When I came to, I was chewing on something that tasted terrible, like fine handkerchiefs toasted in salt and lightly basted with an old lady's perfume.  I worked my tongue around and managed to spit it out of my mouth.  It felt like a wad of linen.  I couldn't check to see whether I was correct or not because I was jammed into a tight space about the size of a crate or a coffin.  It was dark, and I couldn't move.  Someone had trussed me up like a mummy.

My options seemed to have been reduced to two:  hysteria and claustrophobia.  I had rejected the former and was seriously considering the latter when I felt my container shifted and flipped.  My head thumped into the side of the box.  I was in a wooden packing crate.  I tried kicking back with both legs into the bottom of the crate.  Whoever was moving me didn't object, and it made me feel better, so I tried it a few more times.  With a jarring thump, my movement stopped for a few seconds, and then I felt a lurch in my stomach.  The crate was rising.

I kicked again and thought I felt something give.  What had been frustration turned into hard labor.  Ten minutes into what had to be the longest ascent in the world, I had knocked out the lower part of the bottom of the crate.  Wriggling past the broken edges of boards was worse than the kicking had been, but it was useful, too.  One of the nails I'd exposed caught on the bandaging and ripped a long tear in it.  The nail also tore through my suit and into my skin, but that was a trade-off I was willing to make.

All through my crawling out of my prison and rolling around on the floor hacking at the bandages, the elevator kept rising, adding nausea to my other joys.  When I finally lay panting on the floor with my hands and arms freed enough to finish the job, I started by cleaning off my eyes and taking a look around.  I was inside a freight elevator. 

Another quarter of an hour and I had made it up onto my feet.  Now the elevator was cluttered with the shattered remains of the packing crate, scraps of wood, bits of plaster and cloth, and a bright glint of red.  I leaned forward.  It was the orchid, nestled into a corner of the crate, still intact.  I heard myself snort in disbelief.  My head swum as I picked it up, but I managed to get it tucked back into my lapel before I had to give up or fall over.  When I went to check the elevator controls, I may have sagged against the wall a little; if so, I think I'd earned it.

The elevator had the ancient kind of controls, just a single start and stop handle.  It was impossible to see if I was anywhere near a floor, but I was past caring.  I grabbed the handle and tugged at it until the elevator shuddered to a halt, then went to see if the door would work.  It was stubborn, but when I yanked at it with all my strength, it reluctantly slid open.

It opened into the office at the brownstone.  I half-stepped, half-fell through the door, turned around to look back into the elevator car, and found myself staring at the doors to the front room.  Giving it up after a few seconds for a bad job, I turned back around and studied the office.  Upon closer examination, it wasn't really our office.  There were some items missing---books, souvenirs, a painting.  There were also some things there that no longer existed like the Venetian glass vase that was shattered during a fight a few years back.

I knew I should be cautious, so I circled the room, checking for booby traps.  However, fatigue soon overcame suspicion.  After a few restless minutes of prowling, I went to Wolfe's desk and put the orchid from my lapel into his vase.  I thought about going into the office washroom to neaten up and take care of some of the damage, but it was too much effort.  Instead, I crossed back over to my desk and sat down in my chair.  Somehow, I wasn't surprised to hear the sound of the elevator from the hall just when I was about to relax and put my head down on my folded arms.  The timing was typical of him.

Wolfe came into the room.  A few steps inside of the door, he caught sight of me, and I had never seen him look so grim.  Far back in his dark eyes was something else, too, something I recognized and maybe even welcomed, but something I didn't intend to linger over.

"Archie."  He'd edited his usual greeting since he wasn't going to pretend either that it was morning or that it was good.  After he crossed over to his desk, he stood glowering at the red orchid for a while.  Then he gave a deep sigh, went behind the desk, sat, and allowed himself to settle back into the only chair that truly satisfied. 

After a pause, he asked, eyes closed, "Are you well?  You do not look it.  Have you eaten and slept?"

I swiveled around in my own chair to face him.  "No, sir, I haven't eaten.  But, as far as I know, I'm sleeping back at Saul's apartment."

His eyes opened to slits.  "Indeed.  Report."

It was the cue I had been waiting for.  I gave him all of it:  hypodermic, raven, nightclub, packing crate, the entire story.  I will admit that it pleased me to see his forefinger tracing small circles on the arm of his chair while I described my death by mud-wrap, if only because I could bring that up when it was time to discuss my next raise.  When I had finished, he sat with his lips squeezed tight for a while, as if he tasted too much dill in his shad roe, before he spoke.

