Keepers Of The Gate

by E. Denise Billups

  Several times, he’d caught her roaming the backyard, strolling around and back inside without a bump or stumble. Twice she’d slipped his notice, wandering half a mile to the cemetery. The next morning, Old George discovered her asleep on a grave, the resting place of his brother warrior, Mingin (Gray Wolf). It wasn’t a coincidence she’d happened on that spot. The second time, he’d found her standing near the thicket of trees, staring at the old maple tree for several minutes before her legs revived, returning her to Twilight. Since that visit, he’s more vigilant during her overnight stays. His greatest fear is that she’ll wander through the immortal gate he guards.

  The curly-haired one stumbles into the grand hall, wavy tresses sleep-disheveled. He senses her ability to fathom the spiral bend of life’s energy, unlike the straight-haired sentinels whose power flow as uniform water, an arrow from the source. One day, she will be a great sentinel, if she chooses.

  Sightless with sleep, tugged by the home’s vibrations, the girl stops in the corridor, staring at but not seeing him in the doorway, only what she follows through the cellar door. He wonders what Twilight Ends is showing her tonight.

  2

  Twyla’s Fright

  While occupants slumber inside the silent Victorian bed-and-breakfast, mysterious energy awakens beneath the home. On the second floor, Twyla sleepwalks through converging hallways, past stained-glass windows above the balcony, and descends the winding, gothic staircase.

  She shuffles into the Grand Hall, pauses on chilly parquet, vibrating beneath her tiny, bare feet as faint voices swell in her ear. Twyla stirs from somnambulance, opening her eyes to a sable-haired woman with a V-dipped hairline, dressed in an ivory nightgown. Her vacant eyes hold Twyla's gaze before she moves through the open basement door.

  Rubbing her seven-year-old eyes, Twyla follows, descending the steep cellar stairs on cautious feet. She pauses at the bottom, uncertain where the woman went.

  Clank! Clank! Clank! Reverberates around the basement, coming from the storage room, stopping and starting several times.

  She creeps into the dim room, freezing in place. Metal hooks jingle up and down as gossamer hands tinker at the antique steamer trunk. The woman’s dark-brown hair shakes across her translucent skin as she toils with the lock. She thrusts back her head with a sharp wail, flinging tresses from her tear-streaked face.

  Twyla flinches backward, rattling items on a rack. The woman twists her head, wailing an icy breath. The terrifying chill tears terror through Twyla’s heart, launching a hair-raising scream from her throat. Warmth trickles below her pajama legs, puddling on the wooden planks between her feet.

  The woman’s eyes soften beneath her bewildered brows. She steps forward and the floor rumbles as she fades through the impermeable metal chest. Gripped with fear, Twyla stares at the menacing trunk towering in the corner, picturing the woman locked inside, trying to get out.

  The basement door flies open, and swift feet descend the stairs. Grams Tessa enters, shakes her shoulders, and yells, “Twyla, wake up, sweetie,” mistaking her frozen stance for sleepwalking. But she’s wide awake.

  Embarrassed she pissed her pajamas, Twyla slips into a weepy, blather of unintelligible words. “I-I she, woman, cried, jiggled through the trunk.”

  “Shh, honey, it was just a dream. You’re OK, there’s nothing there,” Tessa says, brushing her face and glancing toward the fear-rousing trunk.

  Twyla stares across the long storage room toward the ornate metal box nestled against the stone wall. “She’s there, inside,” Twyla screams.

  “Shh, now, honey, there’s nothing but antiques and my sketches inside the trunk,” Tessa says, taking her hand and guiding her toward the steamer.

  Twyla grips her hand tight, clutches her bathrobe, and follows with squinted eyes.

  Tessa lifts the gold, egg-shaped locket she always wears around her neck from her coral nightie and retrieves the item it protects, the trunk’s brass barrel key.

  “Come see, Twyla. There’s nothing here,” she says. Tessa grips the metal latches the woman had been jiggling moments ago. The dome top groans and squeaks open.

