by Teri Barnett
“Since the beginning of humankind.” Zachariah shrugged his shoulders. “Give or take a few years.”
The stacked towers of books stretched up as far as the eye could see and the hall continued well past her line of sight. “Will we be able to find Connor Jessup amongst all of this?” she asked.
Zachariah motioned for her to follow him. There, imbedded into the rock wall, was a flat clear window. Zachariah placed his hand in its center and a soft glow began to show from behind. Bethany thought she detected the smell of wildflowers emanating from the screen. He left his hand there for a moment longer. When he pulled it away, a slight impression remained on the glass.
“How is that possible?” Bethany asked, her eyes wide with wonder.
“It’s how the crystal recognizes me, by reading the lines on my hand. You see, only the Keeper has access to this information. If you had tried to do the same, it would have remained solid.”
He rubbed his chin and cleared his throat. “I seek the life of Connor Jessup of the Earth plane,” he commanded in a deep voice.
A hum of sorts went up Bethany’s spine and out through her limbs. And she felt, rather than heard, a voice reply… Aisle fifteen, stack forty-two, volume ninety.
She repeated the location aloud to the old man.
“You heard it?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yes, I did. At least, I felt something, and it told me where to look.”
“A gift has been given to you, Bethany M’Doro. There have been few travelers who have heard a reply.” He began to walk down the stacks. “A gift indeed. Truly, your mission will be blessed.”
Bethany hurried to catch up with Zachariah as he breezed through one aisle after another. He muttered each number as he moved past stack after stack.
“Thirteen, fourteen, ah, here it is. Fifteen.” He ran his hand along the spines of the volumes. “Stack forty-two. You’ll need to climb the ladder and retrieve volume ninety.”
She stared at the books before her. None of them were marked. “How am I to know which is number ninety?” she asked.
“You’ll know.”
Obliging him, she pulled the tall wooden ladder over from where it stood behind her, thankful that it was on wheels. Climbing one rung after another, she kept her eyes open for a sign. There it was! A book in the middle of the pile started to glow a deep red, where the others remained a midnight blue. “I found it. Now, how do I retrieve it without knocking everything down?”
“Just pull it out. Nothing will happen.”
Bethany eyed Zachariah skeptically. “You mean to tell me I can remove this one book without sending the rest of them toppling down on top of us?”
“Still questioning, eh Bethany? I said it would be all right and it will be. Now, do you want to know about Connor Jessup or not?”
“Of course, I do.” She gritted her teeth and gave the red book a good yank. To her amazement, it slid out easily. The balance of the manuscripts above it neatly lowered themselves into place. She climbed back down the ladder, shaking her head. “I swear I’ve seen everything now.”
“Not quite, Bethany M’Doro. Your journey is just beginning.”
Zachariah led Bethany to a small candle-lit reading area. There was only room enough for one to sit at the table so, out of respect, she was now standing, peering over his shoulder. She stared hard at the pages, trying to make some sense of the images before her.
“Here we are.” Zachariah pointed with a long thin finger. “Connor Jessup.”
“How can you tell? I mean, the writing makes no sense to me. And you can’t see it.” She glanced at him sideways. “Can you?”
“I can see it the same way the screen spoke to you. Its vibration flows into me and the pictures become clear in my head.” He took her hand and pulled her around to the side of the table. Gently, he guided her fingers to the page. “You try it.”
The moment Bethany touched the coarse paper, her mind exploded with images. A cabin set apart from a small town was nestled in the middle of dark, snow-covered mountains. The place and time came to her. Devil’s Gate, Nevada, 1875.
The next image overlapped the first. A man asleep in bed, his breathing heavy and labored, a bottle sat beside him in bed. Somewhere outside a wolf howled and Bethany cringed, sensing the imminence of death. She pulled her hand away, shivering. “He’s dying.”
Zachariah nodded. “His time on Earth is almost over. According to the records, he transitions in 1875.”
“I saw those numbers in my vision. I have to get to him, Zachariah, before he dies.” Her voice was urgent. “Right now, he’s my only link to finding Sarah.”
“I understand.” He stood. “Here, take my seat. Now, place both hands on the page of Connor Jessup’s life and close your eyes.”
Bethany did as she was instructed. Almost immediately she felt her energy shift, her body fading away from her consciousness. Suddenly, she was hovering above herself and Zachariah—disembodied. She looked down at her body and she appeared to be sleeping, her hands still on the book. She held her hands out in front of her and was surprised to find she could almost see right through them. Is this real? She glanced around, then realized she was floating, an almost imperceptible silver line running from her body to her shadow self. Zachariah tilted his head up, as if he were searching.
“Take care, Bethany,” he murmured. “I’ll give you two days to complete your journey. After that, you’ll have to return here, or your body will cease to exist. You’ll remain a shadow on the Earth plane forever.”
Chapter 7
“I understand,” she answered, and the words were like the current of a river, flowing between them. “Where is the portal?” she asked.
“There.” Zachariah pointed in the direction opposite from where he stood. “There is the crossing point to Earth.”
Bethany tried to move, but her legs felt as heavy as stone.
Of course!