"Very satisfactory.  I fear, however, that some of the consequences of the decisions you were forced to make will be awkward."  He sighed again, letting out a bushel of air.  It was soothingly familiar even as part of a dream.  "You will recollect that a few years ago, in an attempt to bait a minion of the FBI, you claimed to be one sixty-fourth American Indian?  At the time I called you a liar."

"Sure, I remember," I said, wondering where he was heading, "but I let it go because you were under a lot of stress, what with offspring leaping at you left and right---"

"Bosh.  Were you, in point of fact, lying that day?"

I shrugged.  "No, sir.  Not about the Indian blood, not according to my great-uncle, although he'd say anything to get a rise out of my---No, I wasn't lying."

"Do you know of which tribe this ancestor was a member?"

"Nope.  She was an Indian Princess, of course."

"Of course.  A comely lie will always drive out a homely truth.  In any case, I veer from my path.  The raven-headed being, whom you rightly suspected of trying to provoke you, was an agent of our opponent.  He was meant to keep you from this place, and possibly damage you before you returned to your physical corpus."  His eyes narrowed.  "However, being the man you are, you found your own path through the shadow lands and completed your journey, not with the aid of others, but by using your own experience and paying from your own assets.  The result was---unexpected, if feasible."  I raised one eyebrow at him, and he pursed his lips and looked petulant.  "Very well then, I will be blunt and use an approximation you will recognize.  You are now a shaman."

I sat up straight and stared at him.  His gaze was steady.  He was not kidding.  "A shaman, huh?  Do I get a union card?"

Wolfe grimaced.  "Archie, don't act the buffoon.  As the classic sources claim, you are a conduit for your patron spirit to the mundane world, subject to ecstatic trances, able to heal, prophesy, and serve as a psychopomp.  When we return I would suggest that you overcome your putative prejudices against reading long enough to refer to a popularized source, such as the Encyclopedia Britannica, about the subject.  Or try a book."

"Or you can tell me all about it over meals for the next two months."  I thought it over.  "Do I get a choice, about the shaman business I mean?"

He grunted.  "Having choices in such matters is a delusion of the modern, synthetic mystic.  Spirits choose you, you do not choose them."  He hesitated for a fraction of a second and then continued.  "Many indigenous Siberians, for example, chose death, rather than become the shamans of spirits that they disliked."

"Well, I won't go that far although I will want a raise, of course."  I saw that he was about to let fly, so I held up a hand.  "Is any of this going to interfere with my getting you back to the brownstone?"

"No.  I believe it will merely alter the tone of the experience."  Wolfe glowered at the orchid again as if it was a quarterly check to the Internal Revenue Service.  "I suppose there is no sense in delay."  I hope he convinced himself because he didn't convince me.  He put both hands on his chair arms, levered his bulk up and onto his feet, and gestured me over.

"If we are to continue, you will need to consume this.  You will, in all likelihood, not enjoy the results."  He took the orchid out of its vase and tore it between his two hands.  Then he put one half of it in his mouth, grimaced, and handed the other half to me.  I considered it and then considered him.  He still had that purple glow about him.  The petals had stained his thick lips red.  His expression had gone past petulant;  he looked like I felt.  I ate the rest of the orchid.  It tasted sweet going down but my stomach thought it was bitter and heaved.  I swallowed and held my gorge.

"Now we must join hands."  He came around his desk and held out one hand to me.  After a startled moment, I took it.  For a while nothing happened until suddenly the glow on his fingertips crawled up my hand and solidity flowed the other way, from my fingers to his.  My palm tingled and then burned.  The burning played across my nerves in a way that I hadn't figured on.  I yanked my hand away.

Once more he looked at me, and I looked at him.  I was the first one to speak. "Was that the alteration of tone you were speaking of, sir?"

He scowled.  You would have to have known Wolfe as long as I have to understand why he could not, literally could not, answer me.  I realized that if I waited much longer he would go into one of his stubborn funks, and we would be stuck here until the crack of doom or until he had reread every book in this office, whichever came first.  Before I could lose my nerve, I said, "If I wasn't beaten by asphyxiation, I'm not going to be beaten by this," and grabbed his hand again.

At first it wasn't that bad, but the sensation kept building.  When I realized what was going to happen I grabbed Wolfe's other hand with mine.  Maybe I was thinking that two links would make it finish twice as fast.  Maybe I wasn't.