  Twyla lets go of Tessa’s robe and steps back. Her eyes widen on the rising top, expecting the woman to pop out. Sharp breaths swell and cave in her chest. Twyla inches to the rear and screams, “She’s hiding inside!” She turns, races from the room, up the stairs, rounding the corner, bumping into George.

  “Whoa, hold on, little one,” George exclaims. He grasps her shoulders, stoops to his knees, brushing tears from her cheeks. “It's OK, little squaw. The weeping woman can’t hurt you. She’s returned to her time.” Lowering his lips to her ears, he whispers, “Akdo:gëh, koh ëswënöhdö’he’t, gegwas,” knowing there was no need for translation. In the past, when he’d spoken his people’s language, the little one grasped every word. Now, staring into her liquid brown eyes, he sees her expression alter with perception.

  “I’ve seen them, too, and you will come to know it, accept it.” His words translate themselves in her mind without explanation, a remnant of her history. A sudden wave of relief floods Twyla as she folds into his open arms. She’s always liked Young George, an affinity from the start. For an instant, the woman and trunk escape her thoughts. Fear abates for now but lives forever in her subconscious mind, along with George’s remarkable words and his comforting arms.

  Cristal’s Promise

  Sixteen Years Later

  Cristal stands at the open bedroom window, oblivious to autumn’s nippy breeze and curtains billowing around her frame into the low-lit room like gauzy wings. She glances over her shoulder at the tranquil figure on the canopy bed and wrenches her gaze from the painful image. For an instant, she closes her eyes, listening to silk flutter on the breeze and a boat droning nearby.

  When she opens her eyes, Twilight end’s faithful caretaker stands at the edge of the garden, staring up at the window, catching her gaze. He hangs his head in solemn respect, arousing a stab of emotions. Cristal tightens her arms around her waist, repressing swelling tears and recalling Tessa’s fondness for George. “He's an extraordinary man,” she'd said years ago when George arranged flowers around the gazebo for a guest's wedding. The meaning of her words flew over her head until Tessa handed her a manila envelope a year ago with a secret too far-fetched to believe. She’d promised to uphold Tessa’s confidence, and keep the information from her family until the right moment.

  Cristal releases her grip from her waist, waves at George, and glances toward the dock at two Adirondack chairs, a spot where she and Tessa enjoyed the picturesque view from the jetty a year ago. The day Tessa shared an incredible secret.

  “Cristal, I need to see you.”

  Tessa’s voice springs from her memory as if it were yesterday. When her worried tone echoed through the phone, she’d instantly sensed trouble and asked what was wrong. Tessa’s low sigh lingered in a silent digital void before she’d answered, “It's a family matter.” She’d detected trouble the moment Tessa’s voice wavered with distress-laden sighs. Never in 14 years had she hesitated over her words. Teresa Newhouse was always forceful, direct and way too independent to ask for help.

  For years, she’d been a loyal friend and second mother. She was the only person for whom she’d ever driven several hours nonstop on a whim, except her husband. So, when Tessa had asked to see her, she’d replied in a heartbeat, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Three hours later, she turned on to the private road leading to Twilight Ends. The grand Victorian bed-and-breakfast emerged animate in September’s afternoon light. An illusion created as the sun roved west, and clouds drifted over precipitous gabled roofs, elaborate bargeboards, and ornamented chimney pots, casting three-dimensional shadows. Light from hanging lanterns blinked through stately white columns as the car neared the wrap-around porch.

  On many visits, Cristal sensed the air shift, reverse, and change course around the home. But she’d never given much thought to the mysterious sensa
tion as anomalous as Seneca Lake’s recurring boom, the Seneca Drums, as townspeople called the watery thunder, believing the phenomenon from Revolutionary War ghosts on the battlefield. But she’s inclined to believe the scientific reason – natural shift in the basin occurring in most Great Lakes, not a ghostly cannon firing from Seneca’s shadowy depths.

  Cristal steered the car into Twilight Ends driveway, crawled through the porte-cochére and parked beside the inn, confident she’d find Tessa in a place she’d often visited when worried. A spot she’d spent many blissful moments with her husband, Ian. She hastened from her car to the backyard and glanced beyond the spacious green lawn.