The answer came to her. The shadow state must be similar to the Knowing. Whenever she wanted to move at that time, all she had to do was clear her mind and think directly of the action she wished to perform. She tried it and, sure enough, it worked. Almost effortlessly she glided along the aisles formed by the records until she reached another portal. She hesitated just short of the opening.
“Dear Mother of All,” she prayed. “Guide me safely on my journey and help me find all that I seek.” Taking a deep breath, she passed through the entry.
Once through the continuum, she discovered a sky as dark as the deepest black onyx. Beneath it was a grid of brightly colored lines of light. The lines represented the different planes of existence in the universe. Along each one, millions of sparks traveled, echoing the essences of the beings living in that plane. Here and there, a spark would grow brighter then disintegrate.
That must be what death looks like…
Bethany struggled to see beyond the black horizon where the beams stretched off into oblivion. How was she going to find the Earth plane among all of these? But the instant she thought of Earth, one of the lines flashed. She thought of Earth again, holding the name in her mind and the color of the cable intensified. Bethany willed herself to move toward the light. Once there, she thought of Connor Jessup and a tiny spark shone even brighter. She reached out and touched the beam of light. Here was her destination.
A deep groan rose out of Connor Jessup’s throat as he kicked back the bed cover. The action forced one of his boots to fly across the floor, but the sound was lost to his moaning. He turned over and punched his pillow, knocking a whiskey bottle to the floor. It rolled under the bed, leaving a trail of brown liquid in the dust.
“I don’t need you, woman,” he slurred in his sleep, his breath showing like fog in the cold room. His free arm hung over the side, searching for the bottle. Unable to reach it, Connor pushed himself halfway off the bed, looking under it.
He grinned, grabbed the almost empty bottle, and downed the last few drops. He fell back against the pillow and groaned, flinging his arm over his eyes, his breathing began to slow and deepen once more and he welcomed the numbness. Whiskey-induced sleep had been his only escape from the memory of his wife, Elizabeth, leaving him for another man…
“Connor? Connor Jessup?” a soft voice said in the quiet room.
“Huh? What d’ya want?”
“I need to talk to you, Connor. I need your help.”
“W-who said that?” He cracked his eyes open and saw a translucent being glowing like the full moon in the middle of his room.
“It’s an angel!” His voice was a harsh whisper. He sat bolt upright. “An angel of the Lord come for me.” Connor rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Didn’t think I’d go this way…” He thrashed back and forth, groaning.
“Connor? My name is Bethany.”
“I won’t be any use to you in Heaven,” he muttered.
Bethany shook her head. “That’s not why I’m here.” She took a step forward.
His eyes cracked open. He shook violently, his body covered with sweat. He grabbed the whiskey and started to take a drink, then tossed it aside. It bounced off the wall, crashing as it hit the floor. “Damn Clem sold me a bad bottle. That’s what this is all about. Well, I’ll have a thing or two to say to him!”
Connor forced himself out of bed and pulled on the lost boot, stumbling to the washstand as he did so. His hands broke through a thin layer of ice that had formed during the night, and he splashed cold water on his face. Grabbing the scrap of cloth beside the basin, he scrubbed it through his hair and face. Tossing the cloth aside he caught his image in the mirror and was shocked at what stared back at him—long unkempt black hair, torn shirt, eyes so bloodshot he could no longer see the brown of his irises,
“Need a shave,” he mused, rubbing his fingers over the week-old stubble. He made his way to the heavy stone fireplace to heat some water but not before tripping over the cast iron kettle. Connor jumped up and down, holding his foot.
“I’ll be damned,” he cursed under his breath.
He limped to the hearth and tossed in some kindling. Striking a match, he fanned the flames with his hand until they were hot. He started to place a log on the fire, then froze.
There she was again! The angel!
From out of the waves of heat, a woman’s form emerged. Again, she reached out to him. Connor threw the log at her. “Get away from here angel!” he shouted. Yanking his coat off the peg by the door, Connor pulled it on and stalked out of the cabin.
Chapter 8
Connor trudged down the mountain intent on heading to town. Although it was only a short walk, the melting snow and slick mud made it difficult to keep his footing. Just when he thought he was in the clear, he tripped over the root of a tree and landed on his back. He got to his feet and slid back down again.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he cursed again.
“And so you will be,” came a voice from behind him.
Connor looked over his shoulder, spying a man wearing a fringed buckskin jacket and denim trousers. He blocked the sunlight as he came into focus. Connor smiled crookedly. “Jimmy Brown Eagle. How the hell are you?”
Jimmy smiled back. “Well, I’m definitely a might cleaner than you, that’s for sure.” He reached down, offering Connor a hand up.
“Much obliged,” Connor said as he tried to wipe the mud from the seat of his pants. He finally quit trying, seeing that he was only spreading the muck around and making more of a mess.
“What you need is a woman to look out for you, friend.”
“I had one of those once. Don’t believe I’ll be trying one again any time soon.” Connor dug into the pocket of his deerskin coat and pulled out a small flask. He tilted back his head, took a long swallow, and then offered it to Jimmy.
Jimmy shook his head, the trade beads woven into his long braids clinked together. “No thanks, Connor. You know I don’t drink.” He eyed his companion as they began to walk toward town. “Neither should you.”
