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The spirits speak with every shake. With each step I take, each pace I dance, their message becomes more clear. The sound one we recall from the cradle, rhythmic, soothing. It takes on a different meaning now, dangling from my neck or in my hand. That which once comforted infants now serves as a conduit to the other side, and marks me as a Shaman. We have always crafted these rattles. One should never forget what we call the last breaths one takes before they cross out of this realm, nor the sound we make. For what better way to hear the spirits than to give them their own voice? These rattles are powerful tools. They heal and placate, they protect and ignite the magic within sacred objects. They mark us out, feature in our rituals. Above all else, they offer a link between our realm and the spirits'. As I carve the bone for this rattle, this incredible power, and the distinction that comes with it, rests on my mind. I may see the threads the bind us to this realm as easily as a tailor sees a loose string on a robe. I dwell among untrodden paths most walk only once. Long have I flitted between Loka, Asuras, Naraka, and more, but to offer the spirits this divine gift, powerful in its simplicity, brings me closer to them in a new way. This rattle will always be at my side, forever reminding me of the connection we share. As I sit alone in the mountains in a haze, and as I dance wildly through the smoke of a fire, the rhythmic rattling will soothe my mind, and once again I will hear the spirits' call. | |