by Vella Munn
“I’m—I’m trying to learn.”
“You cannot! Go. Now!”
But she couldn’t. Something as old and permanent as the rocks themselves held her here. “Why do you hate me?”
“Why? You are part of the man who put an end to the Maklaks.”
“No, he didn’t!” She felt on the edge of losing self-control and couldn’t think how to change that. “Your people killed him. Murdered a man of peace. That’s why he was here, don’t you understand that? He came to this awful place because his job was to try to put an end to the war. He didn’t want any more killing. Do you think he wanted to jeopardize the lives of the young men under him? To be responsible for sons and sweethearts and fathers—he was doing everything he possibly could to keep things from getting any worse. And what happened? Some hothead—”
“Enough!”
The single word stripped her of the anger she didn’t know she had until he’d unleashed it. Although she wanted to tell him that she hadn’t said enough yet and might never fully expel her anger at a good and dedicated man’s untimely death, Loka had leaned closer, and his eyes—his unbelievable eyes—were a tunnel to his soul.
“Were you here?” she asked, her voice so calm that it had to belong to someone else. “Did you kill him?”
Chapter 5
Silence spread between them like a slow-moving river. Tory stared up at this man from the past, thinking not of his role in history, but of the way the sun caressed his ebony hair. His eyes were morning and darkness, danger and challenge, and yet she wanted to experience everything about him. Yesterday she’d wished she was behind the wheel of a speeding vehicle because, maybe, that would kill the energy eating away at her.
Today he was what she needed.
No! The denial reverberated throughout her, coating everything except the truth about her emotions.
“Loka. Did you kill him?”
He hadn’t taken his eyes off her, making her think there was no way he couldn’t know what was going on inside her. She felt surrounded by him, but although she should want to run from his impact, the thought barely flitted through her before fading into nothing. “No,” he said.
“No?” she repeated dumbly.
“My chief ended him.”
My chief. “Were you there?”
“Yes.”
Yes. The word had a life and strength of its own. It bore its way into her, but she gave no thought to trying to fight it. “Where?” she asked as if that mattered. “Where were you?”
Instead of pointing at the spot where she understood the peace tent had been, he indicated a rocky bluff maybe a quarter of a mile away. “The army said we were to stay in our camps, but we didn’t.”
What did you see, Loka? On that spring morning in 1873, what did you hear? Instead of giving voice to the questions pounding at her, she waited him out. It seemed as if he were drawing into himself, looking for the memory so he could spread it out in front of them. Looking up at him with the vast sky behind him and the wind and birds the only sounds in this universe they shared, she felt herself losing whatever grip she still had on the world she’d always known.
“The warmth felt good on my back. Cho-ocks and Keintepoos said that soon we would be able to move into the mountains because the snow was almost gone. I’d come with my brother and father and two cousins. We hid behind the rocks—the army men were too stupid to know where to look for us.”
With every word, his voice sounded less raw and unused. There was music to it, a deep drumbeat that pulsed around and into her. She held on to the sound, the words, knew nothing except him and what he was telling her.
“Keintepoos came armed to the peace talk. He and Ha-kar-Jim had already decided what they were to do.”
“Keintepoos? Ha-kar-Jim?”
“My chief and the brave your ancestor knew as Hooker Jim.”
The Modoc chief. The man who’d killed her great-great-grandfather. She remembered a little about Hooker Jim, enough to know that the young Modoc had been almost single-handedly responsible for turning a tense situation into war. “Your chief listened to Hook—to Ha-kar-Jim? Loka, he was a killer. He murdered innocent settlers.”
“Only after the army burned our winter village.”
They weren’t going to get anywhere arguing over who carried the greatest blame. “I’m sorry that happened,” she whispered.
“So am I.”
His tone carried a deep regret, making her wonder if he understood that that single act had eventually brought about his people’s defeat. “The killing that took place here… Why didn’t you try to stop it?” she asked.
“Stop? It was my chief’s decision. I would not argue with him.”
“But you knew he was wrong, didn’t you? I mean, it’s insane to think that killing a general would make the army scatter.”
“Insane?” He frowned, then looked away as if tired of this conversation. “I tell you this, Tory Kent. Our children’s bellies were empty. Our women cried themselves to sleep. A warrior does not close his ears to those cries. Cho-ocks said that an army without its leader will leave. We believed because we had nothing else to believe in.”
Swayed by the force of his speech, she swore she could hear those despairing women, see the look of hunger in children’s eyes. “Cho-ocks? Who was he?” she asked when it didn’t really matter.”
“Our shaman.”
Curly Headed Doctor, at least that’s what the soldiers and settlers had called him. “I—I read that he tried to protect the stronghold with a red rope. Did you really think that would stop an army?”
“You do not understand,” he said forcefully. “Cho-ocks was a powerful shaman.”
Not powerful enough, she thought, but didn’t risk his anger by saying anything. How could she be arguing religious theory with a primitive? With someone who couldn’t possibly exist, or be who he said he was? She wanted to look over at her car and assure herself that she hadn’t fallen into some kind of a time warp, but would gazing at a hunk of metal make any difference?