“Don’t even think about lecturing me today. I’m not in the mood,” he grumbled.
“I can’t stand to see you wasting your life this way.” He shook his head. “For God’s sake, Connor, you look like an old man. You’re only thirty-six, the same age as me.” Jimmy put his hand on Connor’s shoulder. “Elizabeth is gone. She left a long time ago. You have to accept that and move on.”
Connor shrugged off Jimmy’s hand. “If you don’t mind, I was headed to the saloon,” he mumbled, making his way alone down the rutted street.
“Hey, Sheriff!” someone yelled. Connor stopped and turned around, scanning the battered wooden facades of the stores across the alley, looking for whoever was calling him. A young boy ran past.
“Sheriff!” the boy hollered again. Another man turned around, his silver badge glinting in the sunlight.
Connor shook his head.
Well, I’ll be damned. Old habits sure die hard.
He pushed the swinging door and stepped into the saloon. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior. Spotting a seat at the bar, Connor strode toward it and sat down. He motioned for the bartender, a squat, stubby man named Clem Riley. Clem put down the glass he was drying and walked over to Connor. “No credit today, Jessup. You wanna drink, you gotta pay for it up front. Cash on the barrel.”
“I want to know what you put in that whiskey you sold me last night. Were you trying to poison me? Is that it?”
Clem’s eyes narrowed. “I ain’t got the faintest idea what yer talking about.” He turned his back to Connor. “Go home and sleep it off.”
Connor’s hand shot out and grabbed Clem by the neck ties of his apron. He pulled the man backward until he was against the mahogany bar. “I tell you that whiskey was bad. I been seeing things. It probably would’ve killed me if I’d finished the whole bottle. I want my money back.” He shoved the bartender away from him.
“There’s no money to be returned to you, Connor Jessup. You ain’t paid for nothing since you got fired as sheriff. I only felt sorry for you, that’s why I let you buy on credit.”
“Take it back.”
“Take what back? You don’t have nothing worth taking. Since your wife left, that is,” Clem snorted.
Connor slammed his fist onto the bar, rattling the glasses of a few early morning stragglers. The other men at the bar sat silently as they watched. “Take it back that you feel sorry for me. I won’t have another man pitying me, Clem.” His voice turned into almost a whisper. “Now.”
Connor’s right hand rested on the butt of his Colt forty-five. Clem shifted back and forth where he stood, a fine sweat breaking out on his upper lip.
“Look, Jessup, I ain’t looking for no fight. Just go on home.” He reached under the bar with a shaky hand. “Here. Here, take this.” He handed him a half empty bottle of whiskey. “There’s nothing wrong with this one. See? Someone already drank part of it.”
Connor eyed the bottle warily. Then his hand shot out and he grabbed it by the neck. He tucked it under his arm and stood to leave. “You better pray this one doesn’t have the same effect, Clem, or I’ll come looking for you. Only next time, I won’t be so pleasant.” He scowled at the other men and trudged out of the bar.
Connor walked around the side of the saloon to the alley. He found an old wooden slat box, turned it over, and sat down. With his teeth, he pulled the cork out of the bottle, spitting it out. He raised the bottle and took a long draught. The drink burned his throat all the way down to his belly, but it was a good pain. A pain he enjoyed; the only feeling he had left.
He took another swig, then another until the contents were completely drained. Several people walked past, shaking their heads in disgust, people he
had once called friends. Even Mr. and Mrs. McDougall, who’d treated him like a son when he first came to Devil’s Gate. The town had hired him straight out of the army to be their new sheriff and the McDougall’s had given him room and board until he got settled. A little boy waved and smiled. Connor waved back, but the boy’s mother rushed him along.
“He’s a drunk, Charlie,” she said. “You must stay away from men like him.”
“That’s not a drunk. That’s the Sheriff!” the boy insisted.
“Not anymore he’s not.” The woman turned up her nose as she went by. “Can’t take care of himself, let alone all of this town.”
Connor let the empty bottle fall from his hand. A drunk. The words twisted in his gut like a knife.
He eased his head back against the clapboard siding and closed his eyes.
Maybe I should’ve let that angel take me away…
“Connor, it’s me again. Bethany.”
He cracked one eye open.
The shimmering golden woman was back.
“What d’ya want with me, Angel?” he grumbled.
“I need your help.”
“Why me?”
“Because it has to do with your wife, Elizabeth. Only you can help me.”
At the mention of Elizabeth’s name, Connor sat up.
A stray black dog trotted up to Angel cocked his head and gave a soft ruff. Smiling, she got down on her knees and rubbed him behind his ears. The dog panted and wagged his tail until a mouse scurrying past tempted him down the street.
Connor wiped the sweat from his forehead.
I guess I’m not the only one who can see her.
Wh-what did she say? Something about Elizabeth. He forced himself to his feet, trying to banish the image of his wife.
I gotta find Jimmy. He knows about visions.
Jimmy Brown Eagle was part Kiowa, and he was wise, and probably the only friend Connor had left. Connor stood and staggered his way to the smithy’s shop where Jimmy worked.