Walks Through Mist

by Kim Murphy

  My mind blurred as she cited the rules, half of which I did not comprehend.

  “I need you to sign at the bottom.” She thrust a writing device into my hand.

  I stared at the cylinder-shaped instrument that looked naught like a quill. “I do not know how to write.”

  “Phoebe, have you had any formal education?”

  “My momma taught me to read.”

  “Then you were home schooled?”

  “Aye, and I count my blessings that Momma could read as well as she did. Most lasses weren’t taught at all.”

  Valerie muttered under her breath. “This is going to be more complex than any of us thought.”

  “I am a hard worker,” I proclaimed on my behalf.

  “I have no doubt.” She patted my hand in reassurance. “We give everyone a fair chance at Colwell House, and the first thing we’re going to do is assign you a tutor. We’ll have you reading and writing in no time.”

  I had never dreamt of anything so grand. I used to pick up Poppa’s prized books, inhaling the leather and opening the covers, all the while wishing I could decipher more than a few sentences here and there on the pages. I looked forward to discovering the secrets of this new world and sharing my memories while under hypnosis in order to learn how I had come to be here.

  * * *

  Aft Momma’s and my adoption by the Paspahegh, the warrior Silver Eagle, who had rescued us from James Towne, shared his hearth with us. Momma remained melancholy for she still believed that half-clad, body-painting Indians must be godless savages. In the night, she clutched me to her bosom and sang me a lullaby, as if to reaffirm the reality of the world we had left behind. Too young to understand her fear, I grew to accept these people as my own and quickly learned their Algonquian tongue.

  Silver Eagle was more of a gentleman than those in James Towne who professed to be such. He had lost his wife the previous year in childbirth, and whilst warriors oft masked their feelings, he doted on me as if I were the daughter he had lost. He called me Red Dog because of my fondness for one of the town’s hounds. The dog preferred to trail aft me instead of being with its pack.

  The Paspahegh loved children. Unlike the English, they had no apprenticeships, nor did they administer harsh punishments. A child learned by example. In spite of the tribe’s acceptance of us, Momma resisted casting off her English name, Elenor, and continued calling me Phoebe.

  The women taught us how to weave mats and baskets, gather food and firewood, and grind tuckahoe for bread. Back in Dorset, Momma had practiced the way of family physick by gathering herbs and treating neighbors’ ailments. Amongst the Paspahegh, a young woman by the name of Snow Bird showed Momma the native plants, and Momma’s knowledge expanded.

  Like Momma, Snow Bird was a gifted healer. She carried her son in a cradleboard upon her back. I oft watched aft him as he toddled round us, examining everything with inquisitive eyes. I felt much the same and delighted in making our discoveries together. For Momma, ’twas endless work during much of the daylight hours, but she ne’er expressed discontent with our plight. We had food to eat and were no longer starving.

  In the eves, the people of the town oft gathered for dancing and singing. Near the entrance to our house, Silver Eagle played a flute with a hand-carved bird’s head. Momma clutched my hand and whisked me past him to our pallet.

  “Why do you fear Silver Eagle?” I asked her.

  “There are things you cannot yet understand.”

  “He plays the flute for your ears, Momma. He grieves for those he has lost and wants to be made whole again.”

  Momma bent down, kissing and hugging me. “For a child so young... Phoebe, ne’er forget how much I love you. ’Tis not because he is a savage.”

  I stamped a foot in protest. “Do not call him that!”

  “I beg forgiveness, my daughter. I am trying to protect you.”

  “Me?”

  Hearing our disagreement, Silver Eagle entered the house with the flute still in his hand. His English was equal to Momma’s Algonquian, but he had obviously detected something amiss in our tones. “I would not hurt you. Either of you,” he said, glancing from me to Momma.

  “Phoebe, what did he say?”

  Though I was not yet a fluent speaker, I translated as best as I could.

