type 99 Arisakas and telling me they’re going somehow rework them into modern 6.5 Creedmoor rifles?

“No, I’m saying we just resell them as fixer-uppers and let the other guys figure it out. Look at all the Mosin Nagants. Look at all the Schmidt Rubins.

“Those were classics. These are absolute crap!” replied the shaman. “So was the 6.5X50. It bounced off.”

“The world needs a new intermediate 6.5 cartridge. Think of it as a rimmed version of the 6.5 Creedmoor-- well, sort of. We re-purpose it as the 6.5 Creedmire and we’re in! I’ve got a Turkish ammo manufacturer all ready to go on a production run. You should see the boxes. The font is perfect. If you’re not looking closely you’d think the ‘I’ is an ‘O’ ”

“No, that’s not how its done anymore. You have to take a really obscure modern round and modify it slightly-- maybe neck it down or something-- and then rebrand it into something special before hyping the hell out of it. That’s where you come in, my friend. We’ll need some good press. ”

“I’ve got a line on some Chinese Mausers.” Nosmo replied. “How does .277 Shaman sound for a chambering?”

“Go back to selling organs!” replied the shaman.

Hilarious !

It was about this time that Pooh showed up, pushing a surivial wheelbarrow filled with somewhat soiled rifles.

“Look what I found behind the hedge,” said Pooh. “Aren’t they pretty? They all have little flowers on them. What are they?”

“Tomato stakes, “ said shaman. “Nosmo here just announced he’s taking up gardening.”

“Let me know if you change your mind,” said Nosmo. He took the wheelbarrow from Pooh and disappeared down the path.

“He doesn’t seem happy, “ said Pooh.

“Nosmo is not much of a gardener,” said the shaman.

“I trust you had a pleasant time getting the sun up this morning?”

“It was a bit of a struggle,” replied the shaman. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“That sounds painful.”

“It can be. I am trying to figure out what I’ll say at the occasion of my ten-thousandth post. Any ideas?”

“Good Evening Ladies and Germs. . .”

“There aren’t that many ladies. The germ thing ain’t all that funny this year.”

“Before I forget,” interrupted the shaman. “We’re due up for pancakes at Regin and Kira’s in a bit. They specifically invited you.”

“Will there be syrup?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“I love Lebanese pancakes.”

“Lebanese pancakes! What gives you that idea/”

“Well you’re the one that told me they were Lebanese.”

“No, no, no, silly bear. That wasn’t ‘Lebanese.’ I called them Lesbians.”

“Oh, sorry. What is the difference?”

“And they’re not Lesbians either. We found out differently, remember?”

“We did? My stuffing doesn’t hold these things so well.”

“Oh, I thought it strange when you said you dreamed of Lebanese pancakes drenched in syrup. That never did make sense.”

“Yeah, you got that all mixed up, Pooh.”

“My apologies.”

“So if they’re not Lebanese or Lesbians, what are they?”

“Out of work Valkyries.”

“Why are they out of work?”

“COVID.”

“How’s that?”

“All the deaths nowadays are being attributed to COVID, so we’ve been short on heroes lately, at least oficially. There’s been a downturn on traffic going to Vahalla, so they got laid off.”

“Do we need to wear masks?”

“Hardly. How would we be able to lick the syrup?”

“Just asking.”

I haven't been back in several days. I thought this was a one off....

No I was misinformed!

A serial post. It's like a running novella or something..


Subscribed!
Thanks Shaman.

T-8

The shaman and Pooh began their walk up the road to Regin and Kira’s. The way up the road included a dip where an old tractor shed had stood. It had fallen in decades ago, and a little copse of trees had sprung up in the ruins, and these had extended to the other side of the road and in the summer they gave a nice bit of shade. They were a collection of walnut and locusts. They lost their leaves in the early part of autumn and they were bare more than half the year. They were frequented by a resident flock of Scheißevogel. These were a group of ugly-headed birds of indefinite genus whose sole reason for existence seemed to be to soil the ground around them. The trees seemed to thrive on it, but nothing else grew. Even the weeds stayed out from under the limbs. As a result, the old tractor shed lay bare and rotting. The rusting roof was nearly covered in offal. Even well away from the copse, you could hear their incessant calls that sounded like raucous laughter, but since only they knew the joke, it made them appear all the more dim.

“Did you bring your umbrella?” asked Pooh.

“Whatever for?” asked the shaman

“Well, perhaps they will get bored and let us pass.”

“I’m not following you at all.”

“Maybe I’m not following myself,” replied Pooh. “Frankly, I’d come and see Regin and Kira more in the winter, except for this.

“This what?”

“These shhhh. . .these shiit. . . “

“Oh, you mean the Scheißevogel?“

"Yes, them. They make an awful mess of things.“

"You’re missing a serious point about them,“ replied the shaman.

"What’s that?“

"You need to ignore them.“

"But then they go all over you and it’s hard to get the stuff off your coat. I think I’m permanently stained. It won't come out of velour“

"Try just ignoring them.“

"How?"

"Let’s talk about obscure wildcat chamberings, especially metric ones. Scheißevogel have no clue about that.“

"Neither do I“ replied Pooh.

Okay, what is obscure that you want to talk about?

"Honey.

"Honey is not an obscure subject.

"Sometimes its cloudy.

"That not the same as obscure. However, if you want to give honey a try, I suppose it will work. What about honey?"

"Oh just about anything to do with honey is fine with me.

Okay. Start off. Tell me something about honey.

Pooh thought rather thoroughly while he and the shaman continued their journey past the Scheißevogel. Although the copse was rather small. The pondering continued for some time.

"I think I have something.“ He said.

"Good to hear. What is it?“

Did you know that honey never spoils?

"Yes, I’d heard that,“ replied the shaman.

"Oh.“ said Pooh. "Drat,I guess I need to come up with something else.

"That‘ okay.“ We’re past the Scheißevogel already.

"We are?“

"Yes, ignoring the birds is all it takes. We have nary a bird bomb on us.

"And all it took was thinking about honey?“

"Well, that and you exceptional concentration on the subject,“ replied shaman. "I was entranced at your level of deep thought.

"My head hurts,“ says pooh. "I think I sprained the fluff or something.“

"We should rest for a bit," said the shaman. Luckily, someone had put a bench by the side of the road for them to sit. It looked out on a little field of an acre or so below the copse of trees. All the offal from the Scheißevogel fell down and eventually the rain washed it out into this field. A lovely field of sock puppets grew there, fed in the rich manure. Dozens of them waved in the sunlight. At the far end of the field, you could see a rather soiled looking camper stealing into the field to pick a fresh one from those that were nearing ripeness. At the other end of the field was the collapsed remains of the tower that once held the Emergency Bricktop Signal Floodlight. The whole thing had rotted out and fallen in. Vining Sock Puppet varieties were beginning to take it over.

"Ah," said the shaman, " . . .Then came the churches, then came the schools. Then came the lawyers, and then came the rules"

"Huh?"

"Nothing, Pooh Bear." said the shaman. "I'm just thinking to myself."

Everything is better with a Mark Knopfler quote.......

I like emergency floodlights....Even though some say they are a tool of the illuminati.