Guidelines for Leading Tours of Supernatural Grottoes, Shrines, and Assorted Holy Places

By Teresa Milbrodt

1. You won’t be granted special powers, but people will expect you to have them.

Last month I spent ten minutes arguing with a woman in my tour group who claimed that I was levitating an inch above the ground. Eventually I gave up and continued the tour. If she thought I could float and read minds then sure, whatever. That didn't seem to make anyone scared of me. Maybe it justified why I was giving the tour. She’s not the first person who wanted to endow me with special powers. In this job you learn to improvise.

We have scripts to use when giving tours, but for most of us guides that went out the window a long time ago. We have favorites stories about the spirits and adjust our repertoire depending on the group of tourists we’re shuffling around. Sometimes I elaborate on certain bits of the legend for kids, but I stick close to the history when I have older know-it-alls who want to contest everything I say about the Battle of the Willows.

I keep everyone walking and rolling behind me— dangerous shit can happen if they cross certain barriers around the rocks and stream. Someone is always messing with the purple tape that marks the boundary lines, but guides know where they are. We feel the change in the air before we’re at the edge, so the tape isn’t there for us but our tour groups.

Sometimes I tell my groups that I’m blind in my right eye and can’t see them if they get too far ahead. Usually, the worst that happens if they cross into spirit space is a few mosquito bites and a head cold, but one guy’s hand disappeared and never came back, so I use that caution.

2. Expect that people’s desires will run counter to your own.

Many folks come here to pray for health and healing, not just gawk at the gargoyle statuary and listen to the story of how stones turned into monsters during the Battle of the Willows. The miracle-seekers give me a sideways glance when I mention my blind eye, a look that implies if the shrine really worked I’d be healed. I shrug and say I’ve been this way since I was a baby and don’t need to change. Sight in both eyes would be strange for me. My boss says I shouldn’t bring up the blind eye, but when I bump into someone who’s in the empty space on my right side, I must apologize so they don’t think I’m rude.

At the shrine most folks with disabilities have to say they want to be healed because they’re with their parents or partner and have the weight of expectations about what they should want. I suspect many of those folks are like me, they’d prefer to win fifty bucks in the lotto, have more people respect them at work, and not be questioned about what they should or should not want for their bodies, then they can keep living as usual.

My best post-tour conversations are with folks my age who use wheelchairs or white canes or have a sign language interpreter. People whose limbs tremble, but who come to the shrine to request healing for others, loved ones who are ill. These are people who don’t want their grandma to ache on rainy days, or their cousin to have trouble with asthma.

These are situations that are different from ours, since we don’t think of our bodies as problems but ways of being. It’s a difficult point to make to some people when I switch from my regular glasses to my reading glasses to announce the day’s special programs and activities. The glasses switch wins me sideways glances, but I smile and tell everyone to have a pleasant morning/afternoon/evening.

There are other uncomfortable times, like today when a young woman who looks like she’s in her early twenties is part of my tour group. She came with an offering of chocolate and a desire to be healed. In-between stops on the tour she tells me that she works as a carpenter and got hit in the face with splinters last month when she walked by someone using a circular saw. One of those shards poked her eye, damaging her retina. She doesn’t say how bad her vision is now, just asks if I’ve witnessed miraculous healings.

“Not exactly,” I say. “But I’ve heard stories.”

“Lots of stories?” she asks.

“A number of stories,” I say. The spirits are best at granting the patience to adapt, but no one wants to hear that when they’re mourning their old bodies. I don’t tell her that I’m blind in my right eye, much as I’m tempted. My boss would be pissed. The carpenter leaves her chocolate for the spirits and gives me a hopeful nod at the end of the tour.

I nod back and smile, though I’m not sure what I want either gesture to mean.    

“What was today’s crisis?” Hayle asks that evening after we kiss hello.

“People want miracles and can’t follow directions,” I say. Sometimes folks in my group have excellent questions and we have a great discussion while trolling around the shrine. Sometimes they leave all itchy and pretend they’re not uncomfortable, but I know they got too close when I was pretending not to look.

3. Anticipate productive lying.

I invent what the spirits sound like, which changes depending on my mood. Sometimes it’s wind in the trees, water trickling over rocks, stones brushing against each other in the wash of a current. None of those are true, but they sound nice. The best way to explain is that the spirits are shimmers in my peripheral vision and my hearing. They don't sound like anything; I just know their meaning.

I tell my tour groups that the spirits are all-knowing. I don’t mention that they swear a lot, since it’s more of a feeling than a word. Trust me, I know when they're cussing. Sometimes they seem to care about the hopefuls who visit and leave offerings. Other times…it's not like they don't give a shit about people who are in pain, but they're indifferent.

They’re managing, the spirits suggest. They'll feel better tomorrow. The headache will go away. The kids will be less annoying. Their boss will apologize.

Just because the spirits have the power to bend the world in ways I can’t comprehend doesn’t mean they’re eager to use it all the time.

4. There are surprisingly few fringe benefits. Take what you can get.

Most people, at least those who are serious about asking for healings and assorted miracles, leave food for the spirits on tables beside the shrine. After we close for the day, a few of the other guides and I nibble on the snacks. The spirits don’t mind sharing. They enjoy our company and appreciate the scent of food.

Might as well not let the squirrels get it all, they observe.

We chat about the requests that day. They’re most amused by the requests of children for older or younger siblings to quit messing with their stuff, but as usual they’re more apt to grant patience than miracles.

A few times I’ve made a request on Hayle’s behalf since they’re sensitive to odors. They just want the spirits to take the edge off the cologne migraines they get during heavily-scented staff meetings.  