  Momma closed her eyes and attempted to hide her tears. “Do you not understand? I would shame you amongst your own people.” She lifted my left hand to reveal my conjoined fingers. “I have borne a daughter who bears the witch’s mark.”

  Silver Eagle towered over Momma and me, creating an imposing, frightful figure.

  Careful to keep my malformed fingers from plain view, I withdrew my hand from Momma’s grasp and hid it behind my back.

  Silver Eagle bent upon his knees, and I could not meet his piercing gaze.

  “Red Dog,” he said, “allow me to see your hand.”

  Still not realizing that he would ne’er strike me, I held my hand to him out of fear.

  He gently touched the webbed flesh betwixt my fingers, and a smile slowly spread across his face. “’Tis a blessing from Ahone.”

  “Ahone?” I asked.

  “The Creator. You alone must discover the meaning of your gift.” Gift? No one had ever referred to my deformity as anything but a curse of the devil. I spread my fingers, studying my gift, afore planting a kiss on Silver Eagle’s cheek. He smiled and embraced me.

  No longer afraid, Momma joined us. Soon afterwards, she took the name Mother of the Red-Haired Lass.

  * * *

  7

  Shae

  After her latest session with Phoebe, Shae watched Russ with interest as he read over the mystifying woman’s file. His brow wrinkled in a pensive way that it often did when he was concentrating on something. She kissed him on the cheek and quietly sat on the sofa. Unable to get comfortable, she fidgeted. “Russ?”

  He held up a hand for her to be patient.

  She sat back, watching him intently. Was that a gray hair in his beard? She smiled to herself. A touch of gray added character. She looked forward to discussing their respective days over a glass of burgundy and Russ’s specially prepared fondue beef. She’d worry about the calories when she stepped on the scales in the morning.

  Russ frowned, and she leaned forward, hoping he’d finally say something. “Well?”

  “In a moment.” Finally, he looked up. “I believe your diagnosis is correct.”

  “So what do I do about it? She’ll talk about how she’s getting along at Colwell House, but otherwise, she only responds to hypnosis.”

  “Dissociative cases can be very difficult. Have you tried getting her to recite her phone number or street address while in a hypnotic state?”

  “I have,” Shae replied. “No response. Everything takes place in the seventeenth century.”

  Russ checked the file once more. “You may need to think outside the box. Call Lee.”

  “Lee’s done everything the police can. Her picture is plastered all over their databases. He’s checked the missing persons and unidentified files. Nothing. No one seems to know Phoebe Wynne or care that she’s missing.”

  “I didn’t mean on a professional level.”

  She studied his face to see if he was serious. There were no signs that he was joking. She gave a sarcastic laugh. “Great idea. If I know Lee, he’ll want to do more than chat.”

  “You’ve got a very troubled patient who’s no doubt been assaulted in her recent past. Lee sees worse things on the street. Your patient has exhibited comfort in his presence. According to this...,” he said with a motion to the file, “...she asks about him. I think he can behave sympathetically to her situation to help you learn who she is and where she’s from. Not only that, he’s got the investigative training to spot things others might miss.” He handed her Phoebe’s file.

  She squirmed with indecision. “I can’t.”

  “She’s your patient,” he agreed.

  “She is, and I think it wo
uld be a mistake involving Lee.”

  “Just be honest with yourself as to why you don’t want to call him. Would you say the same if he wasn’t your ex?”

  Probably not, but she couldn’t admit as much to Russ.

  “What are you really afraid of, Shae?”

  “Stop playing psychologist!”

  He laughed. “I’ve obviously struck a nerve.”

  To prove him wrong, she picked up the phone and started dialing. “So help me, if I have to read him the riot act...”

  No longer laughing, Russ said, “He might be able to break through to your patient.”

  Russ was right. She wouldn’t have hesitated asking for anyone else’s help. Lee came on the line, and she swallowed. “It’s my turn to ask a favor.” When she explained Phoebe’s requests to see him, he readily agreed. She had another session with Phoebe later in the week and asked that he see her soon after. If she made progress in the following session, she could call him again and let him know the whole arrangement was off.