“You do not believe me. You think Cho-ocks was like your leaders—weak. But you are wrong.”
“I didn’t say—what’s happening here? Damn it, what’s going on?”
He laughed at her outburst, the sound hard and filled with something that might be hate, but she thought went further, deeper. Frightened by the intensity of his emotions, she took a backward step with the half-formed thought that she needed to run.
He stopped her by planting himself between her and freedom. He’d done that before, and she remembered the mix of fear and anticipation that had filled her. The same emotions coursed through her, leaving her without the strength to do anything except fight them—and him.
“What are you?” he demanded. “Are you a shaman? Why did you end my forever sleep? Why?”
“Forever sleep? What are you talking about?”
Without doing more than shifting his weight from his left hip to his right, he put an end to her outburst. She waited, not wanting to hear what he had to say but sensing that this was why he’d approached her. “I do not belong here. This is not my time. But you walked onto this land, and somehow you reached me.”
“Not—your time?”
“I do not want to be here. I want back my forever sleep.”
A deep-felt melancholy rode his words. Irrationally, she wanted to fling it away and gift him with something to make him smile. “But you have destroyed that,” he continued before she could think what she possibly might say. “And now I know why.”
“You—you’re not saying you were dead? Please don’t try to make me believe that.”
“How little you know! Death or life. That is all your people understand. But there is more. The magic of a great shaman.”
Insane. Insane. But no matter how many times the words echoed inside her, she knew she’d never say them. Unbelievably aware of his presence, she waited for him to continue. “I was undead but not part of this time. I slept, the endless sl
eep of one who has taken the midnight medicine. It was what I wanted.”
“Midnight medicine? What—”
“And then you came.” Although the day was rapidly growing brighter, his eyes seemed to be getting even darker than they’d been at the beginning. “With his blood flowing in your veins, you stepped on Maklaks land and robbed me of my peace.”
He’d been in some kind of suspended animation; was that what he was trying to tell her? The logical part of her mind screamed at her to tell him he was crazy for saying this, but she had no explanation for what and who he was—none that made any more sense than the explanation he’d just given her. Despite her undiminished fear of him, excitement began building inside her. It left her both weak and unbelievably strong. She was an anthropologist, a trained professional dedicated to unveiling the mysteries of the past.
This morning she stood face-to-face with the past.
She didn’t realize her mouth had gaped open until he pressed the flat of his hand against it. “Stop! You will not laugh at me!”
“I’m not laughing,” she said around the hard, warm prison. “I—Loka, I don’t know what to think. To say.”
He blinked. If he’d done that before, she hadn’t been aware of the gesture. By the time he’d focused again, it seemed to her that he’d lost some of the anger that had nearly overwhelmed him. His hand dropped back by his side, briefly taking her attention to his knife—his ancient knife.
Nothing of today’s world had touched him; that’s what she couldn’t deny.
“I want to understand,” she whispered. “You don’t—maybe this means nothing to you, but I’m an anthropologist.” When he gave no indication that he had even heard the word, she shrugged, dismissing six years of college and another six years spent exploring and documenting extinct cultures. Loka wasn’t extinct; that was all that mattered. “I want—” She pressed a less-than-steady hand to her forehead. “You’re the key. Loka, you’re the key to the past.”
“Let me go.” When he sucked in a deep breath, his chest expanded until there seemed to be no end to it. “That is what I want of you. The only thing I want. Let me return to my son.”
“Your son?”
His nostrils flared and she sensed he regretted telling her that. Fighting the cloud now swirling around her, she groped for him, touched her fingertips to his chest, pressed until his body’s warmth became hers. While in college, a field project had taken her onto the empty land east of the Four Corners area. Through binoculars she’d watched a doe giving birth. For those few minutes the rest of the world had ceased to exist, and she’d never forgotten that she’d been privy to one of nature’s wonders.
Loka was a wonder.
Although she’d already removed her hand from him, she had no idea how she could diminish the impact of that brief contact.
“I don’t understand any of this. It’s impossible. Impossible. And yet—” She had to stop while the need to touch him again raged through her. “If you’re who you say you are— What’s locked inside you? What do you know of your people’s legacy? Their legends and stories? I…” A million fragmented thoughts continued to bombard her, but she couldn’t make sense of any of them. She might be looking history in the face, and yet this man was no dry history lesson. He’d watched her great-great-grandfather being killed and celebrated his death. He’d listened to Modoc children crying from hunger, must have felt despair and hate beyond anything she could ever comprehend. “You—you say I had something to do with your being here? How can—”
“Silence! You do not know how to accept. You throw out stupid questions while I face the truth. I am here. I do not want to be. You have done this to me.”
“No.” She shook her head until she felt dizzy. “I didn’t. I had nothing—”
“You carry his blood!”
As if that was all the explanation needed, he whirled away from her and stalked to a slight rise before turning around. “You are my enemy.”
