Walking Through Shadows

by Sheri Lewis Wohl

  Winnie woke up smiling. What an insane world this was. She’d known of Molly’s family history for years and always thought it was pretty cool. She hadn’t realized the depth of the belief in things beyond the rational world that Angus subscribed to until now and found it equally cool. Last night they’d talked for a long time, and he’d shared with her how he so easily took this quantum leap in stride. His family had a long history of embracing the world unseen and had many of those with powers similar to Molly’s. He kept telling her he didn’t possess any magic. She wasn’t convinced. She was pretty sure there was most definitely something special about him.

  His background explained a lot, not the least of which why he saw their current situation as unique rather than dire. He kept telling her they would find their way back, and she believed him. If she hadn’t already been deeply in love with him, this would have put her over the top.

  What amazed her the most had nothing to do with all the history he shared with her. No, it was that he wanted to marry her. She’d hoped. Oh, God, how she had hoped for just this feeling, but deep in her soul she’d believed it was a secret dream she’d hold silently in her heart forever. She’d have never admitted it to him for fear of rejection. She’d had enough of that to last her a couple of lifetimes. It was easy to backslide if she let herself. Growing up had been tough. She was the girl who was always a little plump and just outside the circle of cool kids. Everyone liked her, and no one bullied or ignored her, but no one took her seriously as a girlfriend. She was everyone’s best friend. Even Josh Contrares’s. How she’d loved him and dreamed of what it would be like to go on a date. It had never happened because she was always his good friend, good buddy, the girl he could talk to about other girls. Oh, how she’d listened and offered him advice, never once summoning the courage to tell him how she really felt. Things with Josh hadn’t changed over the years either. Who did he call to cater his wedding to the beautiful Olympic-hopeful runner? His good pal, Winnie.

  Later, when she went away to college, she’d had some boyfriends, and as she thought about it now she realized that the demise of those relationships probably had more to do with her feelings than theirs. She had been—probably still was—so scared of being left behind as that “good friend” that she always pulled away before she could get hurt. Not letting anyone get too close was her standard operating procedure. On the surface, it had worked very well.

  Until she met Angus. This beautiful, smart Irishman had burst into her restaurant like a Tasmanian devil and since that day had turned her world upside down. The fact that he kept coming back to her restaurant over and over hadn’t registered. She’d figured he just liked her food. When he’d asked her out, she’d been floored and scared and thrilled. The ride had been like that ever since. Even as terrified as she was about feeling so in love with him, she couldn’t run. Not this time. Now maybe she understood why.

  So here they were, a couple hundred years away from home, engaged and trying to figure out how to get back to their own century. She’d never been happier.

  “Whatcha thinking about, beautiful?”

  She put her hand on his cheek. He still lay stretched out in front of the fire that had burned down until it was all but a pile of embers. “That I’m a really lucky woman.”

  He propped his head up on one hand and studied her. “You know we’re stuck somewhere in the nineteenth century.”

  “Why, yes, I do.”

  “And you still feel lucky?”

  She smiled broadly. “I do, because I’m stuck here with you.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Aquene felt it coming as the air rushed from her lungs and her body flowed away from her. Vaguely she heard Molly’s voice and felt her arms around her. It felt really nice. Then it was all gone. The sunshine. The warm rock she sat on. Molly.

  Aquene turned in a full circle. She knew where she stood and yet it looked different. It was no longer open fields with summer shelters, horses grazing, and children playing. She saw houses and people and things she had no words for. Even the houses were different from those she had witnessed at the outposts and forts. They were bigger and like nothing she had ever seen before.

  When the warmth came to the land, they often traveled here to fish. The Umatilla River was a fine place to bask in the sunshine and fill their stores with salmon and the plentiful small trout. As a child, she had run along its banks, and in the summer, she had played with her friends in the warm waters.

  On this day, though it was warm and filled with sunshine, no one was in the water, and only a few walked along its banks. One young boy ran to the edge and, with a cupped hand, started to drink. A woman screamed, her face filled with fear, “No. Don’t drink that. It’ll make you sick.” The boy let the water flow through his fingers.

  Aquene did not understand. The river had always been an important part of the cycle of life. They fished there, they drank from it, and they traveled on it. It was a blessing that she gave thanks for every day, yet now it scared her to hear the terror in the woman’s voice. Though she could not say why, she was truly frightened about what would happen if the boy drank from its depths. Never had she been afraid to let the river waters take away her thirst.

  In the tongue of her people, Aquene said, “Help me. I know not where I am.”

  No one turned or acknowledged her. They went about their lives, oblivious to her distress. Not one face resembled hers, and she longed to see just one she could call her own. Where were her people?

  “They hear you not, my child.” She had heard the Great Spirit’s voice only a few times, and each time, she had brought great knowledge.

  Aquene’s heart raced and tears pooled in her eyes. “What has happened?”

  “Time has changed this world.”

  “Would they answer if they could hear me?”

  “No.”

  “What has happened?” she asked again. Dread pooled in her center, and the tears in her eyes threatened to fall.

  But she did not receive an answer, for once more she stood alone.