“Hayle sent more granola bars,” I say, placing them on the table with the rest of the offerings.

The ones with fudge and marshmallows, the spirits observe. Please thank them for us.

“May I?” I ask, picking up a granola bar.  

Help yourself, say the spirits.

I use unscented lotions and shampoos. Hayle says I smell of citrus and salt, neither of which gives them a headache. I don’t ask the spirits if they’ve helped Hayle with their migraines. Sometimes I wonder if we’re selling the wrong kind of hope, but I keep working at the shrine because I love being a tour guide.

Most days.

5. Smile harder and wider when you don't want to smile at all (common to anyone in a service profession).

My mouth aches from grinning. It hasn’t been a good morning. I didn’t sleep well. Hayle was up all night with an awful headache. I made tea and rubbed their back and temples, trying to comfort them, so now I’m out of sorts. It’s too easy for me to lose my cool.

I don't care if someone makes fun of my blind eye— it doesn’t always track with my sighted eye and sometimes that looks weird-- but in this tour group a ten or eleven-year-old asshole is teasing another kid who uses crutches. He walks in step with her, trying to trip her and pretend it's funny.

“Kids will be kids,” says the asshole’s mother with a shrug.

The girl’s father grimaces and stays silent. Has his daughter lectured that she can take care of herself?

“Would you please stop?” says the girl as she swings toward the shrine.

“Stop what?” he says. “I’m just walking.”

When he doesn’t trip her as fast as he wants to, he sticks his foot in front of her crutch. I don’t need divine intervention. When she falters, I grab the boy’s arm and yank him away.  

“She asked you to stop,” I say.

“I'm having fun with the gimp,” he says, trying to wrest out of my grasp. “She doesn't mind if I call her a gimp.”

“That's super gimp to you, jerk face,” says the girl.

We’re not supposed to touch anyone or get into altercations with tourists even when they or their children are assholes, but as I’ve mentioned I am not in a mood for social decorum. I let go of the boy who grumps back to his mother. The girl and her father shoot me grateful glances as we march to the shrine. The rest of the tour is devoid of incident, hives, or spontaneous peanut allergies, but I expect to be called into my boss’s office that evening to “explain my conduct.” There were complaints. Of course.

I tell the story (omitting the expletives) and my boss gives a sympathetic nod but says I’ll be put on probation. That means being on leave with half-pay for three days while the higher-ups discuss my case in the back office with a large pot of coffee.

The first time that happens, most guides stay on the job with a very stern warning.

The second time that happens, they get fired.

“If you’re under a lot of stress we could switch you to a job in the office for a few weeks,” my boss says.

I nod while thinking screw that. When Hayle asks how my day was at work, I shrug and say not the best.

“My migraine is gone,” they say, hugging me from behind while I wash my hands at the kitchen sink. They kiss the back of my neck, and I let my shoulders relax a tiny bit. For dinner I make pasta and garlic cheese bread. Comfort food.

Hayle rests on the couch after we eat —migraines exhaust them— and I drive back to the shrine. It’s after hours but there are no gates, just warning signs to keep a safe distance from the shrine, but I need good chocolate.

6. Do not expect supernatural beings to be all-powerful, or want to be all-powerful, or guarantee you job security

We’re very sorry, say the spirits when I nibble at their bonbons and pout. Have another mint cream.  

I’m a good employee. A caring employee. I wasn’t doing anything that the other guides thought was out of line (I took an informal poll after the chat with my boss), but most of them admitted they wouldn’t have done it themselves. Probably. Who knows what you’ll do until you’re put into that situation. I want to ask the spirits to smite all the assholes in the world, but they don't work that way.

We’re considering giving him a very bad paper cut tomorrow, they tell me. Right before he eats salted popcorn. I’d rather he get a big bald spot, or vaguely purple skin, or a couple extra fingers that will be reabsorbed after a year, but I can’t be picky.

It's difficult to explain my emotions to the spirits because they never had bodies or these kinds of feelings. When I saw that bully try to trip her, I wanted to do much more than grab him by the arm. I wanted to smack him in the face and throw him on the ground, but that would have gotten me fired along with assault and battery charges. He snagged on the shame and anger I still feel at having been a teased kid. It’s the bomb that's always hiding under my skin.

I don't think about my smaller self very often, but when I do I want to cry, break things, defend her because it felt like no one else did. Maybe I'm misremembering things and someone stood up for her on the playground, but now all I want to do is help her against the bullies, be a fighting force for the girl in my memories who didn’t yet know how to be proud of her differences.

I remind myself that takes training.

7. Allow for disappointment.

“Hi,” I say to the girl and her friend when I stroll over to where they’re sitting. “Good to see you back.”

“I needed another visit,” the girl says. “We brought gummy fruit snacks for the spirits.”

We like gummy fruit snacks, say the spirits.

“They like gummy fruit snacks,” I say. “Good pick.”

“It’s so we do better on our spelling test this week,” says the girl’s friend.

Hit the books, say the spirits.

“You can always sit here and study together,” I say. “The spirits don’t mind.”

I’m a bit surprised when they unzip their backpacks and take out two slim workbooks. It may be one of the more proactive approaches to the spirits’ advice that I’ve witnessed.

To work here you must believe that visiting the shrine will do some good for some people. That weighs more than my frustration, and it’s why I’ve kept this job. I can maintain the faith that after folks visit they will feel a little better tomorrow, even if it’s the unspoken pact of being okay with themselves for stretches of time, finding spaces of peace with their beautiful and broken bodies, sitting on rocks with friends and giggling as they manifest the future.