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by Patricia Reding

  She sat up. But for the light of the single moon that now neared the western horizon, it was still dark.

  She threw off her blanket and then pulled a lightweight shawl over her shoulders.

  “Are you all right?” Dixon asked from somewhere nearby.

  “I’m fine.” She sighed. “It must be past time for my watch.”

  He approached, then squatted down. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  She blinked rapidly as she looked at him. The moonlight reflected in his eyes. He looked so worried, so concerned. “Sure, I’m sure. Why?”

  “You seemed—anxious. In your sleep, I mean.”

  “Just . . . dreaming, I guess.”

  “Of anything in particular?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I tried to catch the thought before it was gone, but it . . . slipped away. So, I don’t know. I just remember being angry and afraid.”

  She stood and stretched her arms over her head. “You should get some sleep.” She didn’t look back to see him watching her for a minute before he finally settled down for some rest.

  Walking the camp perimeter, she pulled up on the edge of the tunic she wore, brought it to her face, closed her eyes, and buried her nose in it. It smelled of Dixon—of cedar and leather. She’d noticed it the minute she’d put it on the day before. She breathed in deeply of the soothing, familiar, sensual scent. Then, shaking her head to clear it, she set out again.

  Late the day before, they’d passed a place that had bothered her for some reason. It was a little old goat farm with a small cottage farmhouse, apparently abandoned long years ago. Its thatched roof, that might at one time have given it a homey appeal, was worn and rotting away. The cottage itself leaned strongly to one side, looking as though one good gust of wind would bring the entire thing down. A flower box that might once have sported herbs, sat below the front window. Now it was home to but a few spindly strands of one weed or another. An old bucket stood near the front door, with a dipper hanging over its side. Both were rusted beyond the point of being of any further use.

  The place made her feel sad, as though someone had suffered a great loss there, leaving only his spirit memory behind. She wanted to go inside the cottage, but given its state of disrepair, Dixon cautioned her against it. He told her that, long ago, friends of his had lived there. He seemed emotional when he spoke of them. It seemed as though he couldn’t get away from the place quickly enough. Even so, all the while, she couldn’t help but think that he expected something from her—something she was unable to identify, or to grant.

  After they left the farm, they’d passed through an old goat pasture, thickly overgrown, its smell of wild creeping thyme filling the air. Brambles caught on their clothing, like hands reaching out, seeking to retard their movement.

  She recalled how, for a moment, she’d felt herself transported to the past. Oh, but that’s ridiculous. I’d never been there before.

  Beyond the goat pasture, they’d entered a forest. A narrow river ran through it. As the late afternoon sun glistened on the water’s surface, they came here, to this clearing. Dixon said that there’d once been a wayfarers’ hut in the grove, but that it had burned down long ago.

  She looked around in the dim moonlight. Not for the first time, she felt there was something familiar about the place. In that moment, an image from her dream came upon her, but then, just as quickly as it had come, it slipped away, eluding her efforts to catch it again. Frustrated, she sought something to do.

  She tiptoed near to where Dixon slept to retrieve two of their several canteens, then made her way to the river to fill them.

  Crouching at the water’s edge, she pulled a rag out from her pocket and dipped it in the water. After wringing the excess water out of it, she wiped her face. The cool water refreshed her and helped her to awaken. She repeated the procedure. Once done, she clipped the damp cloth to her belt. She’d have to hang it later, to dry.

  She slipped Dixon’s canteen off from around her neck, and filled the vessel. After wrapping it back over her head, she removed the strap of her own canteen. Listening to the songs of the earliest of the rising birds that now sounded out, she filled it.

  As she leaned in to put the cap back on her canteen, something slipped out from beneath her tunic. She grasped the item at the same time that she put her canteen strap back over her head.

  She opened her hand and studied the object. Why am I wearing this thing? What in the name of the Good One is it, anyway? She turned it over in her hand. Where did it come from?

  “Mara?”

