This all sounded like some kind of weird riddle. Tate was sure that he didn’t know how to make his soul come into another’s, and he certainly didn’t know how to join the spirits of Tsani and his Margaret. As for true love, well, did it really exist? Tate had his doubts.
“I wish I was back in my sweat lodge. I wish I had never sought a vision,” Tate said.
“Wait,” Tsani said, and before Tate knew what was happening, he was lying on the floor of the sweat lodge, his face pressed into the dirt. Tate struggled to rise to his feet, but three days of fasting had left him as weak as a baby, and he wove back and forth on his knees as the steam curled past his head. He wanted to be free of the heat and the steam and the sweat lodge; he wanted to be free of Tsani or the crane or whoever or whatever he was.
“I can’t help you,” he told Tsani. “I can’t even help myself.”
Tsani shoved him so that he fell back on the earth. “You reclaimed your heritage as one of the Real People. Also, in your present life you have recently asked that your name be added to the tribal rolls, as is your right. You want the privileges of the Cherokee. How can you not accept the responsibilities as well? You are the one who sought this vision, my brother.”
Tate considered this. He had desperately wanted to have an instructive vision, and now he was refusing to listen to the advice and insight he was given. Tsani was telling him that he must not only live like a Cherokee, he must also be a Cherokee inside where it counted. This indeed was the revelation he had sought, and now he felt humble in the face of such wisdom.
Tate pushed himself to a sitting position. “I will accept the vision and learn from it,” he said. “I will try to do as you ask.”
“That is good.” Tsani knelt at his side and leaned close. “I ruined everything,” he said. “I lost my woman through my own stupidity. I was too late for our meeting. This caused both of us much misery. Do it right this time, my brother. Do not let yourself be confused by unimportant consequences.”
Before Tate could answer, Tsani rose, wrapped the feathers of the crane around him and, with a rapid flutter of wings, disappeared.
“Wait,” Tate cried, but it was too late. No one was there to hear his plea.
“What about Maggie’s baby?” he cried into the darkness. Was her pregnancy what Tsani had meant by an “unimportant consequence?” It certainly didn’t seem so to him. But there was no answer to his question.
“Tsani?” he called into the blackness. “Tsani?”
In answer he heard nothing but the raucous laughter of the Little People who lived beneath the waterfall.
When Tate woke up, he was still in his sweat lodge, his head pillowed on his arms. The fire had gone out, which explained the blackness surrounding him. He sat up, thinking of what had happened to him. Or had it happened at all? Perhaps he had never left the sweat lodge. Perhaps there had been no Tsani, no visit to the past and no white crane.
But what then, he asked himself, would explain the lone white feather floating slowly, slowly to the floor?
A SPATE OF TREACHEROUS spring weather rocked the entire country that week. A storm front spawned deadly tornadoes in Texas, unleashed extensive flooding in New Orleans, and was responsible for widespread power failures in Atlanta. The tail end of the storm wreaked one final insult by dipping into Scot’s Cove and its environs long enough to cause damage to several storefronts and to uproot a giant oak tree on Maggie’s property during the night.
After surveying the storm’s damage, Maggie decided to drive into town. She had reached the craving stage of her pregnancy and had developed an uncommon longing for dill pickles and pistachio ice cream. Also, she needed to arrange for the services of Jacob Pinter’s grandson, who owned a chain saw and had cut firewood for her in the past.
In the aftermath of such a devastating storm, his grandson had several weeks of work waiting for him all over the county, Jacob told her, but the boy would see to her downed tree eventually. Maggie, feigning nonchalance, took the opportunity to ask Jacob if he knew how Tate had fared.
“Tate Jennings? No, I ain’t heard tell of how the storm affected Stoker’s Knob,” said Jacob Pinter as he loaded a large box of groceries into Maggie’s car.
“I thought maybe someone might have mentioned it,” Maggie said carefully.
“I heard that Flat Top Mountain got tore up pretty bad up near the tree line.”
