Weathering Rock

by Mae Clair

  He’d clearly seen his share of battle. His jacket was soiled with blood, the high collar of his uniform open and gaping at the throat. Even in black-and-white, she could tell his hair was blond, pale as winter sun. Overly long, it nearly touched his shoulders. He wore a trimmed mustache, an addition that made him look slightly older but, otherwise, he was the mirror image of Caleb.

  Arianna’s heart thundered against her ribs. The resemblance was impossible! With trembling fingers, she skimmed the page, frantically seeking the caption. Plain block text identified the men in the photograph:

  Major General George G. Meade, center, confers with Brigadier General Samuel H. Webber, right and Colonel Caleb R. DeCardian, left, July fourth, 1863, Gettysburg.

  It was a joke, a cleverly expensive joke. One of her students or Caleb himself must have thought the whole thing ingenious and…

  But even as the thoughts reeled helter-skelter through her head, she knew she was grasping at straws. However impossible, she was looking at a photo of Caleb taken over 149 years ago. The credit proved it, noting it was courtesy of the Gettysburg Historical Archives. Frightened, she flung the book to the floor.

  She was losing her mind. It was the only logical explanation. Shoving from the couch, she paced to her patio door, barely noticing the settling darkness outside and the reflection of lamplight in the glass. It had to be a hoax. Maybe the man was an ancestor, a namesake of Caleb’s. That would explain everything.

  Yes. They had to be distant relatives.

  Retrieving the book, she paged frantically to the picture. The man in the photograph had a mustache and his hair was longer, but there the dissimilarities ended. Except for those two differences, he and Caleb might have been identical twins. Even their rank was the same.

  She glanced to his collar, open at the throat. There was one way to tell for certain and dismiss the idiotic notion for the insanity it was. She carried the book upstairs to her computer room. Part office, part den, it contained several walnut bookcases with countless titles on the Civil War. Mixed among the nonfiction was a collection of favorite novels old and new.

  She headed for her desk, ignoring the clutter on top–assorted papers collected from her classroom at the end of the school year, a few reference books, and a stray Train CD. She set the book down and dug in the desk for a magnifying glass. Carefully, she positioned it over the picture.

  “Oh! Damn.” The man in the photo had a large diamond-shaped scar on the side of his neck. Drained, she slumped in the chair, allowing the mind-numbing reality to wash over her.

  How was it possible? Could the man she was falling in love with be the same man who had conversed with General Meade after the battle of Gettysburg?

  He’d been searching for someone named Meade the night they’d met. Dressed in a nineteenth century frock coat. She’d always thought his manners charmingly archaic. Even his speech was antiquated at times. He hadn’t known about Slim Jims or the Twilight Zone, but had known countless obscure details about Gettysburg, relaying them with uncanny insight. Like he’d lived through the war.

  Because he had.

  She was crazy for considering the idea, but the proof was there, countless pieces of a puzzle falling into place. He preferred horses over cars, didn’t like to drive or talk on the phone and was often clumsy with gadgets she considered commonplace. The man hadn’t even been able to use a simple wine opener without a demonstration! And he was evasive, protective of his past, deflecting her questions whenever she dug too deeply.

  He’d once told her he’d obtained the rank of colonel at twenty-eight, unheard of in a modern military world, but not in an era when battlefield commanders had been desperately needed. If she abandoned reason and accepted her Caleb DeCardian as the Caleb DeCardian of the Civil War, how was such a feat possible?

  Arianna switched on her computer. She could confront Caleb, show him the photograph, and demand he explain. But that would tip her hand and he’d likely have a plausible explanation in place. Part of her wanted clarification; the other wanted to explore the mystery on her own. From the beginning she’d known there was something different about him. Something other than courtly manners and refined gentility that set him apart from most men. If he wasn’t willing to divulge his past, she’d unearth it on her own or, at the very least, find out about the man in the photograph.

  Propping the book open to the picture, she started an internet search on a Civil War archive site. His behavior at the Pennsylvania Monument suddenly made sense. He hadn’t wanted her reading the names on the plaques because, sooner or later, she would have stumbled over his. If she’d only taken the time, she’d already have his brigade and regiment.