  She turned toward the voice. “Dixon, what’s wrong? You should be resting.”

  He shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

  She looked out at the river. “Dixon, you said you’ve been here before. Is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that I’ve been here before too?” She turned back his way.

  “Ahhhh,” he stammered. He approached, then squatted down next to her.

  “It’s true. I’ve been here before. Haven’t I?”

  He beat a rhythm with his hand to his thigh, but said nothing.

  “I think I was with you.”

  His eyes remained fixed on her.

  She gasped. What was that thought? What was that bit of information that edged in on her consciousness, over and over again, then quickly slipped away? She vowed not to let it go of it again. Mentally, she grabbed hold of it. As she did, she felt herself falling, falling . . .

  She dropped to the forest floor. With her eyes closed, colors pranced and shimmered before her. Lazily, they changed hue, modified, altered, and intensified. Deep and pure, they seemed to take on a scent—and a taste. First came yellow, then peach, mauve, burgundy, eggplant, navy . . . Suddenly they swirled, as tint and hue, shade and tone, solidified. It all seemed to unfold in slow motion and yet, somehow, she knew it all happened very quickly and that it was . . . familiar, somehow.

  From a distance, she heard Dixon call out to her. Then the sound of his voice fell away.

  She opened her eyes. Everything around her was of a single drab orange-brown color. Confused, she reached down, made a fist, and then pulled her hand up. She opened it. Sand ran through her fingers.

  She sat in a desert—or so it seemed. Yet an intense cold penetrated her clothing and settled on her skin. Mara grabbed another handful of sand and then, once again, watched as she slowly poured it out on the ground.

  She got to her knees. She sank into the fine granules.

  Where am I? Wait . . . What is that?

  Warily, she stood. She stepped out. Something was there—in the sand. She couldn’t identify it. It was huddled up, tightly.

  She approached. The thing didn’t move. Tentatively, she reached out. It was solid but not hard. She nudged it.

  It dropped to the side and a blanket fell away from it.

  People. Two young women. What are they doing here?

  She jostled the arm of one of them, but got no response. She leaned in and looked more closely. In the wan pre-dawn light, she saw that the young woman’s face was badly sunburned. Blisters spotted her nose and her skin had peeled.

  Mara unclipped from her belt, the cloth she’d used earlier. She shook it open, put her hand behind the young woman’s head, and then carefully wiped the sand from her face.

  Gracious, these are the two young women—Reigna and Eden—from the compound. But what are they doing here in the middle of . . . a desert?

  No, that’s wrong. This is just a dream.

  Is it? I don’t know. It feels real.

  If it’s real, what am I doing in the middle of a desert, and how did I get here?

  She pulled her canteen strap off, over her head. She lifted the young woman’s head again, then slowly trickled water between her cracked lips. She immediately recognized her as Reigna, though she couldn’t say how. The sun had so savagely burned the young woman that Mara wept for her.

  She retrieve
d from her pocket, a jar of cream that she frequently used, made of beeswax, shea butter, and coconut oil. She put some on Reigna’s nose, cheekbones, and lips. Once done, she poured more water into her mouth.

  Even in her sleeping stupor, Reigna swallowed greedily.

  After capping the canteen closed again, Mara rested it on Reigna’s breast.

  She approached the other twin. After wiping Eden’s face clean, she took Dixon’s canteen off from around her neck. She pulled Eden’s head up, and then trickled water into her mouth. Then she closed the flask again and left it on her breast. If possible, this twin was in even worse condition than her sister. Mara applied some cream to her face and lips.

  Back and forth she moved between the two, giving them each a bit of water at a time, and reapplying balm to their faces and lips. Meanwhile, she prayed. Dear Good One, help them . . .

  With the first rays of sun bursting forth, the temperature instantly rose.

  Mara returned to Reigna’s side as the young woman stirred. “You’re all right. You’re going to be fine.”

  Reigna’s eyes fluttered open. “Mara,” she gasped in a whispered, dry, raspy voice. “Oh, thank the Good One.”

