by Kim Murphy
With some hesitation, Silver Eagle shook Henry’s hand. Little Falcon did the same.
Henry nervously wetted his lips. “Phoebe, invite your family in.”
“The guards refused them entrance,” I explained.
“That order shall be overridden immediately. ’Twas ne’er intended for members of your family.” He bowed and motioned for everyone to enter through the palisade.
With that simple gesture, I came to care for Henry in a way that I had not previously. Mayhap, I would not resort to using wild yam. An honorable man such as Henry deserved to be blessed with a son.
As we walked towards the house, my eyes met with Little Falcon’s. I still could not shake the feeling that on this journey, he was Lee. I nearly called his name, when the mist formed ahead of us. At the center was my guardian, the hound.
A moment passed afore I fixed myself to my surroundings of Lee’s apartment. Lee held a stare on his countenance. “Lee?”
He blinked, taking a look around the room. “What does it all mean?”
“You saw the dreaming through Little Falcon’s eyes?”
“I did,” he admitted.
“You keep viewing the world through the eyes of a warrior.”
“Is that surprising?” He held his hand next to mine. “What difference do you see?”
Puzzled by his question, I replied, “Your hand is larger and darker compared to mine.”
He lowered his hand. “I doubt even Shae or my mother would have admitted the skin color difference. Both are what is called color-blind. The thing is, the world isn’t color-blind, and even if it were, it strips away who I am. I may wear a suit and tie and cut my hair, but none of it makes me white.”
Finally comprehending, I squeezed his hand. “I, too, am caught betwixt worlds. Like me, you must make peace with your past. If not through the dreaming, then in your own way. Only you can find the right path.”
He agreed, but he didn’t reach out to me in the way I had hoped. Whether his reasons were fear or a wish not to burden me, I did not know. I had to believe my words. If the road in seeking his past included me, he would tell me so.
* * *
43
Lee
The following evening, Lee dragged himself into his apartment. He felt more exhausted after a day in court than from writing reports and following up on the usual complaints. Part of him had hoped that Phoebe would surprise him with another visit, but with an allowance of two overnights per week, he doubted he’d see her again until the weekend.
After grabbing a beer from the refrigerator, he spotted the answering machine light flashing. The nursing home had left a message first thing in the morning. His mother had fallen. He put in a quick call.
A nurse came onto the line. “Nothing’s broken, but your mother took a fall when showering this morning. Instead of waiting for assistance, she tried to return to her wheelchair by herself. At first we thought her arm might be broken, but she’s fine. She has a few bruises. Nothing more.”
“Why was she left unattended in the first place?”
“She wasn’t.”
“You just suggested she was.”
“The aide was reaching for a towel, when your mother took it upon herself to return to her wheelchair.”
“Stark naked, and she decides to take her wheelchair out for a spin. That doesn’t even make sense.”
A heavy sigh came across the line. “Mr. Crowley, she’s not always mentally coherent. Dementia patients can be unpredictable.”
An easy excuse. He left that thought unsaid and double checked his cell messages. He hadn’t missed any. “Why didn’t someone call my cell number?”
“I thought they had.” He heard a shuffling of papers. “I’m sorry, Mr. Crowley, that must have been overlooked. It wasn’t my shift when your mother had her accident. She’s fine. That’s the important thing.”
“And the next time?”
“I’ve made a notation on her chart to be certain to call your cell number. If you’d like, I can have Mr. Shreve give you a call in the morning.”
First, deny what happened; then pass the buck. Typical. “You do that.”
Lee hung up before he said something he regretted. Not once had the nurse referred to his mother by name. She was nothing more than a faceless aged body, and he didn’t have the goddamned resources to do anything about it.
He tossed his tie and suit jacket over the back of the sofa. After a quick change into his sweat pants and a T-shirt, he sipped his beer and flopped in a chair. He picked up the TV remote and went channel surfing. CSI. It must be some sort of marathon week. Thinking of Phoebe, he laughed.