  * * *

  8

  Phoebe

  Aft Momma cast off her English name, she continued her study of the native herbs and their healing values. Snow Bird guided her and, in turn, questioned me to see how much I had absorbed. “If you are to be a healer,” she said, “one day soon, you will be tested.”

  At the time, I did not fully understand her words. To hide my fear, I went over to where Snow Bird’s son, Crow in the Woods, played in the sand and sat aside him. Though my Algonquian had surpassed his two-word sentences, he could already imitate many bird calls, as well as sounds of barking dogs and animals in the forest that I knew not what they were. As soon as he was capable, his mother would give him a child-sized bow for him to contribute small game for the cook pot.

  I watched Crow in the Woods scribble lines in the sand with his fingers and overheard Momma’s laughter. She was coming to know the Paspahegh and regard them as friends. When Snow Bird mentioned Silver Eagle, Momma’s face reddened. Not only did he play the flute for her ears, he brought her fowl and fish for the cook fire. Of late, I had noticed her exchanging glances with him.

  The women gathered their herbs and placed them in deer-hide satchels afore returning to town. I agreed to watch Crow in the Woods for Snow Bird whilst she checked on the whereabouts of her husband. When I returned to our house, Momma sat cross legged afore the fire with an empty expression upon her countenance.

  In Dorset, she had used a candle to focus on the flame for her travels that she referred to as the dreaming. ’Twas the first time I had witnessed her enter the realm since arriving in Virginia. I waited quietly ’til she blinked with recognition. She smiled upon seeing me. “I confessed to Snow Bird about the dreaming. She says some of the Paspahegh have visions too. I no longer fear I will be accused of witchcraft.”

  “What did you see?” I asked.

  “That I shall marry Silver Eagle. ’Tis right, my daughter, for you need a loving father.”

  Momma hadn’t spoken of Poppa since leaving the colony. With a shiver, I sought to blot out the memory of him.

  * * *

  9

  Lee

  Two days later, outside Colwell House, Lee parked along the street. Although uncertain whether Shae’s request for him to see Phoebe was truly wise, he strode along the brick walk. He’d seen so many people not playing with a full deck, he could write a book. So had Shae, but her job was to placate them, while his was to haul their asses off the street. He knocked on the door, and a teen-aged black woman with a young child gripping her leg answered. “You must be Detective Crowley.”

  “I’m off duty now. Call me Lee.”

  She opened the door for him to enter. “Meg. Please come in, Lee. I’ll get Valerie.”

  She showed him to the parlor and motioned for him to have a seat. He made himself comfortable in a high-backed chair. Of all of the transitional and halfway housing in the area, Colwell was definitely one of the best. It tended to have the highest success rate as well. The women who made it to Colwell were the lucky ones. Shae must have called in some powerful favors to get Phoebe in. Usually, the wait list was a year or two long. Too many times he had been called in to investigate murders by abusive husbands or boyfriends due to housing shortages.

  When a petite, brown-haired woman entered the room, Lee stood. She introduced herself as Valerie and gave her report. “I’ve already told Shae I’m not certain this is going to work. Phoebe really thinks she’s from the seventeenth century. At first, I thought, ‘How harmless can that be?’ The other women are also supportive, but this afternoon, she tried to help cook lunch.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “Normally, yes, but she started a fire in the fireplace instead of using the stove.”

  At least Phoebe was original. Lee struggled not to laugh. “Was there a fire anywhere else?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then I don’t see the problem. If she wants to do hearth cooking, what’s the harm?”

  The stress lines on Valerie’s forehead faded. “She made something called pottage. It was a thick soup with peas, eggs, and spices. It didn’t taste half bad.”

  “You see, she’s expanding everyone’s horizon. Bear with her and show her how things are done. I’m certain she’ll eventually reveal something of her past.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Meanwhile, I’ll take her off your hands for a few hours.”