  “Shhh . . . Save your breath now.”

  “I knew you’d come back.”

  “Shhh.” Mara wondered what Reigna meant about “coming back.” She’d never been in the desert before.

  “Is Eden all right?” Reigna asked.

  “Yes, she’s fine.”

  “Oh, thank Ehyeh you came. We thought we were lost.”

  “Here,” Mara said as, once again, she opened the canteen, “drink.”

  “Mara?”

  She turned to find Eden awake.

  “Oh, it is you!”

  “Shhh . . . both of you. You’re going to be fine.” Mara held the container of balm out to Reigna. “This will help your burns and parched lips.”

  “Mara!” came a voice invading her consciousness. “Mara!”

  Who is that? Oh, yes, it’s Dixon. I remember now . . . I’m dreaming.

  “Mara!” he called again.

  She turned back to the twins and then, she . . . vanished.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Dixon was beside himself. One moment, Mara had been right near him where she belonged, where he wanted her to return to, the place from whence he hoped she’d never again stray, and the next moment, she’d disappeared.

  “Mara!” he cried. She didn’t even know she could travel by magic, yet she’d done just that. Where might she have gone? And, gracious Ehyeh, what might befall her there? She didn’t know who, or what, she truly was . . .

  “Great Good One!” He dropped to his knees. Moisture from the moss covered forest floor seeped into his pants.

  Frantically, he looked up again, hoping she’d returned, but he found no sign of her anywhere.

  “Mara!” He stood again and then walked the riverbank. He stopped to watch twigs coast down the waterway before catching on protruding stones and fallen trees along the way.

  He returned to the site of the former wayfarers’ hut. Walking around the massive oak growing nearby, he glanced up into its leafy canopy before turning back to the river.

  She’d been gone for an hour or more. In the meantime, the sun had fully risen. Now birds chirped merrily and squirrels chattered and scurried about.

  He sat back at the river’s edge, at the place from whence Mara had disappeared. He dropped his head into his hands in frustration and cried out, yet again, “Mara!”

  Then, just as suddenly as she’d vanished, she reappeared in a heap, at his side. Rustling to her knees, she put her hand to her head, and shook it.

  “Mara?”

  She glanced up. “Oh, Dixon! I must have fallen asleep during my watch. I’m so sorry. What if an intruder had come? What if you’d been harmed?”

  “Oh, thank Ehyeh, you’re ba—”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. I’m . . . fine. I’m fine. Like I said, I just . . . fell asleep, I guess. I had a . . .” She cocked her head. “I had a strange dream.”

  He watched her closely.

  “I’m sorry, Dixon. My dreams have been . . . troubling me.” She rubbed her head again. “So, I came down here to fill our canteens. I figured I might as well get a start on the things we needed to do before breaking camp.” Her brow furrowed. “But then . . .” She looked at him, her eyes narrowed. “But then, you found me here, didn’t you?”

  “Look, it’s all right. It’s not a problem.”

  “Dixon!” She slapped the ground around herself. “Dixon! Where are they? Where are they?”

  “Where are who?”

  “Not who! What! Where are they? Where are our canteens? I brought two of them down here to fill. Where are they?”

  He blinked hard and repeatedly. “I’m sure you’re mistaken. They must be back at the camp.” Dear Ehyeh! What might she do if she discovers she traveled magically? That she took the canteens somewhere and, so it seems, left them behind? She might insist on knowing more.

  “No!” she cried. “No, they were right here—around my neck.” She slapped her hand to her breast. Her fingertips touched upon the thin leather strap she wore. She pulled it out, recollecting that she’d done the same earlier. Shaking, she stared at the object attached to it, now in her hand.

  “Maybe they fell into the water,” he said, in an effort to calm her.

  “No, I . . . I left them. I—” She stared at him. Then her eyes rolled back, and she fell into his arms.

  She had passed out—again.