The light crept up my forearms.  Perspiration stood out on Wolfe's forehead, and his breathing picked up.  I sighed, and it came out rough.  Then our eyes met, and he set his jaw and nodded firmly, once.  I stepped in closer to narrow my field of vision.  I don't think either of us was ready to see all of what was going on.

His shoulders were becoming solid.  I felt as if fire was spilling over from my arms and pouring, slow as molten honey, down into the rest of my body.  One of us made a noise deep in his throat.  It might have been me, I suppose.

About the time the fire blossomed in my gut, I couldn't take it any more.  I moved in closer to Wolfe, clamped my hands on his shoulders, and held on, shuddering.  He wrapped one arm around my waist and put the other on the back of my neck, holding my head so I still couldn't meet his eyes.  But, he was shaking too, I could tell.  It was a dead giveaway for both of us, even though we were way past caring.  It would have been easier to keep cool during a forest fire than during that onslaught.

As it ended, he said my name.

Afterwards he yanked his hands away, but I didn't step back. I thought I knew how to help him swallow it and keep it down.  "Wait," I said.  I poked his chest with a forefinger.  "My choice, to get the job done, right?"

I'd called it correctly.  Wolfe's scowl smoothed out.  "Indeed."  He stroked my hair back with two fingers and retreated.  This time I let him go.

He looked a lot better.  The glow was almost gone, and he had lost the ominous, transparent appearance.  He went and sat back down at his desk, and for a moment, I swear, he considered ringing for beer.

Now if only I could figure out a way to keep down what had happened for myself.  However, this wasn't the time or place, so I shoved it all into a room in the back of my mind and locked the door on it.

I returned to my own chair.  "What's next?"

"You may go back to Saul's apartment and reassure him that your mission has been a success.  I leave it to you as to whether or not you wish to inform him of your new avocation."

Not having decided yet how I felt about the new avocation, I shrugged.

"Saul, as you know, is discreet.  In any case, when you return to the brownstone I will join you there and attempt to reintegrate myself with my physical corpus.  Summon me when you are ready."

I hiked one eyebrow at him, and he tightened his lips.  It felt good.  "What, I pick up the phone and say, 'Is this central, give me heaven?' "

"No.  Traditional shamanistic methods for summoning often involve such techniques as drumming, dancing, and chanted song, but the exact procedure varies depending upon location.  Each culture has its own methodology."  His tone grew dry.  "I am not aware of a technique specific to, and appropriate for, the Manhattan urbanite.  Perhaps dancing would suffice you, given your extensive acquaintance with the terpsichorean arts."

"Solo dancing."  I sighed.  "It figures.  I knew I should have attended Miss Delaney's toe dancing class instead of stealing that dime to go to the circus."

"Pfui."  He hunted around, picked up a book that was sitting on his desk, and pretended to read.  I noticed the book was by William James:  The Varieties of Religious Experience.  It figured.

I grinned, got up, and headed for the elevator in the hall.  The panel only had one button, with an arrow on it pointing down.  I pushed it.

Everything crashed in on me as I sat up on Saul's couch.  I heard Saul moving around in the kitchen but didn't call him because I needed some time.  I hadn't felt so raw since Dora Chapin had left me staggering around, thinking that Wolfe was dead and realizing the fact that---seeing a room that I didn't want to enter.  Now I'd finally crossed the threshold, and it was worse than I had thought. 

After a few minutes I got up and went into Saul's bathroom to check if anything was different about my face.  Nope.  There was no sign of the plaster, the cuts, the bruises, and the blood.  After I had washed up there was no evidence of anything anywhere else, either.

I came back out of the bathroom to find Saul setting down a plate of corned beef sandwiches and a large glass of milk on an end table.  "My hero," I said before I grabbed half of a sandwich and stuffed it into my mouth.  It turned out that I was ravenously hungry.

"A trip to the shadow lands is supposed to take it out of you.  Did you find Wolfe?"

"Did I.  And how."  Between bites, I emptied the bag for the second time that evening.  Saul is a good listener, and that night he got my best effort.  I didn't edit anything until I got to the scene in the phony office.  I could tell he knew I was leaving something out then, but, as I said, Saul is a good listener.  He let it go. 

When I finished he shook his head.  "A shaman.  That's what I call running head-first into the supernatural.  You never do anything by half-measures, Archie."

"This may be where I start." I saw his expression and held up a hand.  "Okay, you can tell me why I'm wrong later.  Or, you can loan me a book about it before he does.  What time is it?"

"Half past midnight."

