Walks Through Mist

by Kim Murphy

  When the examination was completed, I was allowed to stand and face the lead matron. Refusing to bow under to their affront, I held my head proudly.

  The matron’s arms were crossed and her look of disapproval hadn’t left her face. “Is it true that you are left handed?”

  “Aye.”

  “And those devil markings.” She pointed to the tattoos about my arms and upon my breasts. “Where did you get them?”

  “The Arrohateck women regard them as a thing of beauty.”

  “Now, you may dress.”

  Numb from the humiliation I had endured, I reached for my shift. Even afore I could slip it over my head, the gaoler returned. I hurriedly dressed, but his desire swelled neath his breeches. He leered at me as he shackled my wrists and ankles.

  Once outside, he tugged on the chains so hard that I fell to my knees. “Get up!” Afore I could regain my feet, he grabbed my arms and forced me upright. “I’ll have ye, witch.”

  Exhausted, I had so little fight left, but I met his gaze. “I shall die afore I allow you to touch me.”

  A wicked smile appeared on his face. “That can be arranged.” He gave the chains a sharp tug and led me to my cell. When the shackles held me against the wall, the gaoler sent me another leer. “I can help ye. Get ye away from here.”

  I spat, and he struck my face.

  “Yer trial is on the morrow.” He slammed the cell door behind him, and the key rattled in the lock. As his footsteps retreated, he doused the lantern. Like so much of my life, I was alone. In the dark, I surrendered to my fear. A cold tear slid down my cheek, then another.

  “Phoebe...”

  ’Twas his voice. I raised my head and searched for him. “Lightning Storm?” I struggled against the chains. “Lightning Storm? Where are you?” But no one answered my pleas. Resigned that his voice had been naught but my imagination, I leaned against the wall. Would I even know when the morrow arrived? I embraced ending this ordeal.

  I closed my eyes, but rats scurried and squeaked about the cell.

  “Phoebe...”

  I disregarded him.

  “Phoebe!”

  “You’re not really there. Stop tormenting me.”

  “I’m here, Phoebe. Look.”

  At his bidding, I opened my eyes. I spied a misty light. At the center was a white hound. Aside the dog was Lee, attired in a breechclout and moccasins. I tried to stand, but the shackles held me fast. “I cannot move.”

  The fog spread, totally engulfing me. As Lee’s strong hand helped me to my feet, the chains melted. Together, we walked through the mist. A moment passed afore the surroundings of Lee’s apartment came into view. He sat across from me, staring at the candle betwixt us. “Lee?” I touched his face, and he blinked.

  He rubbed his temple as if in pain. “I tried to reach you before, but couldn’t. I wanted to spare you...”

  “Thank you, but ’twas necessary for you to see as ’twas for me to recall.” I should have known Lee had been the one who had tried to spare me from the horrors of the past. Lightning Storm would have used my Algonquian name.

  * * *

  69

  Lee

  Lee had contacted the Pamunkey and Chicahominy tribes because they were located nearest to the area where he had been found as a toddler. Although more than one phone call was usually required before he could locate someone who might be able to help him, the answer turned out the same. No one was aware of a small child that had been lost or kidnapped. There were several more tribes to check, but what if his birth mother hadn’t originated from any of them? She might have been traveling through the state and have been a member of a tribe from across the country.

  He studied the scrapbook that his parents had prepared for him. He leafed through the news clippings about him being located in the woods as a toddler. The story had made the headlines. As with Phoebe, no one had known who he was or where he had come from.

  For the first time in over twenty years, he actually read through the articles. How odd to be reading about himself in such a way. Police found no signs of foul play or abuse, except for a few cuts and scratches, which were consistent with a toddler stumbling through the woods. As a matter of fact, he seemed to have been well cared for. A follow-up article claimed that he had been abandoned. The two didn’t add up.

  Lee couldn’t help but feel that something must have happened to his birth mother and the evidence had never been uncovered. Or was it wishful thinking? No one liked the idea that they might have been unwanted. Perhaps he’d had a deadbeat dad, who had fallen behind on support, and his mother had no longer been able to make ends meet. But if she had abandoned him, wouldn’t she have left him in an area where someone would have been more likely to find him? The fact that the hikers had stumbled upon him was nothing less than miraculous.

  He read further. A Deputy Frank Kulp had given the statement to the press. While Lee had been found in a different county than the one he currently worked for, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find out if the deputy was still on the force. A lot of years had passed. It was a long shot, but it was the only clue he had never pursued.

  Or he could try the dreaming again. Without Phoebe’s help, the results had been less than satisfactory. He’d wait until she discovered how she had arrived in this century before asking her. For now, he’d follow the more solid leads.

  * * *

  70

  Phoebe

  As I was led into the courtroom, my gaze met Henry’s. He had not been allowed to visit whilst I was in gaol. For the first time in our marriage I longed to hold him and tell him that everything would be all right. But would my words speak the truth? I was on trial for my very life.

  A row of justices all dressed in black sat behind a long table. In the middle was the presiding judge, an eminent elderly gentleman with a neatly trimmed beard.