  Three full days passed. All the while, Dixon attended to Mara’s needs, trying to get as much water down her throat as possible.

  The whole while, she remained, as she had after the wildcat had attacked them, entirely still. In her hand, she clutched the grut tooth she wore on a leather strap around her neck. It was one she’d found on the day Rowena died—the day Mara had sworn her life oath to protect the newborn twins, Reigna and Eden. And it was right here, at this place, where Rowena had birthed them, in the wayfarers’ hut that once stood in the glen.

  From a nearby giant oak, Mara had taken down a full pack of grut. Afterwards, she and Dixon searched for the teeth in the grounds surrounding the building. All that might remain in the land of the living after one of the beasts from Sinespe died, the teeth contained powerful magic. No grut could harm a person who possessed one. Since that fateful day, Mara always wore one around her neck—and thankfully so, as the practice had once saved her life when Lilith called up a pack of the beasts.

  Dixon barely ate. Most of the time he sat leaning against a tree, holding Mara in his arms. Occasionally, he allowed himself a few minutes of sleep, for his dreams to overtake him. Having done just that a short time ago, he awakened in the wee morning hours. Birds sang, chirped, twittered and cawed.

  He pulled his beloved closer and kissed her forehead.

  Just then, she stirred.

  “Mara?”

  Her eyes fluttered.

  In his relief, he nearly crushed her in his embrace. Then, recollecting he must use care, he loosed his hold and gently put her down on the thick, mossy ground. On his knees, he leaned in. “Mara?”

  Her eyes twitched, then slowly, opened.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Wa—”

  “Water. Right here.” He grabbed a canteen as he wondered, and not for the first time, where she’d left those she’d taken when she’d magically traveled somewhere three days hence. Certainly she’d left them behind. In the intervening days, he’d searched the area for them, had even checked the bottom of the river for them, but to no avail.

  Holding the back of her head, he put the canteen to her mouth.

  At first she had difficulty swallowing, but within minutes, was able to do so. She took a long, cool drink.

  “There . . . are you better now?”

  She nodded. Then she brought her hand up, still clu
tching the grut tooth. She opened her fingers and looked at the object in her palm, her head cocked. Then, “It’s a grut tooth,” she said.

  He smiled. “That’s right.”

  Again, she tried to sit up.

  “Let me help.” He placed a hand to the small of her back.

  “We found them—here.”

  “Found what?”

  “The grut teeth.”

  He stared at her, momentarily struck silent. How much did she remember? “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Help me up.”

  “Careful.” He stood and then helped her to her feet.

  “I’m all right,” she said, though she teetered. “Show me.”

  “Show you what?”

  “Show me where we found the teeth.”

  His eyes shifted about before settling back on her. “All right, it’s this way.”

  He cupped her elbow, steadying her, and then guided her through the brush and into the clearing where the wayfarers’ hut once stood.

  “We found them right here—in this area,” he said as he made a circular motion with his hand.

  She looked about. One large oak tree caught her attention. She tipped her head to the side as she considered it. Slowly, she approached, touched its bark, and then dragged her fingers along its trunk as she walked its circumference.

  “I was there,” she said, pointing upward.

  “Oh?” He rubbed the back of his neck.

  “That’s where I was when I shot at the grut.”

  He smiled. She’s remembering!

  She walked away from the tree and went to where he said they’d found the grut teeth. She stood, quietly.

  “Are you all right?”

  “There . . . right there,” she said, gesturing to her side. “The hut sat there.”

  “That’s right.”

  She turned his way. “It was . . .” She closed her eyes, apparently trying to recollect information. “It was small . . . At its base were river rocks held together with mud mortar. Moss and ivy covered them . . .” She looked back at him.

  “Yes.”

  “It was dilapidated. It looked like it was nearly ready to fall over.” She went silent, then suddenly, her face registered alarm. “No . . . No! Someone was in there!” She held a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Dixon,” she moaned, “the grut . . . Who were they after? What was I was doing here? What happened?”