  * * *

  Matthew was right. The sunlight had taken whatever magic she had cast and made it disappear like dying fog. Their descent from the rocky cliffs was slow and without incident. Once they reached flat ground, he guided the horse to the river, where they refreshed themselves. He did not tarry there, for he wanted to be on his way, to make up for the time lost last night.

  His comfort on the back of the horse was nothing new, for he had always had been good on horseback, except that with this animal, it was a struggle. For some reason, the beast did not seem to like him, which was no big loss as he did not care for it either. He was a beautiful horse but had no loyalty. Beauty did not count for much when an animal was horrible, and he did not tolerate disloyalty in people or animals.

  The reason this beast was difficult did not escape him. The horse had belonged to another—a native man, indigenous to this area. The man had underestimated Matthew, not long after he had arrived in this godforsaken place, close on the trail of his quarry. His horse at the time was thin and losing strength with each step. Matthew had used him hard and lost patience with the stupid, weak beast. He had needed to be free of the failing animal the moment he found a suitable replacement. So, when the native had tried to sneak into Matthew’s camp and steal his supplies, he had been ready. For him, it had turned out quite well. He was relieved of the presence of an inferior mode of transportation. The thief had made a poor choice. In the end he didn’t succeed in his quest to relieve Matthew of his goods and, instead, lost both his horse and his life.

  He suspected the scavengers of both land and air had picked clean the man’s body, for he left it where it fell after he’d snapped his neck. It did not concern him. All that mattered to him was the strong, massive horse the man had tethered to a tree some distance away. Matthew had been quite pleased to see it and had quickly transferred his saddle, roll, and rope from his fading mount to the new, stronger version. He did not look bac
k as he rode away and did not know what happened to the other horse. It died, he supposed. He did not care. As far as dependability, this horse was far superior. As far as temperament and loyalty, Matthew was looking forward to the day he put a bullet in its head.

  On this sun-filled morning, he rode tall in his saddle and studied the landscape spread out in front of him. His skills tracking the practitioners of the dark arts told him that she was near. Not more than a day’s ride away. He also felt certain that she was on foot. Horses, though many were wild in this area, were difficult to come by. Only the very skilled could even begin to hope to restrain one from the untamed herds that roamed the plains. His instincts whispered that she was not that person. Yes, he was quite certain his prey was on foot. With time and persistence he would have her hanging from a tree limb and fully engulfed in flames before the moon was high in the night sky.

  While he had taken to high ground overnight, now he wanted to move back toward the river. It made sense to him that anyone on foot would stay near the water. It would provide both drink and food, if she possessed enough basic skills to catch a fish. Of course, given she was a witch, more than likely she would simply cast a spell that would bring the fish to her. It was this kind of unnatural act that he was compelled to destroy.

  The sun had come out, and it warmed him. His broad-brimmed hat kept the morning rays out of his eyes, and he gazed around as he guided his horse toward the river. It was quiet, the only sound the huffing of his horse and the clop of its hooves against the occasional rock. A few hours of warming sunlight would banish the remnants of last night’s rain from the ground covered with damp green grass. As much as he detested the weather here, it did bring with it a renewal that reminded him of God’s grand plan.

  Once again at the shoreline, he slipped from the saddle and helped himself to the fresh, cold river water that satisfied his thirst. With his hands in the pockets of his coat, he stared around. He was close but unclear which direction he should travel now. Had she continued west toward the coast and the occasional ship that could give her passage, or was she moving east, intent on hiding within the wilds of the interior?

  Closing his eyes, Matthew turned, as he always did, to silent prayer. It had never failed him, and he did not believe it would do so now. As he mouthed the words, overhead he heard the screech of a bird so loud it startled him. His eyes snapped open, and he turned his face to the sky. Above him, the bird soared, his wings wide.

  The river was broad and the water a deep blue. Unlike the waters of his homeland, though it was nice, it did not speak to him. He missed his home and the world that had passed by long ago. In his first life he had felt most powerful and at peace. He had been important and respected. Now he had to do his work in quiet, stealthy ways. Granted, everywhere he traveled, through every age, he found help, for some always appeared who shared his vision and his quest. Still, too many did not truly understand the importance of his work.

  They were pious fools who, believing that witchcraft was not an evil or destructive force, wished to convert both the savages and the witches. Most of them made him sick. Like that holier-than-thou couple Marcus and Narcissa Whitman. Matthew had met them more than a year earlier as he was trailing the witch. His encounter with the good doctor and his wife had been brief because it became clear very quickly that their paths diverged. The Whitmans came to save. He came to destroy.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Oh, good God,” Molly uttered as she cradled Aquene in her arms. What had just happened? Did she have a seizure? Was she epileptic? And if she was, what the heck should she do? Her mind whirled as she tried to remember what she’d learned in basic first aid for something like this. In her life, burns from the ovens had most often required opening the first-aid kit. Not once had anyone dropped like this. Everything went blank, and she didn’t have a clue how to help. The woman was going to die right here while she did absolutely nothing.