“Is that where Tate’s camp is?” For the first time, Maggie wished she had thought to ask Tate to take her there.
“It’s not that high up. If you want to get to the old Jennings home site, you go up past the road to your place, see, and then you veer off to the right near that tumbledown fence afore you get to the bridge. Then you walk due south. Can’t help but run into it. You’ll know you’re almost there when you pass a stone marker. It used to have a mailbox on it, but they don’t deliver mail up there anymore, so alls that might be there is a heap of stones.”
Maggie got in the car. “Thanks, Jacob. Tell your grandson to come any time.”
“Will do, Maggie,” said Jacob. He hesitated as she started the motor. “Say, Maggie, have you found any tenants for the summer?”
“Not yet. Do you know of anyone who is looking for a cabin?”
“Nope, sure don’t. I got nothing against your place, Maggie, but I have to tell you that some of your renters haven’t been too happy there.” He seemed reluctant to say more.
Maggie’s hand stopped halfway to the ignition. “They never mentioned any problems to me,” she said.
“Maybe they’re too polite. The folks last summer complained to my wife about not being able to sleep because of strange noises. They seemed kinda worried about it.”
“Strange voices?” she said, deliberately misunderstanding.
“No, just noises.”
So Peg hadn’t talked to them, or if she had, Jacob didn’t know about it. Her former tenants must have heard the faint dulcimer music that drifted in and out of Maggie’s consciousness day and night. By this time she was sure that the music had something to do with Peg Macintyre, but she didn’t want to mention this to Jacob Pinter for fear that word would get around that the old Macintyre place was haunted. She’d probably find it impossible to get tenants if Peg’s presence became common knowledge.
“Thanks for telling me, Jacob,” was all she said before starting the car. She fluttered a hand out the car window as she drove away.
Maggie was thoughtful as she headed out the highway away from town. Jacob’s information convinced her that she wasn’t the only one who was aware of Peg’s presence in the cabin. This was reassuring in a way, but in another way, it was not. If she wanted to rent the cabin for the summer, an ancestral ghost didn’t bode well.
She passed her own driveway and accelerated along the bumpy road leading farther uphill. Maybe she’d run into Tate on his way down the mountain, which would reassure her that he was all right.
When she reached the old weathered rail fence, she slowed the BMW to a crawl. The fence was covered with delicate yellow rambling rosebuds not yet in full bloom. On impulse, she pulled the car onto the shoulder and got out. She saw no sign of Tate.
She scuffed at a few leaves and waited, hoping against hope that Tate would choose that moment to appear. She felt ridiculously eager to see him. She leaned against the fence and closed her eyes, willing him to be there when she opened them. But when she opened her eyes, she saw nothing but the old fence, the roses, and a squirrel that ran down the trunk of a tree and scolded her.
Why? Why do I want to see him, need to see him, think I won’t live if I don’t see him? If she had expected an answer, she was disappointed.
Well, Maggie told herself with a mixture of longing and hopefulness, there’s nothing like a brisk walk in the afternoon, and she hitched up Kip’s shorts and climbed over the fence, taking care not to let the thorns on the roses scratch her legs.
At the stone marker near Tate’s camp, Maggie stopped to catch her breath. The way t
o the camp had been an uphill struggle, and she doubted that she would have started out if she’d known how far she’d have had to walk.
A bright red cardinal fluttered in front of her as if showing the way. She followed its lead until she saw a plume of smoke rising over the treetops, and she knew she was almost there.
“Tate?” she called through the thicket of hardwoods that blocked her vision. “Tate, are you there? It’s Maggie.”
She heard no answering call, so she kept going. Soon she broke through a clutch of rhododendrons and found herself in a clearing with a small log hut adjoined by a cramped lean-to which sheltered Tate’s motorcycle. A rudimentary garden sprouted nearby. In the middle of the clearing burned a campfire, and she smelled the succulent odor of a savory stew. To one side stood a peculiar domed structure covered with canvas. A thin wisp of smoke issued from a small hole in the middle.