  “I think it’ll be good for her. Except for the sessions she’s had with Shae, she doesn’t know what to do with herself. Besides the women she’s met here, she doesn’t know anyone. She seems to be a stranger in a strange world. I’ll go get her.”

  “Thanks.” Lee reseated himself. If only the background checks for Phoebe Wynne had returned with some clues as to where she had come from or who she really was. Stop thinking like I’m on duty. He was a visitor to Colwell House on personal time. Dinner and a movie with Phoebe might turn up something to help Shae. Where did he take a woman who thought she was from the seventeenth century? A pub or somewhere more exotic?

  Wearing a black, knee-length dress, Phoebe entered the parlor. “Master Crowley.”

  Definitely someplace more exotic. Lee stood. He was almost a foot taller than Phoebe, and her red hair seemed to shimmer against the modest black dress that flattered her curves. “Please, call me, Lee.”

  “Lee,” she responded softly. “Shae warned me that you might split a gut if I failed to use your Christian name, but I have difficulty recalling your customs. They are informal to the English, but very different from the Paspahegh.”

  The Paspahegh. Right. Still debating whether she was one hell of an actress, or if she truly believed her words, he held out his arm. “Let’s talk about the differences over dinner.”

  She grasped his arm, and he escorted her to his 2003 Thunderbird. He opened the car door for Phoebe and adjusted the seatbelt for her. She nodded that she understood.

  Once they were on the drive to the restaurant, she asked, “What tribe do you hail from?”

  He raised an eyebrow. The usual ice-breaking question tended to be about his profession. “I’m not certain. I was adopted by a white couple in their late forties who had finally given up hope of ever having kids of their own.”

  “Your parents cleansed you of your heritage?”

  “Not exactly. It’s a long story.” As a detective, he had the knowledge and means to dig past the red tape to help identify his birth parents, but he often thought his adoption had been on the shadier side, especially since he had been born a few years before the laws protecting Native American children had gone into effect. If that were the case, nothing would be gained by bringing shame to his parents. “My parents went to great pains for me to read about my heritage. The books were nothing more than words and didn’t make much sense. Then, when we went to family reunions, I always stuck out like a sore thumb in the family photos. All of the kids called me ‘Injun’ or ‘redskin.’”


  “Then you are much like I am. I, at least, have an inkling from where I hail.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you could be right.” How had Phoebe turned the tables on him? Wasn’t he supposed to be the one asking the questions? Lee pulled the T-Bird around the back of an Italian restaurant. Curious as to what Phoebe’s reaction would be in the new environment, he showed her the way inside. A waiter seated them at an isolated booth in the corner.

  He picked up his menu and glanced at it.

  She copied him. “Lee, I cannot read this transcript. What is it for?”

  Although unconvinced she was illiterate, he explained, “It’s a menu. It tells what food the restaurant serves.”

  A smile of comprehension crossed her face. “In the ordinary, the innkeeper recites the menu.”

  Maybe he should have taken her to the pub. “Let’s start with what sort of food you like—beef, chicken, fish—”

  “I like fish.”

  “Salmon with white wine sauce, it is,” he said, taking charge, “and I’ll have the lasagna. There, now that’s settled, would you like me to order wine to go with the meal?”

  “Aye.”

  The waiter returned, and Lee ordered. While they waited for their food, conversation turned to an uncomfortable silence. Normally, he wasn’t tongue tied when having dinner with a beautiful woman, but what did one say to someone who thought she was from the seventeenth century? Questions about John Smith or Pocahontas would come across as condescending, but if there was a chance that he could break her theatrics....

  Phoebe saved him the bother. “I’m certain Shae has discussed the results of my sessions with you.”

  “Actually, she hasn’t. That would be against doctor/patient confidentiality. Except for the initial investigation where I was present, I know little else. She merely thought if I got you away from Colwell House for a few hours that it might trigger your memory beyond your sessions with her.”