  Settling in for a long night, she started hitting random historical sites. It took nearly an hour before she found a record for a Colonel Caleb R. DeCardian, commander of the Fiftieth Infantry Regiment, Second Corps, First Division, Second Brigade, Army of the Potomac. Whew!

  Seeing his name in print sent a streak of victory through her. As impossible as it seemed, she was unearthing information about a man who’d lived 149 years in the past, whether Caleb or one of his ancestors. Unfortunately, the accompanying link gave her little information. She learned he’d been a major at the start of the war, promoted to lieutenant colonel and almost immediately to colonel after Bull Run. His date of birth was given as 1833, but without any reference to month, day, or even place to accompany the spotty details.

  Invigorated rather than discouraged, she made note of the data and continued searching. Sometime after midnight she broke for a snack, munching on a few peanut butter cookies with a glass of milk. By two o’clock, her head was pounding and her eyes burned. With no further progress in sight, she began to grow disheartened. She’d searched countless sites on Gettysburg, even regimental and brigade listings, but could find nothing other than an occasional military roster that included Caleb’s name.

  Deciding to look elsewhere, she zeroed in on Weathering Rock. A hot spot for ball lightning, the old home had a handful of sites dedicated to its history. In a short time she learned it had originally belonged to a man named Richard DeCardian and his wife, Isabel. Records indicated they’d had two sons, Caleb and Charles, Caleb the older by three years.

  Pay dirt!

  A bolt of excitement shot through her. She’d never stopped to consider Caleb might have a direct connection to Weathering Rock. How ironic the place of his birth had been under her nose the entire time.

  Part of her continued to deny that her Caleb was the man who’d fought in the Civil War, but the argument was losing ground as the coincidences continued to mount. A few more hours of research and the facts tumbled out:

  Weathering Rock had been finished in 1832, the year Richard DeCardian married Isabel Benjamin. A year later, their oldest son, Caleb, was born. He served the Union during the Civil War, obtained the rank of colonel, but vanished shortly after the battle of Gettysburg. By the middle of August 1863, he’d been listed as missing in action.

  His younger brother Charles avoided the draft by paying others to take his place, a practice common among wealthy northerners. Widowed at twenty-three with a sickly child of his own, his refusal to fight for the Union was never deemed a weakness. Charles eventually remarried and had a daughter and two sons to carry on the DeCardian name.

  As the sky lightened with the gray haze of pre-dawn, Arianna continued searching. She delved into information on Isabel and Richard, forgetting her fatigue.

  Blond and exceedingly fair, Isabel Lynette Benjamin was the only child of a wealthy farmer who lived beyond the border of Sagehill. When her parents died, she inherited the land that would become the site for Weathering Rock.

  Of Richard DeCardian there was little. The researcher had drawn a complete blank on him, picking up his timeline only after he married Isabel. For several years it was believed he farmed the land surrounding Weathering Rock, an undertaking that proved unprofitable due to a surprising lack of skill. Eventually, he bought the loca
l land office, where he parlayed Isabel’s wealth into greater fortune through several sizable land purchases. He invested heavily in lumber and iron prior to the Civil War, earning a substantial return during reconstruction. Weathering Rock passed to Charles and his children, then fell out of DeCardian hands until Wyn purchased it.

  Arianna followed a link for photographs, seeing the house as it had appeared through the late 1800s to present. The facade had been updated with small alterations, but it remained much the same. Additional photos included shots of the surrounding fields where ball lightning was rumored to occur. Isabel appeared in several, blond and beautiful even in her later years. There were a dozen more of Charles and his children, but the only photograph of Caleb was the one she’d already seen.

  The final link for a photograph belonged to Richard DeCardian. Curious, Arianna clicked through and watched as the shot loaded on her screen.

  “Oh my God!”

  The impossibility of what she saw brought everything full circle.