Tory had no idea how long she’d been driving, but if her gas gauge was any indication, she must have been behind the wheel for hours. Relying on instinct, she pulled into the parking area closest to the path leading to her cabin and cut the motor. Although there were a number of people about, she was aware of little except for a succession of dust devils being kicked up by an erratic and playful breeze. The hot afternoon made her feel lethargic, but she didn’t dare stretch out on a bed because if she fell asleep, the questions she’d been battling might overwhelm her.
Loka.
A man who couldn’t be and yet was. Who had become an integral part of her.
Feeling both vulnerable and charged with energy, she slipped out of the car. Thanks to the land’s natural dips and curves, she couldn’t see the park headquarters or campground. Yes, she shared the parking lot with a number of other vehicles, but it was all too easy to dismiss them and concentrate on the landscape.
It wasn’t lifeless land. She’d learned that in a way no one else here possibly could. Because she was related to General Canby? Because, somehow, her presence last winter had awakened Loka?
Of course not! What was she thinking?
Hoax. The greatest hoax of all time.
But he’d known about her heritage, and his eyes had carried a message about a once-proud and now-defeated people.
When she heard her name being called, for a moment she thought that Loka had somehow overtaken her. Determined to take her back to his time, he would wrap his powerful arms around her and she’d be stripped of a will of her own.
Instead, the voice belonged to Fenton. “I’ve been looking all over for you,” he said breathlessly. “Just got back from your cabin. I don’t know why they built that thing way off in the sticks like that, or why anyone would want to stay there.” He took another deep and slightly shaky breath. “I hate to say this, but you look as if you’ve been on a hard run.”
She wasn’t at all surprised by that. The last time she’d glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror, she’d caught an image of too-bright cheeks and a too-pale mouth. She wondered if her eyes gave away anything of her turmoil and what she could possibly say if he brought that up. “Hopefully I’m smarter than that,” she said with what she hoped was a convincing smile. “I’m afraid that if I went jogging this afternoon, I’d wind up giving myself heatstroke. It sure is hot. What were you looking for me for?”
“You got a phone call. The way he talked, I knew it was important. That’s why I’ve been trying to find you. His voice isn’t as deep as I thought it would be. A man with that much prestige—well, I guess I’ve given him a larger-than-life image. Don’t tell him I said anything, will you? I thought I handled myself pretty—”
“Dr. Grossnickle left a message for me?” she broke in when it looked as if Fenton would never run down.
“About an hour ago, maybe a little more. The connection wasn’t that good. Anyway—” Fenton pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her “—here’s the number. Maybe you have it already.”
She did but hadn’t committed it to memory because she hadn’t thought she’d need to get in touch with her boss during the few days she’d planned on being away. Glad for the reminder of a world she understood, she looked around for a pay phone. When Fenton said she could use the one in his office, she had a momentary hesitation about indebting herself to him, but the pay phone was close to the parking lot. It might be difficult to carry on a conversation.
Unfortunately, Fenton wasn’t content to simply lead her to the cubbyhole at the rear of some kind of storage building that he referred to as his office. Showing absolutely no hesitancy about what he was doing, he leaned against a wall, watching her as she dialed the number.
The phone rang so many times before Dr. Grossnickle came on the line that she was about to give up. As was usual with him, he wasted no time in small talk. Yes, he was sorry to inconvenience her, but she had told him where she was going to be. He knew she’d want to hear this.
She
listened while Dr. Grossnickle brought her up to speed about the Oregon Indian Council’s latest attempt to block the university’s involvement in the Alsea excavation. Although the district court had ruled that the council had no exclusive right to the site because it was on federal land, they’d drawn up an appeal based on their original contention that the artifacts were sacred and thus should be entrusted to Native Americans, not outsiders.
“What really worries me is the way the press is reporting things. They were so excited by the discovery—well, you know what they were calling it, a vital key to the past. It looks like they’ve changed their tunes and are saying we’d be exploiting the site instead of giving it the reverent treatment the Indians would. Can you believe that?”
Dr. Grossnickle continued detailing his objections, but because she’d heard them so many times during the protracted legal maneuvers, she listened with only half an ear. The university’s official stand—with Dr. Grossnickle as its spokesperson—was that only trained professionals should be allowed to document the Alsea culture. Knowing what could happen to a site if someone who didn’t know what he was doing trampled over it, she had no argument with any of this. But there was more at stake than uncovering an ancient village. Whoever headed the project would see his career take a giant step forward. Already they’d been approached by national magazines, and the three major TV networks had all sent representatives. She wouldn’t hazard a guess at the chance for a Pulitzer, but she also had no doubt that Dr. Grossnickle was in part motivated by what this project would do for him professionally. All right, she admitted. She had been motivated by the same thing: ambition. After all, it wasn’t every day that a twenty-eight-year-old woman got her name linked with something that rivaled the locating of the Titanic.
As Dr. Grossnickle rambled on, she found herself staring out the tiny window to the left of Fenton’s office. She couldn’t see much, just a small chunk of the horizon and a butte so far away that it lacked definition. Still, the butte held her attention.