  Below the hillock, toward the dock, she approached Tessa, reclined in a baby-blue Adirondack chair that looked white in the late-afternoon light. A rowdy group waved and whooped, “Hello!” as they sped past on the lake in a red-and-white bow rider. Simultaneously, both she and Tessa waved back as she continued toward the landing.

  “Tessa, I knew you’d be here.”

  “My radiant Cristal, where else would I enjoy a glorious Indian-summer day?” she asked in a high, witty voice before glancing back. When she leaned and glanced around, strands of octogenarian-silver hair blew across her face.

  Cristal kicked off her flip-flops and stepped on to the breezy dock, relishing the wind on her face, the sweep of her sheer dress and long, brown hair blown back as she neared the chair. Tessa’s expression distressed her when she lifted her head with a smile that never touched her eyes, dimmed after her husband’s death the previous year. Her characteristic straight shoulders had thinned with a slight hunch. After a 50-year marriage and business partnership, it must have been tough at Twilight without her constant partner. In her lap, Mystik, her beloved cat, basked and purred with Tessa’s soft strokes.

  “Cristal, you’re bewitching. You haven’t changed a bit since your first visit to Twilight 14 years ago.”

  “I assure you it’s just the make-up,” Cristal said with a grin, amazed by Tessa’s stunning native-American features, even at 80. Tessa was 40 years older, but age never defined an instant friendship that had flourished over the years. She was one of the strongest, wisest, and most vibrant women she knew and time hadn’t changed her until Ian’s death.

  When she leaned over to kiss Tessa’s forehead, the lake breeze ballooned her dress around her hips with a soft whoomph. She seized the hem, collapsed on to the adjacent Adirondack chair, and rested her head back. Across the choppy water, nascent saffron mountaintops appeared magnificent. She sighed and tilted her face into direct sunlight. With her busy workload, she hadn’t gotten much sun, except filtered office sunlight or quick five-minute rays back-and-forth to her car on appointments that summer. Determined to seize the moment to tan her pale, Irish skin, she pulled her dress over her bare legs and wiggled her toes in the breeze. “Aww, sun, just what I need. I love this spot and wish Dante and I could visit more often,” she said. With a sweep of her hair over the chair, she closed her eyes, inhaled Seneca’s earthy breeze as waves lapped against the white cedar dock.

  Nearby, a motor droned, slicing through their peaceful silence. She opened her eyes and rolled her head sideways just as the jam-packed Stroller turned the bend. “Wow! The tour business is booming for the Simiele family. I’ve never seen that boat so crowded.”

  “That faithful vintage boat motors by every hour with tourists. But I’m not complaining. William Simiele’s business has brought a steady stream of customers to Twilight Ends over the years.”

  “I remember seeing Twilight End’s windows sparkling like a jewel from the water. If I hadn’t taken a boat tour, I’d never have met you or found the love of my life the same day, standing in Twilight’s Great Hall. Was it fate, Twilights Ends magic, or the host’s persistent matchmaking?” Cristal asked with a wink. She knew fate brought her to the B&B just as Dante arrived.

  “How is my beloved Doctor Whelan?”

  “You know Dante, always busy helping the less fortunate at the hospital or the free clinic.”

  “That man, what an amazing heart. You two are meant to be together.”

  Cristal grinned at Tessa’s regular sentiment expressed since the first day she and Dante ogled each other in Twilight’s parlor.

  “I expect you both at Twilight’s annual trimming party and your wedding anniversary.”

  “We couldn’t stay away if we tried.” For a second, they slipped into silence and watched the tour boat glide toward Watkins Glen at the southern tip of the lake. “This view never changes.”

  “Seneca Lake is ageless. The Great Spirit’s fingerprints were here before us and will persist long after we're gone,” she said, staring at the sky. “My people were such storytellers, believing a divine hand created the Finger Lakes. For them, nature was God. Maybe they had it right.”

  Cristal’s muscles melted into the wooden chair as Tessa’s mesmeric voice drove thoughts of work from her mind. She wished she could suspend time before worries spoiled the serene respite, but Tessa’s troubled expression dashed the blissful moment.