A candle remained on the table where they had participated in the dreaming. “Only you can find the right path.”
The right path. Sometimes he wondered if there was such a thing. He switched off the TV and gulped down his remaining beer. The dreaming had shown him a side to himself that had been missing. Could it provide him with answers to his own questions?
He stared at the candle. Phoebe had shown him the way. All he had to do was embrace it. Oh, what the hell. After lighting the candle, he sat on the floor and stared at the flame. Absorb it. Nothing happened.
Why could he make the transition easily when Phoebe was present? He reminded himself the first couple of times had been difficult. Lee tried again. Like on the first occasion, outside noises kept distracting him. Think of Phoebe. On second thought, that hadn’t been such a good idea.
He focused on the flame. The crow flew overhead. Mist swirled around him. He heard a woman crying. Unable to locate her, he stumbled through the thick fog. Her sobs emanated from all around him. Deeper and deeper, he went in search of her. Gunfire surrounded him, but his Glock wasn’t at his side. He was lost. Nooo!
Covered in sweat, Lee blinked back the image. Sick to his stomach, he lowered his head until the nausea passed. Uncertain whether he’d try the dreaming again on his own, he wondered the significance of the meaning. Like most police officers, he had nightmares of his gun not firing when his life depended on it, but this experience hadn’t seemed quite the same.
His hand trembled. He had definitely been afraid.
* * *
44
Phoebe
For three years, Henry’s plantation grew. Tobacco, hemp, and corn were planted, along with my own garden of beans, squash, and herbs. Some herbs, such as mallow and poppy, Henry brought from England. As captain of a ship, he usually sailed during fall of the leaf and returned to Virginia in May. Our house swelled with luxuries like wood stools and a red rug, and the windows had pane glass.
During the long months of Henry’s absence, I ran the household. I now had two female servants, Bess and Jennet, to help with my chores, but the responsibility rested upon my shoulders. Jennet hailed from England, but like James, Bess came from Africa. Her skin was the color of ebony, and her prominent cheekbones were adorned with tribal scars. As indentured servants, their contracts belonged to Henry, but I looked the other way when James and Bess fell in love. Laws against such pairings during servitude had been firmly established, and I encouraged Bess to make use of the wild yam.
Despite my prompting, Bess got with child, and if Henry discovered the truth, he would lengthen the duration of her contract. She was able to conceal her pregnancy in the early months, and the child, thankfully, arrived in early May, afore his return. I had ne’er birthed a babe alone and gave Bess snakeroot tea to ease her pain.
I pressed my hand against her overly large belly. The babe squirmed neath my fingertips, affirming that it was very much alive. I touched further. I believed the child was positioned correctly, head down in the womb. Without a knowledgeable midwife, I distrusted my judgment. Matters were made worse when Jennet attempted to assist me, crying and sniffling every time Bess moaned from the pain. Her hysteria grated upon me, but Turtle Shell and Momma had taught me patience. I heeded their advice ’til I could take no more.
“Jennet, tend to your other chor
es.”
Instead of taking offense at my dismissal, the servant seemed relieved and hastily fled the house. I did my best to make Bess more comfortable by helping her walk about the room. When she rested, I faced the four winds and prayed the same words as the kwiocos had afore Elenor’s birth. I circled the room to ward off rancorous spirits, whilst sending appeals to the Virgin Mary, as Momma had taught me.
When Bess’s waters came down, I knew her birthing time was near. To my instructions, James had made a birthing chair with a slanted back and a horseshoe-shaped seat. I helped Bess into the chair and spread straw neath it. As her pain increased, so did her groans. I prepared more tea, which she gulped betwixt spasms.
“I shall use the wild yam next time,” Bess moaned.
I hushed her and pressed on her belly to help force the child out. “Save your strength for birthing.”
Blood gushed, and I got spattered.
“I’m going to die,” she cried, again and again.