  Chapter 14

  Caleb buttoned his double-breasted Union overcoat, thumbing the last of the polished brass buttons into place. Sunlight filtered through a curtained window, drenching his bedroom in a sepia-tone glow. It was one of the things he liked best about the westward facing room, how the windows trapped the final rays of the setting sun at the end of the day. In a few hours the moon would be up, bloated, not yet full, inciting a sluggish stir in his werewolf-tainted blood. Two days away a full moon waited with the heinous promise of control. Demon, torturer, master.

  Seth had accused him of enjoying command over others, but Caleb was the one bound to obey. Under the spellbinding allure of a full moon he became a puppet to the curse, forced to embrace the lust and savagery of the wolf.

  “Damn.”

  He pressed his fingertips to his temples as a headache spiked sudden and fierce behind his eyes. Lately, the frequency and intensity of the attacks had grown worse. So far he’d managed to keep the creeping pain from Wyn, fearful his nephew would stop his injections.

  Regardless of the punishment it cost, Caleb was adamant the higher dosages continue. He prayed there would come a point when the rise of a full moon didn’t release the strain of lycanthropy in his blood. Wyn’s medication was the only chance he had of beating that demon, short of killing Seth Reilly and permanently breaking the curse. The treatments were hit or miss, but his episodes of transformation grew less violent, an improvement he attributed to Wyn’s doctoring. It had also helped him build up a tolerance toward silver when he wasn’t close to a change.

  Caleb shifted, catching his reflection in the mirror above his dresser.

  “You were born to wear that accursed uniform, Colonel DeCardian,” Seth had spat after Crinkeshaw. Propped up in a hospital bed, unable to support his weight, he’d cradled his wounded arm close to his body. “I hope to God you die in it too.”

  Caleb wasn’t certain if it was a stroke of luck or a curse that had kept him alive throughout the war. Or something else entirely. His eyes fell to a golden medallion on the top of the dresser.

  “It will protect you,” his mother had said.

  He had survived Bull Run and Gettysburg but, if it hadn’t been for the violent explosion of ball lightning that transported him and Seth to the future, they might have killed each other in the north field bordering Weathering Rock.

  Except that Seth hadn’t wanted to kill him. Once, yes, but not then.

  Already a werewolf, his one-time friend had wanted to control him, as Caleb–the commander of Seth’s old regiment–had once controlled him.

  With a dispirited sigh, Caleb reached for his hat. It felt strange to be wearing Federal blue again. The uniform had been ripped and heavily soiled with blood when Wyn stumbled over him three years ago, semi-conscious and sprawled in the north field. Several months later, his nephew had taken the uniform to a tailor specializing in vintage clothing, having it cleaned and repaired. Appreciating Wyn’s kindness, Caleb had kept the garment stored in a closet, part of the past he’d abandoned in another century.

  The eagle insignia of his rank stood out in sharp relief on his shoulder epaulets along with matching bars of gold braid. In 1863, after two years of constant battles and forced marches, the uniform had hung loosely on his tall, lank frame, but it was comfortably snug now. He knew Lauren’s home would be air-conditioned, but could well recall wearing the long-sleeved overcoat in the sweltering heat of July, wheeling his horse among the dense clouds of cannon and musket fire at Gettysburg. Strange how all those memories tumbled back as if they occurred only yesterday. The grim reality was the war had happened almost 150 years in the past.

  Dismissing the thought, he settled his hat on his head. Wide-brimmed with a gold cord and tassels, the dark blue felt made a striking contrast against his pale hair. The tie-cords had frayed, but the gold looked as polished as the day he’d been issued the uniform. He wasn’t certain if it was pride or foolishness he felt to be wearing it now.

  To an infernal costume party. A colonel in the Army of the Potomac! Of all the confounded, idiotic…

  “Reporting for duty, Sir.” Wyn’s chatty tone wrenched him from his reverie. Turning, he found his nephew lounging in the doorway.

  Wyn tossed off a snappy salute, but Caleb was too stunned to notice. He stared at the sight of the normally casual doctor dressed in tight black pants, knee high black boots and a gaping white shirt. A wide gold sash was looped around his waist, the ends dangling loose over his thigh. To complete the outfit, he wore a slender rapier belted over his narrow hips.

