THE SHAMAN
               Copyright (C) 1987-1995 Ted Holden


Unlike true easterners, Russians aren't terribly much into
hiding their emotions; it's not tremendously difficult to tell
when one of them is unhappy or pissed off, even in the case of
KGB heavies.  When you hear one of these men wail: "SUKY SUIN!! 
Moy byedney avtomobile, UBITIY, suky-suinskim, Amerikanskim
fyermirom!!! (Son of a bitch!!!, my poor car, murdered by a
son-of-a-bitch American farmer!!!), you can assume that he's
unhappy about something, and that you'd probably best stay out
of his way that morning.

At the usual 7:00 AM Monday meeting of the KGB's operations
(murder and mayhem) section at Lubianka, on July 14 1959, Mr.
Pushkin, the third deputy director, made an announcement which
took those in attendance somewhat aback.  "Gentlemen..." he
began, "the boss has ordered a suspension of several of our
projects.  In particular, all of our on-going operations in
Central and North America are being put on hold indefinitely
until Barney Johnson has been taken care of."

Pushkin then turned to a burly, evil-looking gentleman sitting
in the third row of chairs facing him; a man whose very job
description and title would frighten most Westerners.  "Ilya
Feodorovitch, what is the longest it has ever taken anyone to
die in Lefortovo, once you have begun making any reasonably
serious efforts in that direction?"  Several of the people in
the room shuddered involuntarily, and these were all BAD people.
 

"About 3 weeks, Gospedin Pushkin.  Beyond that you sort of lose
the point of the whole thing if you know what I mean."  

"No good." said Pushkin.  "Boss says this one has to last at
least a year."  There was stunned silence in the room and
several more involuntary shudders, and then Misha Vyelikov broke
the silence.  

"A year?  Hell boss, you're not talking about torture;  you're
talking about a CURSE."  There was a flicker of laughter in the
room which died out instantly as the people in attendance waited
to see if Pushkin thought the idea funny.  And then Pushkin got
to laughing and it was another five minutes before the room
calmed down and the meeting became serious again.

"That is precisely what I was thinking too, Misha" he said,
wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.  And then his look
quickly turned serious again:  "I am aware that we are living in
the scientific age and that superstitions are not supposed to
have any place in our society...", continued Pushkin, "but a
handful of you have kept up with the activities of the
para-psych section at LGU (Leningrad State Univ.) and you KNOW
what old Teb can do and that he is not to be laughed at.  I want
you, Misha, and Vladimir and Pyotr to make whatever arrangements
it takes with LGU to BRING Teb and anyone else it takes to
handle him HERE no later than Wednesday morning's meeting."  

Beads of cold sweat broke out over Misha's brow.  "Is that a
smart thing to do, Boss?", he asked. "No telling what might
happen..."  

Another voice in the rear could be heard muttering "Jesus, I'd
rather face Hitler and Guderian again."  

"DO IT!!!", Roared Pushkin, and the meeting was adjourned.

Teb-Tengri Houlihan was the fourth of seven sons of an Irish
merchant father and a Mongolian mother thrown together by the
vicissitudes of the revolution in a Soviet prison camp in
Central Asia; he was named after another fourth of seven sons,
Teb-Tengri Ujin, the great shaman who had been Jenghis Khan's
most dangerous rival for power.  And, whereas most present-day
Mongols and Tartars are Buddhists or Moslems, Teb had immersed
himself in a revival of the ancient religion, encompassing the
psychic and occult powers which pertained thereto.  

Such powers were difficult to control, after lying fallow for
several hundred years, and a number of the early experiments had
generated more in the way of noise and fire than in the desired
direction of religious fervor and cash contributions, with the
inevitable result of attracting the attention of the Soviet
government and the KGB.  The Soviet regime normally simply
disposes of persons it regards as dangerous to itself, but Teb
fell into the "dangerous but potentially useful" category;  he
had been packed off to the para-psych studies section at LGU for
further observation.

After ten years at LGU, Teb had thoroughly mastered his arcane
craft, to the vast amusement of the students who thereafter
never wanted for good magic shows, and was in the process of
becoming urbane and sophisticated.  The agents in attendance at
the Wednesday morning meeting at Lubianka, mostly with a great
deal of trepidation, were awaiting a crazed, unwashed, and
unshaven madman dressed in yak skins, a lunatic likely to send
them and their massive old fortress up in flames amidst howls of
laughter.  They were in fact introduced to a rather elegant
looking oriental gentlemen of middle years in a blue pin-stripe
suit, a white shirt and a tie who, after courteously introducing
himself and inquiring into their purposes, requested only a 1956
Muskovitch of the same model as the deputy director's, a
mechanical shop in which to work, an oxygen-acetylene torch, and
a tuft of Barney Johnson's hair, to be somehow stolen from the
little Flint Michigan barber shop which Barney Johnson
patronized.  Reasonable enough requests, given the nature of the
business at hand.

Three weeks later, Teb, Marshall Petrov, Mr. Pushkin, Misha
Velikov, and several other people were gathered at a small
garage in Moscow's outer ring.  Teb, wearing a blue mechanic's
suit, had a 56 Muskovitch up on a hydraulic lift and was in the
process of removing the transaxle;  the rear wheels were off,
the brake lines had been disconnected, shocks and sway-bars were
off etc., and he proceeded thus until the entire rear end of the
car was hanging suspended by only a single bolt, one of the
fifteen- millimeter bolts which held the rear universal joint
together.  

"Behold, gentlemen, I remove the last bolt and the rear end
falls off", and, so saying, Teb removed the last 15-millimeter
bolt with an air ratchet and the transaxle of the Muskovitch
came clattering down on the cement floor as Teb stepped deftly
to one side.  "That last bolt was the one I needed", Teb
claimed, and took the 15-mm bolt over to an empty area on the
floor where he had set two oak-wood logs of about 10 inch
diameter, placing the bolt atop the logs.  Next he opened his
briefcase and produced a tiny wooden doll with blue overalls, a
tiny corncob pipe, a tuft of Barney Johnson's hair glued atop
its head for coiffure, and the back of its neck painted bright
fire-engine red.  

Ilya Sokolovski laughed out loud:  "You can't possibly be
serious?"  

Teb scowled and replied:  "If you want to find out just how
serious I am say the word and I'll change the doll to look like
one of you guys."  

Several pairs of hands clamped over Sokolovski's mouth
instantly and at least two nervous voices spoke in unison: "just
kidding Wiz, go ahead..."  And the ceremony continued.

The shaman placed the doll and the bolt and a certain quantity
of green-blue powder on the oak logs, lit them with the
oxygen-acetylene torch, and proceeded to dance around the small
fire, which presently grew and began to emit an unusual amount
of heat so that the people in the garage began to sweat and were
obliged to remove coats and ties.  Time seemed to stand still,
the observers gazing upon the event as in a trance.  The dance
gradually grew more frenetic, the flames leapt higher, and,
finally, a thin, piercing shriek was heard which seemed to be
coming from the tiny doll and, then, in a brilliant flash of
blue-green light, the doll, the bolt, the two oak logs, and
everything simply vanished so that there were not even any ashes
where they had been;  not any trace whatsoever.  No one in the
room had any doubts but that Barney Johnson was in deep, serious
trouble.