  “Phoebe Wynne,” came the magistrate’s voice, “a jury of women hath searched your person for marks of the devil. The able jury hath found webbed skin betwixt your fingers and toes. Do you agree with their assessment?”

  My skirt safely hid my shaking knees. “Aye.”

  “You also stated to the jury that you are left handed?”

  “Aye.”

  “Let it be recorded on this day, the ninth day of September, in the year of our Lord 1630, by your own admission, you bear marks of the devil. You now stand afore this court accused with a sundry acts of witchcraft. How do you plead?”

  I cleared my throat. “I am innocent.”

  A collective gasp went through the courtroom. The justice arched a brow. “Mistress Wynne,” he said sternly, “you have a long record of consorting with the Indians. Is that not true?”

  “I have lived amongst the Paspahegh and Arrohateck,” I replied, struggling to keep my voice even. “I have learnt their ways of healing, prayed to their Gods, but I have ne’er practiced witchcraft.”

  Loud voices spread over the courtroom, and the justice called for order. “You admit to healing, using the ways of the savages, and praying to their Gods but not to practicing witchcraft. How is that possible?”

  “’Tis simple. The Paspahegh and Arrohateck are not savages.”

  The courtroom voices grew loud and angered. The magistrate pounded a gavel to restore order. “Your father, Robert Knowles, rescued you from the savages, yet you ran off to rejoin them. Is that not true?”

  No matter how hard I was pressed, I refused to call the people I loved savages. “I rejoined the Arrohateck.”

  More loud murmurs. Once again, the justice requested order. “Was your daughter begotten by an Indian?”

  Elenor. Let them do anything to me, but I had prayed Elenor would be spared. “I was married to an Arrohateck warrior.”

  “Married? In a Christian ceremony?”

  “Nay,” I replied.

  “Then you declare your daughter was begotten through an act of fornication. Even aft marrying a law-abiding citizen of the Crown, did you not continue to consor
t with the Indians, as well as administer aide to them?”

  “My mother was married to a Paspahegh warrior. She called upon me on occasion, and when my family was overcome by the small pox, I gave them aide. They had no prior knowledge of the malady.”

  The judges bent their heads and deliberated amongst themselves. ’Twas not long afore they reached a decision. The presiding justice pounded the gavel. “Phoebe Wynne, you freely admit to consorting and fornicating with the Indians. Due to the said influence by devil worshippers, we believe you hath been unduly bewitched by them. You are found not guilty of witchcraft. However, you are found guilty of fornication and consorting with the Indians. For those crimes, you shall receive twenty stripes. Aft punishment is carried out, you will be returned to England, where any temptation of rejoining the Indians will be an impossibility.”

  The sound of the gavel marked an end to the proceedings.

  * * *

  71

  Shae and Lee

  With some doubt in her mind, Shae listened to Phoebe as she recounted her involvement in a witch trial. “You’re certain Lee told you nothing about our meeting the other night?”

  “Aye. He was insistent that I know naught about what you spoke of. He said he would ‘stick to police procedure.’”

  That certainly meant no disclosure. Aware that Lee must be ready for another confrontation, Shae remained unconvinced. He had driven Phoebe to her appointment. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to Lee for a few minutes in private.”

  “I shall fetch him.” Phoebe left the office.

  A few minutes passed before Lee limped in. She motioned for him to have a seat. He sat across from her and rested his cane next to him. “I take it Phoebe has told you about the trial.”

  “She has,” Shae agreed. “Lee, why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Stop it. You know I don’t like it when you answer a question with a question. You don’t allow it in your line of work. Don’t bring it into mine either.”

  “Sorry,” he quickly apologized. “After we had our meeting, I knew what was about to happen next in Phoebe’s story, but I didn’t want to influence her. It’s important that you believe her.”

  His near-death experience had affected him more than she had imagined. Shae wrote a name on her notepad. “You’ve been under a lot of stress lately. Many good cops break under the pressure.” She tore the sheet from the pad and handed it to him. “If you won’t see your department’s psychiatrist, here’s someone I recommend.”

  After a quick glance, he crumpled the paper and tossed it to the side. “Shae, you know me better than that. Don’t pretend otherwise. I also recognize fear when I see it.”

  “Why would I be afraid?”

  “Because you saw Phoebe as an intriguing case when you took her on. You thought I was in over my head, but the tables have reversed. You’re afraid that she just might be telling the truth.”

  She fidgeted with her pen. “You still haven’t presented me with an ounce of evidence. You, of all people, know what holds up in a court of law.”

  “We’re not in court.”

  She threw up her hands in frustration. “Why is it so important for me to believe?”

  Fed up, Lee got to his feet. “You wanted a breakthrough in order to help your patient. What better breakthrough is there than learning the truth? Oops, I just asked a question. Forgive me. It was an oversight on my part.” He withdrew a business card from his wallet. “If you won’t take my word for it, here’s an old professor of mine, Dr. Ellen Hatfield. She’s in the linguistics department and can verify that Phoebe speaks Virginia Algonquian. I’ll let her know that you might call. Did you want to see Phoebe again?”