  Unable to contain himself, Caleb gave a grunt of laughter. “Good God, man, what in the name of McClellan’s britches are you supposed to be?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Wyn drew his sword, ducking into a cat stance. “I’m a pirate, a swashbuckler of the high seas, buccaneer of the Jolly Roger. You know.” Lunging, he slashed the air with the sword until it made a pitiful whooshing sound. “Booty, rum and women! What the hell do you think I am?”

  Caleb laughed out loud, enjoying the sheer spontaneity of the moment. When was the last time–the last century–he’d really laughed?

  “Winston.” Biting back a grin, he eyed the outfit critically. “I knew some pirates in my day, and trust me.” This time he couldn’t stop a blinding smile. “They looked nothing like that. The moment you bend over, you’re going to rip those ridiculous pants from top to bottom. They look painful.”

  “My God, I must be dreaming. Humor from Mr. Military. I didn’t think you had it in you.” Cracking a smile, Wyn straightened and slid the sword through the hoop on his belt. “And for your information, Colonel Smart Ass, they’re not tight. Well, maybe a little.” He squirmed, tugging the jet material in place over his crotch.

  The awkward jig made Caleb laugh louder. “Please don’t tell me you have a golden earring stowed away.”

  “Guilty.” Wyn raised one hand, letting a round hoop dangle from his fingertips. “It pinches my earlobe, so I’m waiting until I get to the party to put it on. What do you think? Too much?”

  Caleb chuckled. “Forget the earring, Winston. Lauren’s going to be happily distracted by the pants.”

  “Very funny. When did you become a comedian?” Wyn forced a frown, but it was clearly for show. “And speaking of outfits…” He paused, studying Caleb as if seeing him for the first time. “If I’d seen you in that uniform in 1863, I would have done damn near anything you told me, whether I was one of your soldiers or not. It’s freaking scary, Caleb. I’ve seen you sick, exhausted, angry, even hung over once or twice, but in that uniform you are Colonel DeCardian.”

  Caleb averted his eyes. “You sound like Seth.”

  “The bastard could have been right about some things. He was your friend once.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “I know that.” Still in the doorway, Wyn hedged. He cleared his throat awkwardly, an uncomfortable flush creeping over his cheeks. “This probably isn’t the best time, b
ut I might as well get it said. I know you don’t consider me a friend–”

  “Winston.”

  “Hear me out.” Wyn held up a hand to forestall the protest. “It’s just that, I’ve gotten used to having you around. God knows I wouldn’t want a houseful of Caleb DeCardians. One is enough for any lifetime. But if you do make it back to your own century, I, uh…I want you to know I’m going to miss you.” Puffing out his cheeks, he exhaled loudly. “That’s all, okay? I wanted you to know in case something happened, like maybe you get zapped back tomorrow, and I never have the chance to tell you.”

  Caleb tensed, laughter forgotten. He knew he should say something similar in kind, mostly because everything Wyn said was true in reverse. He hadn’t quite admitted to himself Wyn was a friend, but he’d miss his nephew a great deal if he ever found his way home. The realization stunned him.

  He’d done away with friendships, thanks to Seth. Wyn was someone he needed, whom he trusted to keep his secret, but that was as far as his loyalty went.

  Or was it?

  For three years, Wyn had taken care of him each lunar cycle, standing guard outside the windowless basement cell with its door of silver crossbars. Each morning following Caleb’s transformation, he’d been there to help, offering water, wrapping Caleb in a clean robe, guiding him on unsteady legs up the stairs to his bedroom for much-needed rest. He never threw Caleb’s vulnerability or weakness back in his face, never made an issue that he woke from the ugly transformations completely naked, his clothing ripped aside during the blood-frenzy of the night. But most of all, he never looked at Caleb with anything other than respect, trust and brotherly affection in his eyes.

  And still Seth’s voice haunted Caleb, making him feel unworthy of friendship.

  “It’s your fault, Caleb. My arm is useless, my infantry career shot to hell. I end up an invalid and you get a promotion to Colonel. The brave hero of Crinkeshaw who fought for two hours with shrapnel lodged in his neck in an effort to save his troop. How pathetic! I swear I’m going to curse you the same way you’ve cursed me.”