“You’re not dying.” Against my better judgment, I called for Jennet. I could not birth the babe without aid.
Aft telling the servant to mop up the blood from the floor, I knelt afore Bess. I pulled her hips towards me and spread her legs wide. As the babe’s head crowned betwixt Bess’s legs, she gasped as if she were burning alive.
“The babe is almost here.” A blood-covered beast, looking more like a squiggling newt than a babe, slipped into my arms. He opened his mouth and wailed. He was a rich chestnut color with black hair.
Counting my blessings that Jennet had calmed from her earlier hysterics, I handed her the babe. The servant flinched at taking the bloody bundle into her arms. Ignoring her display, I pushed on Bess’s belly once more to present the caule. “’Tis a lad, and he was raring to enter the world.”
A frantic knock came to the door. “Mistress Wynne, Mistress Wynne.”
“Bess and the lad are fine, James,” I shouted over my shoulder.
But the insistent rapping continued. “Mistress Wynne, word from England.”
“Tell James that I shall speak to him when I can,” I said to Jennet, “and let him know that he has a fine son.”
Aft Bess had a few more spasms, the caule soon followed. I packed it in a pouch for burial, and then I cut the babe’s navel cord with sharp scissors. Whilst Jennet saw to Bess, I washed the blood from myself. Once clean, I checked on Bess. She nursed the lad on a pallet in the parlor.
Satisfied that all was well, I went outside to speak with James. “Bess and the lad are in fine health.”
With the news, he grinned, revealing large white teeth.
“Now, what is it that you wanted to tell me?”
He handed me a parchment. “A missive from England, Mistress Wynne.”
“From Henry,” I said, eagerly opening the letter. “Go see Bess.” But why would Henry send a letter? He usually showed up at the gate in the spring. My joy was short lived, and my throat constricted as I began to read. ’Twas slow going, as I had to sound out each letter to string them into words. Henry had been stricken with the small pox. He would not be returning in the spring—if ever.
I floated through the layers and emerged from the seventeenth century into Shae’s office.
“Did Henry eventually return?” Shae asked.
Though I recalled Henry’s letter in my hand, I could not remember if he had survived the malady that kept him from sailing to Virginia. “I don’t know. I thought myself to be a widow.”
“Understandable.”
From the beginning, Shae had not believed I hailed from the seventeenth century, yet I could not deny that our sessions helped me recall what happened. There was something else in my thoughts, but I could not quite grasp what it was.
“You look puzzled.”
During the dreaming, Lee had identified with Little Falcon for a reason. “When I thought Henry dead, I shared my sorrow with Little Falcon.”
“I take it that you mean in an intimate sense?”
“Aye.”
“And you remember nothing else?”
I would need to share my next memories with Lee. “Nay.”
“I think that’s enough for one day.”
Folding my hands on my lap, I agreed. As always, I looked forward to telling Lee.
* * *
45
Lee
After mulling over Phoebe’s session, Lee debated whether to share his own experience. Not yet. Phoebe sought answers on how she had arrived in the twenty-first century. His own questions had already waited thirty years. A little longer wouldn’t hurt. Funny how a person could find solace by discovering the distant past. Where would it lead? He had no doubt that once Phoebe learned the truth, she would aid him in his own quest.
During the dreaming, he sought out Little Falcon. The warrior agreed to him seeing the world through his eyes. When the mist faded, his body was intertwined with Phoebe’s on a straw mattress. Naked on the bed, they touched and caressed. Her cries drove him further until he surrendered to her.
Satiated, he moved to her side and held her in his arms.
“I love you, Little Falcon,” she said in Algonquian.
“And I, you, Walks Through Mist. Leave this place and come back with me. You are Arrohateck. Let Little Hummingbird know her father’s people. Your English husband is dead.”
“But my English father is not. He will hunt me down if I run off again.”
He wiped the tear streaking her cheek from her face. “I will protect you.”
Shaking her head, she gripped him tighter. “You don’t understand. There are far more English than you could possibly e’er fend off.”