  “No, we’re finished for the day. Tell her that I’ll see her next Tuesday.”

  Grasping his cane, he made his way out of the office.

  That had gone poorly. She sighed. In spite of their disagreement, she managed to collect herself for her two remaining patients. By the end of the day, she was beat. After a quick call to Russ that she’d be home soon, she picked up the card Lee had given her. He wasn’t the sort of person to make up stories. But Phoebe couldn’t be from the seventeenth century. What harm would there be in giving the professor a call?

  Shae picked up the phone and began dialing. It rang a few times before a woman answered. “Ellen Hatfield.”

  “Dr. Hatfield, this is Dr. Shae Howard.”

  “Lee said you might call. I presume this is about your patient Phoebe Wynne?”

  “It is. Is it true that she can speak Virginia Algonquian?”

  “I’ve never met Ms. Wynne. Lee brought in a tape. I immediately recognized it as Algonquian, but it took me a couple of weeks to uncover that it was indeed the Virginia dialect. I was hoping Lee would bring her in. A native speaker is a rare find.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Previously, we believed the last native speaker had died at least two hundred years ago.”

  Two hundred years. That fact didn’t prove Phoebe was from the seventeenth century. “Can you tell me what tribes spoke the language?”

  “There were several. The remaining descendants are the Mattaponi, Pamunkey, Nansemond...”

  Shae quickly cut her off. “What about the Paspahegh and Arrohateck?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes, they were Virginia Algonquian speakers, but both tribes were annihilated in the 1600s.”

  The seventeenth century. How could Phoebe, an Englishwoman, have learned a dead language? Unless—

  No, the thought that Phoebe might be from the seventeenth century was too implausible.

  “Dr. Howard, would it be possible to meet Ms. Wynne? As you might guess, I’d like to speak with her.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” They exchanged goodbyes, and she hung up the phone. Witch trials had taken place in Salem, not Virginia. She had already uncovered documentation to the contrary. Suddenly curious, Shae wondered if an in-depth web search might turn up more information. The name Phoebe Wynne came up in several searches but with few details. She could always see if any of the Jamestown historians could trace the records.

  To what end? She was reacting like she might actually believe the story. But nothing else seemed to fit. Phoebe had never slipped in mentioning the twenty-first century until February, when she had supposedly arrived. And the fact that she spoke a dead language fluently....

  Shae would give Jamestown a call.

  * * *

  Retired Deputy Frank Kulp was more than happy to meet with Lee. Along with his wife, he now lived in a ranch house in the suburbs of Richmond. After exchanging introductions, Lee was quickly escorted to a modest living room. Frank told him to have a seat on a sofa with overstuffed cushions covered with a hand-embroidered throw. The former deputy mentioned reading about Lee’s shooting in the newspapers and was pleased to see that he was well on the road to recovery. “What brings you here, Lee?” he asked, seating himself in an easy chair that matched the sofa.

  “You stated over the phone that you remembered a case from 1975 where hikers happened on a small child in the woods a few miles from Jamestown.”

  “That case made the headlines. It’s not likely I’d ever forget. Has something new come to light after all these years?”

  “Not really. My interests are personal.”

  Suddenly curious, Frank leaned forward. “In what way?”

  Usually Lee had no difficulty answering questions, but something held him back. He swallowed. “I was the child the hikers found.”

  “I see.” Frank sat back once more and tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. “How can I help? Everything was in my report.”

  “I’ve read it, but reports often leave out the human element.”

  “Spoken like a seasoned police officer. What do you want to know?”

  “I know it’s been a lot of years, but if you can just tell me what you remember, I’d appreciate it.”

  “We got the call around
eight. I can remember the time because when we arrived it was dark. A group of hikers had found you. You were a bit on the skinny side and not wearing a stitch, but otherwise, we found no evidence of abuse or foul play. We thought maybe your family had been out swimming, and you had wandered off. We scoured the area, even brought in the dogs, but couldn’t locate anyone. In spite of whatever you had been through, you were in good spirits—a friendly child, but not overly so—if you know what I mean. Definitely not shy though.”

  “I guess I haven’t changed much.”

  “Undoubtedly. Because of your build and physical coordination, we guessed your age around two, maybe two and a half. You sounded like you were stringing words together, but nobody understood you.”

  That point intrigued Lee. “Could I have been speaking another language?”

  Frank rubbed his chin. “A child psychologist examined you later, but she determined that your language development was in fact late, and you were what they call babbling. As soon as you were in foster care, I got the word that you were speaking like any child of your age.”

  He recalled that his former professor had said few people tended to recognize the Native American languages. “Could I have been speaking an Indian language?”

  “Hmmm...” Another chin rub. “I’m not familiar with any of the tribal languages myself, but I suppose it’s possible.”

  Since the local tribes had spoken Virginia Algonquian in the past, Lee automatically eliminated them, but like Phoebe, he might have reverted to a language he had been familiar with. The Cherokee language was very much alive. If only they had recorded what he had said back then, he might be able to trace it.

  “There was one other thing...”

  “Go on.”

  “The hikers gave us an arrowhead. They said it had been clutched in your hand when they found you.”