by Jaid Black
Her heart sank. She just wanted to get out of here. The older couple was as sweet as they could be, but Jack…
She needed to run away. In all of the years she’d dreamt of him, he’d never felt closer or more real than he had last night. The ache to leave this place was as desperate as it was tangible. Even her hosts could see it.
“If it’s money that’s troubling you, honey,” Mrs. Zeisberger said, “don’t worry yourself over it. You can stay here free of charge until the roads clear.”
“Oh, that’s awfully kind,” Wai breathed out, “but it’s not the money.”
“Then…?”
There was no way to explain what she was going through without sounding like a lunatic. Desperate was too weak of a word to describe her current condition—she had to get out of here. Now. “I was just eager to start my new assignment is all,” she lied. She knotted her fingers together in her lap as she told them about the ad agency she worked for. “But I guess seeing Amish country will have to wait.”
“We’ve got a few Amish scattered around this village, too,” the old man piped up.
He scratched what was left of the white hair on his head. “Not many, mind you, but since them people all live alike and dress alike, pretty much when you seen one you seen them all.”
Wai didn’t know whether to whimper or chuckle. It sounded like she truly had her work cut out for her. She compromised on a snort before inquiring as to whether or not there was anything to do in the area she was currently in—New Philadelphia, she’d been told it was called.
“As a matter of fact,” the old man sniffed, his back straightening, “there is.” He inclined his head. “Ever heard of Schoenbrunn Village?”
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She shook her head. “No. I’m sorry, but I haven’t. What is it?”
“The very first settlement in Ohio,” his wife answered for him. She patted the neat bun of white curls that sat on top of her head. “And probably one of but a handful of Revolutionary War era villages where Indians and whites lived together.”
“It was founded by my grandfather,” Mr. Zeisberger said proudly. “Well, my grandfather two hundred and some odd years removed, anyways. His name was David Zeisberger—a Moravian missionary who made it his life’s work converting Indians to his pacifist, Christian belief system.”
How very interesting. “Was the colony successful?” Wai inquired.
“Among the villagers it was.” The old man pulled at the knees of his jean overalls as he prepared to give her a little rundown on its history. “My granddad, you see, he didn’t believe in forcing the Indians into his way of thinking. When they came, it was willingly. The only rules he had were no warring, no warpaint, and no premarital sex.”
He shrugged. “Other than that, he didn’t try to impose his European beliefs on their way of life.”
Wai sensed a “but” coming on. She was correct.
“Problem being,” Mrs. Zeisberger sighed, “Grandpa refused to take sides during the Revolutionary War. He was a pacifist through and through. Practiced what he preached.”
“So both the British and the Americans suspected him of aiding the other side,”
David’s grandson interjected. “Schoenbrunn was caught between America’s Fort Pitt and Britain’s Fort Detroit. Eventually my granddad and the other colonists abandoned Schoenbrunn out of fear for their lives.”
A certain sense of sadness sunk inside Wai’s belly for reasons she couldn’t understand. They were discussing people who had been dead for over two hundred years. “That’s terrible,” she whispered.
“Well, war always is, honey.” Mrs. Zeisberger shook her head. “Lord knows, this old woman has lived to see plenty of them. Haven’t seen a pretty one yet.”
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“Yes,” Wai murmured, “I suppose not.” She was quiet for a moment and then,
“You said the village is near here?” Curiosity the likes of which she’d never before entertained swamped her senses. A knot of tension coiled in her belly. For reasons she couldn’t comprehend, she felt as though she was supposed to see this place. “I take it the ruins are still there? Is it within reasonable driving distance?”
“About a mile up the road.” The old man frowned thoughtfully. “I’d risk driving you myself, but I don’t think it would do too much good. Trouble being,” he explained,
“the phone lines are down so there ain’t no way for you to let me know when you’re ready to come back.”
“It’s fine,” Wai said quickly. “I can drive myself.”
His wife clucked her tongue. “That might not be a good idea. What if the only road we got that’s not already flooded takes to flooding? I doubt you’d know what to do in such a situation and—”
Wai dismissed the old woman’s fears with a jovial wave of her hand. “I’ll be fine,”
she assured them.