"Oh, yeah?"

"It should have taken you a week. Everything moves faster, these days."  He smiled.  "You know, if you hurry, Fritz will never have to know anything happened."

That got me moving faster, all right.

As I was going out the door, Saul stopped me to hand me a record from his collection.  I looked at the label:  Latin Songs for Lovers, as played by "Chick" Dee's Tudor House Orchestra.  "Gee, thanks, Saul.  I never knew you cared."

"Knowing how Wolfe feels about music, I thought you might need this."

"You thought right."  I slid the 78 record out of its paper sleeve, flipped it over in my hands, and glanced at the label on the back.  "Pasa Doble?"

"Uh-huh.  Good luck."  He stuck a hand out, and I shook it. 

Without letting go, I said, "One last question."

"Shoot."

"Now that I've had time to think about it, was it distilled water in the hypodermic?"

"It's nice to know you're not loosing your edge, Archie."

"Sure.  I'm going to need it.  See you, Saul."

It had started raining while I was at Saul's place, and the streets were even emptier than earlier in the evening.  The trip home was a quick one.  It was just as well.  I was exhausted but had to keep moving, so the less time there was to brood, the better.  My luck was in.  The front door to the brownstone was locked which meant that Fritz had gone to bed.  Before I went upstairs, I put the chain bolt on and did the office chores.  It helped me focus.

I stopped by my room to turn off the alarm for the corridor outside Wolfe's bedroom and to get the portable phonograph that I use for listening to music where Wolfe can't hear it.  I lugged the phonograph to his door, set it down, and put my hand on the knob.  For a moment, I hesitated.  It would be strange if it all turned out to be a dream.  How would Wolfe react if he found me sneaking into his room with a phonograph?  It didn't matter, I decided.  I hadn't been fired yet this month.

He wasn't asleep.  Underneath the acres of yellow silk pajamas, his chest wasn't moving.  If the piece of fluff that I put on his upper lip hadn't twitched, I would have thought he was dead.  So, without further ado, I plugged in the phonograph and put on Saul's record.  When the music came on, I stood in the middle of Wolfe's Turkish carpet feeling like an idiot.  Then I closed my eyes and listened, letting the rhythm tell me what to do.

I don't think I've ever danced quite like I did for Nero Wolfe that night, and he wasn't even around to appreciate it, at least not in the flesh.  The music and I were one creature.  I would have thought I was a spirit myself if my sense of my own body hadn't been so sharp, if my shadow hadn't danced with me, soaring against the far wall, outlined by the lights of Manhattan seeping in through the curtains. 

Suddenly Wolfe was there, glaring down at me from the ceiling.  I just grinned and kept going, raising both arms together and pointing my forefingers down towards the floor:  pasa doble indeed.  He floated to himself like a Zeppelin approaching a mooring tower.  If it wasn't for my own experience in Saul's apartment, I wouldn't have understood why he hesitated and looked bemused when he confronted his body.  After a pause, though, he reached down and pushed his insubstantial hands into his physical chest.  With that, he poured inside like beer pouring into a glass.  I could still see a faint glow around the figure on the bed as it started to snort and cough, but he was in.  He only had to be pounded on the back a few times, which earned me an undeserved scowl that I didn't mind.  That shows how happy I was to see him in one piece.

"Shut off that barbaric noise."

"You're welcome, sir," I said and strolled over to the record player to turn it off.

"Thank you, Archie."  The big sap.  He hadn't wanted to say it to my face. 

I turned around and grinned at him.  "So, is it safe to talk?"

"Not at any length.  Not tonight.  I'm exhausted."

I looked at my watch.  It was a quarter past two, so I would humor him.  "I could use some sleep myself.  Do you want me to report for instructions after breakfast?"

"No.  Dine with me."

I must have goggled.  We never eat breakfast together.  He's too much for my delicate nerves in the morning, and I know he feels the same about me.

"I have my reasons but if I explain we will be here until dawn." He made a face.  "I need to recuperate."

"Are you sure you won't be attacked again tonight?"

"No, I am not, but it is extremely improbable that my enemy has the energy left to attempt anything that can overwhelm my protections.  Confound it, Archie, I need to sleep."

It was his idea of a subtle hint.  Apparently, what had happened in that other office was not to be discussed.  I stretched my arms out wide until my shoulders cracked.  "Fine by me.  Good night, sir.  Don't forget to call if the devil appears in a puff of smoke."

He growled at me, and I hoisted up my record player and beat a leisurely retreat.