Image: Grand Canyon National Park, Arizona

Text and image by Susan Beamish. © Copyright 2014.

Ancestor Biktorus

“She is a powerful spirit and you must listen to her messages,” my teacher instructs. “Call her in now and allow her energy to come through your body.” I feel my cellular structure shift and expand to accommodate her incoming presence. An image begins to paint itself. She is alone by a small fire deep within a crimson walled canyon. She sits patiently watching the night sky as though awaiting an arrival. She turns to me and points to a singular bright star on the horizon. “Ona pik na damu torus,” she proclaims. I ask for the meaning of these ancient-sounding words. “My love of loves enter the middle world,” she responds.

 

Days before, a faint image begins to seep through the wall in my healing room. The rattling of my owl-feathered shaker is calling forth a woman’s body, unknown and intimate. She reaches out to show me her hand. Long fingers, turquoise gems and leather the colour of butter. An unfamiliar aromatic fragrance fills the air which years later I will recognize as piñon. She announces herself as Shena Biktorus – ancestor, advisor, ally.

 

I search the long list of names on a Russian web site until I find the name Biktorus. The link opens to a single image. A medicine man in a green and yellow ribbon shirt with knee high leather boots stands at the edge of the Grand Canyon.One hand points to the sky, the other holds a green shaker.

 

Ancestor Biktorus takes her place on the circle of light that is illuminating my auric body. She stands directly in front of me while another ancient medicine woman stands behind. The four directions will soon be completed by a coca spirit on my right, and, on my left, a Viking warrior who relays her loving guidance through her swift and weighty sword.

 

Three years later, I gaze into the Grand Canyon, drawn into its incomprehensible vastness. A distant winding road on the canyon floor brings forth tears as I recall a vision of Ancestor Biktorus and I making our way along a dusty red trail. With gallant strides she pushes a heavy wooden cart. Its cargo, a golden radiant substance, is medicine for the cave dwellers who oversee our journey from their lofty domain.

 

“It has taken so long, thousands upon thousands of years, to get myself back here,” I sob to my companion. In unison, tears roll down our cheeks. We sit together in a devoted stillness allowing the canyon’s energy to wash over us.

 

Unexpectedly, her arm wraps around my shoulder pulling me in, our shared yet unknown histories beginning to merge. From deep within the ancient stone walls I hear the echoed proclamation, “My love of loves enter the middle world”, as though these words are being spoken for the very first time.