It didn’t matter what they said. She was going to see this Schoenbrunn no matter how bad the weather got. Something about the place beckoned to her—and she barely knew anything about it. Not to mention the fact that it was the perfect excuse to get away from Jack.
“If it starts raining again, I’ll come right back.” Wai flashed them a pearly white smile. “Promise.”
* * * * *
It wasn’t working. The closer Wai drove toward the antique log village, the harder those thoughts of Jack pounded in her brain. And now that she was here, standing inside the reception center…
She blew out a breath, her heart racing. Fear of walking through the reception center’s doors and out to the mysterious village beyond it assaulted her. What the hell 16
The Beckoned
was going on? Why did she feel as though Jack was somehow tied to this place? Why was she sweating, her heart pounding? This made no sense!
“I’m really losing it,” she muttered to herself.
She might need more than one shrink upon her return to North Carolina.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Wai’s head darted up. She’d forgotten that the historical site’s solitary worker was standing behind the counter. Shaking off the eeriness of the situation, she politely inclined her head and smiled at the teenager. “I’m surprised they have you working today.”
“We’re open every day from Memorial Day through Labor Day.” The young, pretty blonde blew a bubble and loudly popped it. “Even yesterday during the storm.”
Wai nodded. “Yes. Well…I suppose I’d like to purchase a ticket.”
“Sure. It’ll be six dollars.”
Wai handed her a wad of ones, then stuffed the rest of her cash into a pocket.
Having a rather bad tendency of losing a bill here and there, she pushed the bills in as far as the sundress’s pocket allowed.
“We don’t have guided tours or colonial reenactments except for when kids come on school trips. There aren’t any school trips scheduled today, so basically you go out that door and you’re on your own. I’m Julie, by the way. If you need anything.”
“Thank you, Julie.” Wai’s voice sounded scratchy even to her own ears, so she cleared her throat. “I guess I’ll be on my way then.”
Wai ambled toward the double doors that led to the village. She stopped mid-stride, her peripheral vision snagged by a very old portrait hanging close by. Curious, she walked over to it and read the nameplate beneath: David Zeisberger, 1772
Her gaze flicked up. Wearing a plain white shirt beneath a severe black jacket of the time period, the gray-headed missionary would have looked overly austere was it not
Jaid Black
for the kindness in his eyes. He had the same eyes as his grandson. “So you’re Mr.
Zeisberger’s grandfather,” she murmured.
Wai ran two fingers over the brass nameplate. She all but slumped against the portrait. Why do I feel so connected to you and to this place? This is beyond strange.
She snatched back her hand and stood ramrod straight, mental
ly chastising herself.
This wasn’t the time to get all weirded out. Not with Julie standing a few feet away, probably looking at her like she’d lost her mind.
“You feel okay?” the high school girl called out.
“Yes.” Wai plastered a smile on her face as she cocked her head to regard her. For reasons unknown, her pulse was shooting up through the roof. Maybe she was getting sick. “I just got a little dizzy for a moment.”
The phone rang, turning Julie’s attention. Wai took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, grateful for the interruption.
Just get out of here. Walk out those doors, get some fresh air, and you’ll be fine!
Her gaze darted back to the double doors. Luckily she had chosen to wear the spaghetti-strapped, cotton, tie-dye dress she’d bought while vacationing in the islands, for it was humid now that the rain had stopped. Lord knows she felt overheated as it was.
Her heart pounding, she swiped the palm of her hand at the beads of perspiration dotting her hairline as she made her way back to the double doors. You can do this. Stop acting like an idiot!
Her nostrils flaring, Wai took in one more cathartic tug of air, then threw open the doors.
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Chapter Three
She let out the breath with a tiny laugh. The doors slammed shut behind her.
Wai’s heart had been racing like she’d expected to run into King Kong, but what she found instead was a very quiet, deserted, Revolutionary War era village. Log cabins crafted from trees, clay, and packed dirt were perfectly lined up, one after another, down a long grassy pathway that had probably been a dirt street in its heyday.
The colony was beautiful. It stirred something inside her, an unnamed emotion, but the something was wonderful—not frightening.
I feel like I’m…home.