After a moment’s hesitation, she walked to the dome and lifted the canvas. The smoke within made her sneeze. Backing away, she wondered whether she should go looking for Tate. She sneezed again, and when she opened her eyes, she saw him.
He was walking up the slope from the river wearing only his loincloth. She hadn’t seen him like this since the day they had met, and she stood as if rooted to the spot, bowled over by the beauty of him.
For if any man could be said to be beautiful, then Tate Jennings was. His body was smooth and slick with water that ran off in glistening rivulets, making the ripple and flow of his muscles even more pronounced. He saw her in that instant, and his eyes widened. He halted, standing like stone so that his bronzed skin blended with the moving shadows of the forest beyond.
“A’siyu,” he said. “Greetings.”
The Cherokee language surprised her and she said nothing, but her heart was beating a tattoo against her ribs. For two cents, she would have turned and run like a startled deer. If she could have, she would have transformed herself into a tree trunk so that she would not be noticed. But not having the magical capabilities necessary for such transmogrifications, she merely stood. And looked. And waited.
“Maggie,” he said. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”
“Are you glad?” she managed to say.
He smiled at that. “Glad doesn’t even begin to describe it.”
She felt childishly pleased. “I wondered if you were okay after the storm,” she confessed.
“I hardly even noticed the weather.” He indicated the domed canvas. “I was in there.”
Maggie cast a bemused look at the sweat lodge. “Why?” she asked.
“I was on a spiritual quest. Won’t you join me for dinner? I’ve been fasting for three days.”
Maggie was incredulous. “This is the first time you’ve eaten in three whole days?” she repeated.
“I drank some broth earlier.”
“I came up here to see how you had fared during the big storm, and I find out that the storm wasn’t the problem. You’ve nearly starved.”
“I had reasons,” he replied patiently. “Sit down. The stew is almost ready.”
Maggie peered into the pot over the fire and saw that there was plenty of fish stew, but any man who hadn’t eaten for three days would have a powerful appetite. “Are you sure that’s enough to eat? I left my car loaded with groceries on the road,” she said.
“In my present state of hunger, it’s too far away,” he said. He went into the asi and brought out bowls and spoons. He handed one of each to Maggie, who sat down cross-legged and watched Tate as he ladled generous helpings into each bowl.
She watched him surreptitiously from under her lashes as he ate. His attention seemed to be focused on slaking his hunger, not on her presence or what might happen later or any of the other things that kept tumbling over and over in her mind. She tried to make small talk, but Tate seemed uninterested; she could understand why. Dropping the bombshell of her pregnancy had created a barrier between them. Was that what had caused Tate to embark on a spiritual quest? Should she ask him about it, or would that be a bad idea?
She realized that she might have made a mistake coming here, and she thought that perhaps he didn’t want her around. On the other hand, he kept looking over at her with an unfathomable expression on his face. She had no idea what it meant.
The more she thought about it, the more she wondered what she was doing here. And the worst of it was that Tate didn’t seem to know, either.
AFTER HIS VISION, Tate could hardly believe that Maggie was real. He kept expecting her to lower her mask and become someone else, or to disappear in a puff of smoke. But she was real. She was eating and talking and, well, being Maggie. His heart warmed toward her.
Looking at her, watching her as she conveyed delectable morsels of fish to her even more delectable mouth, he felt a stirring in his groin, and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why he found a pregnant woman so sexy. Maybe he had been without a woman for too long, but he didn’t think that was it. He certainly hadn’t wanted to bed any of the other women he’d encountered in the past five months.
He cleared his throat. “Maggie—” he began.
“Yes?” she said too quickly.
“About your pregnancy—do you want to talk about it?”
“I think we should,” she replied. She set down her bowl and spoon and stared at him through the thickening twilight. “Tate, if you were offended by—by my body, it’s okay. If touching me and kissing me was a turnoff for you, I understand, and—”
“A turnoff? Is that what you think?” He was incredulous.