  Although she’d sat beside her a full 10 minutes, Tessa addressed her as if she’d just stepped on the dock. “I’m so glad to see you, Cristal. Thanks for coming so promptly. I hope I didn’t drag you from important work.”

  “You’re much more important than my clients. Besides, I needed a day away from that hectic law office and Rochester. You sounded urgent on the phone. What’s happened?”

  “With Ian’s death and my daughter and her family moving in soon, I got to thinking after our last conversation. It’s time to revise my will,” she said, pulling a packet from her colorful fringe shawl. “Please guard this well. There’s a letter inside explaining everything. No need to read it now, but when you’re alone,” she explained. Her slender veiny hand reached over the armrest, placed and patted the envelope on Cristal’s lap.

  “What is it?”

  “My people safeguarded this information for eons. An ancient pact protects this property against those who may try to claim it. Cristal, promise me when the time comes, you will be here for my family.”

  Cristal had taken a moment to compose her emotions because the second Tessa handed her the envelope, she’d sensed she wouldn’t be with them much longer. “You know you can count on me. I promise both Dante and I will be here for your family.”

  “They will need your gift when Mr. Dox shows up again, not just your legal skills.”

  “Mr. Dox? Who’s he?”

  “I've never told you what happened to my family years ago. I figured there was no need to dredge up the past until Harrison Dox showed up three months ago. During the Great Depression, Anson Dox, his great-grandfather, stole Twilight Ends from my parents. Like many during that era, the Newhouse family had a tough time making ends meet. So my parents opened the house as a bed-and-breakfast. Then, out of the blue, Anson Dox showed up, riding to the rescue with fake promises. He’d had his eye on Twilight before that first meeting. He duped my family into a partnership, but most of the funding came from Anson’s pockets. Soon after, he procured my family’s half of the business and moved into Twilight. He was only on the property a year before dying.”

  “How did he die?”

  Tessa glanced to the right at the shoreline’s shallow, rocky edge and pointed past the maple and dogwood tree toward the wrought-iron-gated fence protecting private grounds. “Beyond those gates exists a secret my people have protected for many centuries. Those sacred grounds are protected by forces not to be tampered with. Well, they found his body right over there, at the private gate, with three holes in his chest.”

  “Gunshot wounds?”

  “No, arrows.”

  “What?”

  “The coroner’s report stated that three arrowheads had entered his body through the heart, lungs, and abdomen but there were no exit wounds. The assailant was an expert and aimed to kill. But it’s obvious they weren’t modern-day arrows. As a teen, I took a few archery classes and I know today’s br
oadheads pierce clean through the body. Without a weapon, arrows or witnesses, Dox’s case remains a mystery.”

  “The arrows were never recovered? Did the killer pull them from his body?”

  “No, it doesn’t appear that way. The coroner’s report said there was no sign they were removed, only the broadheads’ entry wounds were present. It’s as if the arrow vanished inside his flesh,” she’d said, lowering her gaze.

  Cristal believed she’d seen a trace of a smile on Tessa’s lips before a gust swept hair across her face, hiding the sudden hint of humor. At that moment Cristal wondered if Tessa knew who Dox’s murderer was. Or was his life taken by mysterious forces beyond the gate Tessa alluded to? “Don’t you find that odd?”

  “Well,” she said and sighed, “my parents believed he met with unnatural opposition. Someone, something, whether human or supernatural, didn’t want him here.”

  “Vanishing arrows? Your parents might be right.”

  “To this day, Anson Dox’s death remains a mystery, but not to my ancestors. Soon after recovering his body, they found Anson’s signed testament in his office, instructing that the property should revert to its original owners, the Newhouse family. That raised questions and suspicion fell on my family, though there was no evidence of wrongdoing. Now, 81 years later, his great-grandson claims Twilight Ends belongs to the Dox family.”

  “Why does he believe that? You have the testament to disprove his claim.”

  “Incapacity. He’s claiming his great grandfather’s mind was impaired when he wrote the will, and that no money ever changed hands when my family regained the property. But Harrison doesn’t realize his great-grandfather paid my family a paltry sum. It was plain thievery! And I heard he plans to turn this land into a flashy resort.”