  As she held Aquene, the stiffness she’d first felt when she’d gathered her into her arms eased. In fact, her own body began to buzz as if an electrical shock was running through them both. Kind of like sitting on the ground where a downed power line was pouring electricity into the earth. Except that wasn’t possible in these wilds. Nothing existed out here. All she had was a small pocket knife, a flashlight that would probably help out one more night, and a tube of lip balm. Oh, yeah, she was up for a survival challenge, all right. No doubt she’d be voted off the island in the first round. Once more, she thought longingly of her pack with the big water bottle, power bars, first-aid kit, and extra clothes.

  With one hand, she smoothed the tendrils of hair that stuck to Aquene’s damp forehead. Even in the throes of the attack, or whatever it was, she was a beautiful woman. Her skin was a gorgeous shade of pale brown, her face smooth and unlined, with lips that seemed to beckon to be kissed. Odd that she would think about kissable lips in a moment like this, when she should be focused on helping, but damned if that wasn’t what she was doing. Screw first aid. Without giving it another thought, she leaned down and gently pressed her lips against Aquene’s.

  “What in the world just happened?” Molly looked around in astonishment. Everything was gone. The river, the grass, the rocks. Aquene. Instead of sitting on the ground holding Aquene in her arms, she was standing somewhere else. She didn’t quite know where, but she was definitely back in the twenty-first century. Around her were houses and cars and pickups. People wore blue jeans, hoodies, and ball caps. Yes, indeed, she was home, in a manner of speaking.

  It wasn’t exactly home, though. As she swept her gaze around she found that she recognized the area, having driven through it many times on her way to Portland. Standing in a field, she looked down where the small community of Umatilla, Oregon, spread out before her. A quick drive across the bridge from the State of Washington, Umatilla was the entrance to Oregon from southeast Washington. It always made her smile when she crossed the river because she loved the unique, interesting drive that took her from the Umatilla River to the mighty Columbia.

  Except now she wasn’t driving, and she wasn’t quite here. She was somewhere in between, like one foot was still in the nineteenth century and one foot was touching its toes back into the twenty-first. Try to understand that one. When she looked up and saw Aquene standing on a rise and gazing down at the town and the highway, she was even more confused.

  Molly made her way over to Aquene. “Do you know what’s happening to us?” Since the moment she first saw Aquene she seemed to have an expectation about everything that happened. This shouldn’t be any different, right?

  Aquene slowly shook her head. “I do not. We are being shown something. I do not know what it is.” Her voice cracked, and Molly turned her head to study her. There was a deep emotion in her voice that, up until now, she’d not heard even a trace of.

  Molly was finding this alternate dimension strange, but the note in Aquene’s voice troubled her more than her own disorientation. In fact, it downright frightened her. “What is it, Aquene?”

  She waved her hands toward the landscape below. “Is this what my land becomes? Where are my people? Why will they not drink the water? How can the Great Spirit allow this to be?”

  Molly followed her gaze down and saw what she always did. A small town. Family farms being worked by the people who called the town home, cattle, and, of course, the Umatilla River. She opened her mouth to reply and then shut it. A thought occurred to her, and for a moment, she studied the area with not her own eyes but instead tried to imagine what she would be seeing if she were Aquene. Suddenly, everything she was seeing morphed into something completely different.

  What was there didn’t change. Only her perception of it did. She still saw the town, the farms, the cattle, and the river, but it was the people that caught her attention now. Each one she saw looked like her. Not one in her field of vision was a Native American. No wonder Aquene was upset.

  “Things have changed over the years.” Her words were lame, an
d she wished more than anything that she could say something more comforting. The harsh reality of what had come to pass left her with no words of reassurance.

  “Where are my people?” Aquene asked again, and this time her words were tinged with anger. Or perhaps it was bitterness.

  How could she explain? She couldn’t. The truth was harsh and very real. Nothing she could say to Aquene would make it better. “On a reservation many miles from here.”

  Aquene tipped her head back and yelled into the air something that Molly didn’t understand. At first anyway. Then it hit her that Aquene was most likely calling out in her native language, which had disappeared quite a long time ago. She still had no idea what she said, though she thought she could understand the emotion behind the words.

  “No one can hear us.” Molly had already figured out that they weren’t really standing here, not in a physical way.

  “They will hear my words even if they are far away. My voice is on the wind and they will hear.” Aquene sounded almost defiant. Not that she blamed her. It was strange for her to go back in time and experience the natural state of areas she was accustomed to seeing as fully inhabited. Aquene was experiencing the flip side of that. She was witnessing what she probably considered destruction, and that had to be hurtful.

  Molly closed her eyes and sighed. She couldn’t avoid the reality of what would happen several hundred years after Aquene’s birth. She couldn’t make it better, and what she had to say now was sure to make it worse. When she opened her eyes again, she told Aquene the brutal truth. “Even if they hear you, they won’t understand. Your language died many, many years ago.”

  * * *

  Winnie stretched and looked around. “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.” The room had a little chill to it, but only a little. The fire Angus had built last night had kept away the cold. Though it had burned down now to little more than a pile of embers, the cabin seemed to retain much of the heat. Of course the fact that the storm finally ran its course didn’t hurt either. She hoped the day would turn out to be sunny and warm. Easier to figure out a way home if they weren’t soaked and hungry.