In time, he would abate her fears and convince her to return with him. Until then, he rejoiced in the time they shared. In each others’ arms, they rested, and he finally slept. Near dawn, he hovered between the worlds of sleeping and waking.
A door creaked. Instantly awake, Little Falcon reached beside the bed for his tomahawk. In the shadowy light, he silently sprang for the intruder. Up close, he made out the features of the black servant and relaxed.
“Visitors coming, Mistress Wynne,” James said, only now seeing Little Falcon and gasping in a quick breath of surprise.
Rushed by James’s unexpected entrance, Phoebe put on her shift. “Go, Little Falcon.” Little Falcon returned to her side, and she shoved him away. “Go! I’ll be fine. They won’t harm me.”
He quickly adjusted his breechclout and laced up his leggings. After gathering his bow and arrows, he slipped out the door. The low-early morning light greeted him. The fact that the sun hadn’t fully risen was to his advantage. He heard the tread of footsteps outside the palisade gate. Only leather shoes tramping against the ground would make such a sound—definitely tassantassas. He estimated around ten to twenty men.
In an effort to avoid them, he moved to the side gate. He unbarred it and slipped into the forest. Branches creaked in the wind. Overgrown with brambles, the trail was nothing more than a deer path. He forged forward, swiftly and silently.
Up ahead came voices, and he halted. Tassantassas. More voices behind him. Given no choice, he would fight. He raised his tomahawk and club.
* * *
46
Phoebe
I hurriedly finished dressing and set about to making my house every semblance of normal. Satisfied there were no signs that Little Falcon had spent the night with me, I went to greet the English soldiers. The guards opened the gate. Along with several musketeers, my father entered astride a strapping bay stallion. He now had more gray in his hair than blondish-red. Wrinkles lined his forehead and the skin around his mouth, as well as his eyes. Though he ne’er smiled, his grim features seemed all the more unforgiving.
“Phoebe, how could you shame me?” he asked, dismounting.
My mouth went dry. “I don’t understand, Poppa.”
He held up a long black lock of bloody hair.
Little Falcon! Suddenly weak, I sank to my knees and wailed my sorrow.<
br />
Soldiers surrounded me and seized my wrists, wrenching me to my feet. To no avail, I fought against their grip. Even when I tripped over a root, they failed to halt and dragged me to the nearest tree. Nearly pulling my shoulders from their sockets, they lashed me to an overhead branch. Stretched out on my tiptoes, I barely reached the ground. The bindings seared my skin, but I struggled against their hold. Behind me, one of the soldiers gripped my hair, snapping my head back.
Poppa stood afore me. “You have shamed me and the memory of your husband. You have replaced one Indian for another.” He pressed the scalp lock to my face ’til I could barely breathe. “Fornicate with your savage now. You’re to be punished for not having resisted his advances.” He dropped the scalp lock to the ground, where it came to rest upon my toes.
Little Falcon’s blood stuck to my face, and I spat on my father.
He wiped the spittle from his eye. “You will be taught proper manners.”
A sharp blade barely missed my skin and traveled the length of my back, cutting laces and ripping through to my shift. Rough hands tore the fabric further and bared my back. Blood stained my sleeves from my struggles with the ropes. Defeated, I halted my futile resistance. “Do what you will with me, but I shall always send my prayers to Ahone.”
He raised a hand. I thought for certain he would strike my cheek, as he had in the past, but he lowered his arm and stepped aside. “Proceed.”
A whip cracked against my bare skin. I gritted my teeth to keep from crying out, only to feel another lash. And another. Tears entered my eyes, but I refused to render my father with the satisfaction of a pain-filled wail.
The whip struck me again. I lost count the number of times it pounded across my back. Blinded by pain, I thought of Little Falcon. I would meet my fate bravely, as he had his. A mist arose, and he stood afore me. In spite of the thrashing, I smiled. “Little Falcon, you’re alive.”