“Well,” she said in a low tone, “yes.”
“Maggie,” he said with the utmost patience, “I find you beautiful beyond compare, sexy beyond belief, and touching and kissing you was one of the most—perhaps the most—erotic experience imaginable. I didn’t know you were pregnant. I was stunned to learn that you were. But when I walked away from your cabin, in my heart I still wished we had made love.”
She stared at him blankly, saw the fervor in his eyes, blushed and looked away. “Oh,” she said.
“Have I convinced you?”
“Kind of.”
He wondered what would make her truly believe, but short of making a move on her, he couldn’t think of a way. They sat in silence, listening to the flutter of birds overhead. The fragrance of cedar wafted over them, perfuming the air with its pungent scent.
“Tate,” Maggie said after a while, “how do you think Peg and Tsani were able to actually become us during the storm?”
“I’ve always sensed something special about your cabin,” he said.
“Oh, so have I,” Maggie agreed. “It’s almost as if the cabin is surrounded by a special enchantment. I thought it was because I feel close to my mother in the place where we had so many good times, but now I realize that there’s more. Peg is there. I feel her. And I hear her laughing sometimes, and dulcimer music, although I don’t know why.”
“I’ve heard the music, too,” he said. “Also, I felt a peculiar sensation the first night I visited your cabin, almost as if someone were looking over my shoulder.”
“I had a peculiar sensation, too, as I recall. It started in the pit of my stomach.” This she said with a wry twist to her lips.
Recalling how she had run out of the room and been sick, Tate smiled. “Maybe we should blame that on Peg,” he said.
“I can’t blame Peg for anything,” she said seriously. “I feel so close to her. Not only because I’m going to have a baby and so was she, but her thoughts were running through my head when you and I were—well, at the time, I was actually feeling the emotions she felt. I don’t know how I could, but it was so real, Tate. I knew her fear that her parents would find out that she was going to bear Tsani’s baby, and—” Maggie cast her eyes down “—her deep love for him as he began to make love to her.”
“Ah,” Tate said. “That.” He understood perfectly because he, when he had been Tsani, had felt love for Maggie as well. Or at least it was love as he ha
d always dreamed it should be. He, who had conditioned himself not to feel emotion, had loved her in those moments with every fiber of his being, and she had returned his ardor as passionately as any woman ever could. After such a breathtaking experience, he now knew what love and sex intermingled could be, and he was certain that he could never settle for anything less. He wanted to feel the emotion of love again, over and over. In this lifetime. And for keeps.
Maggie lifted her shoulders and let them fall. “Have you ever loved anyone, Tate?” she asked with a certain prescience.
“I’ve wanted to,” he said slowly, “but I never quite understood what I was supposed to feel. Because of the way my mother used the word love to manipulate me and excuse herself from her obligations, I thought that love was a bad thing. It’s hard for me to hear the word even now without conjuring up a negative connotation.”
Maggie was silent for a long time. “I thought I loved Kip,” she said. “Maybe I never really did, since it didn’t last the way love should. Sometime I’d like to feel so much in love that I don’t know where I leave off and the other person begins. I’d like a really deep soul connection that lasts forever. Do you believe that’s possible?” she asked wistfully, gazing into the fire.
“I’ve heard the love songs and read the books. I hope that the people who write those terrific things know what they’re talking about.” Tate thought about Tsani and Peg and how they wanted to be together in the Nightland for all eternity. He had the idea that they would both do whatever it took to achieve that goal. And having felt what Tsani felt when he was with Peg, he understood.
“Certain kinds of love are forever. They defy all boundaries and evade all reason,” he said.
Maggie smiled waveringly at him. “I hope so,” was all she said, but she reached over and took his hand. “I seem to recall that you were going to finish telling me about yourself.”
He turned her hand over. It was small and smooth, and he traced the lines on her palm with his forefinger. “Too boring,” he said, pulling himself back from his agreeable fantasies.
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