In awe, she began walking toward the first log cabin on the right side of the
“street”. Wearing sandals, her feet were instantly saturated by a combination of mud and dewy wet grass. She didn’t care. She was too lost in anticipation to give her dirtied shoes and feet more than a passing thought.
Reaching the first cabin, Wai wanted to see what lay inside it. She squinted her eyes as she walked through the smallish door; it took her pupils a moment to adjust to the practically nonexistent light. When they did, she smiled.
The inside of the cabin was simple, quaint. In the middle of the antiquated home was a fireplace. To the left of it was a log bench, a barrel and heavy stick for churning butter, and a few large kettles for cooking. To the right of the fireplace was the bedroom—a tiny straw bed covered with animal pelts. The entire cabin was as big as the dining room in Wai’s apartment.
Breathing deeply, she inhaled the earthy scent of the little abandoned cottage. An instant peace stole over her. The cabin smelled of grass, dirt, and nature. The cabin smelled…right.
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Preparing to exit the small, dark place, her peripheral vision was snagged by an oddity she saw in the farthest corner. Frowning, she walked over to where the tiny bed lay and looked down to the dirt floor behind it.
What the…?
There in the corner, wedged within the foundation of the cabin—logs and dried clay—was a torn piece of fabric. She bent over to get a better look at it. She stilled.
“This makes no sense,” she murmured.
Picking up the piece of worn fabric, which genuinely looked to be over two hundred years old, she stared at it with a surrealistic gaze. Tie-dye. The piece of fabric had been tie-dyed. And, what’s more, it was a perfect, if faded, match for the exact colors that had been tie-dyed into the spaghetti-strapped cotton dress she was wearing—canary yellow, deep purple, and robin’s egg blue.
Wai blew out a breath. She had no idea just what in the hell was going on, but things were getting stranger by the second. Throwing the piece of cloth to the floor, she ran out of the cottage and, gasping for air, leaned up against the side of it.
It was just a coincidence. Calm down! You’ve been feeling strange ever since Jack returned and now you’re reading too much into things!
She repeated the mental mantra a few more times until her heart rate came down.
Continuing her journey through the abandoned village, Wai reminded herself that she wasn’t the only woman in the world who had vacationed in Jamaica and brought back a tie-dyed dress as a souvenir. Obviously someone had torn their dress back in that first cabin and whomever it was that kept up the village hadn’t noticed it. The cottages were dark. Overlooking a simple piece of fabric would be very easy to do.
Feeling better, she resumed her tour of the village. A candlemaker’s cottage, the cabin of a blacksmith, and then a few nondescript homes that looked to have belonged to Lenape Indians.
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By the time she reached the large, one-room schoolhouse, Wai was back to feeling her old self again. Glancing around it, she smiled as her gaze landed on a painting hanging on the left wall. “Hans painted that,” she said nostalgically. “Hans Benedict.”
She blinked. Walking over to where the Christmas-scene work of art hung, she stared at the signature on the painting.
Hans Benedict, 1776
Wai’s jaw dropped open. How could she have known that?
“I-I must have learned about this painter in school,” she breathed out, semi-hysteria tinting her words. But her gut told her something different. Her every instinct screamed that Hans Benedict was not, nor had he ever been, a famous painter. Hans had been but a schoolboy.
What the bloody hell is going on?
Sprinting from the schoolhouse, Wai ran as fast as her feet would carry her. Her pulse picked up in tempo, her heart slamming against her breasts. Soggy grass and mud spattered against her calves, oozed between her toes.
You’re running the wrong way. Go back to the reception center…
By the time Wai came to a sudden stop, she was a good half-mile from Julie—and sanity. Panting for air, it took her a moment to realize just what she had run into, where it was she was standing.
In the middle of a graveyard.
Feeling dizzy, she slowly whirled around in a circle, taking in the sight of at least thirty headstones. They weren’t modern, sleek, marble markers, but crudely cut, jagged stones that lay on smooth backs. She read the first stone her gaze landed on.
Here lies Sarah, daughter of Elizabeth and Samuel. Born in 1772. Went to sleep in 1773.
Wai blinked several times in rapid succession, forcing the tears at bay. Sarah had been but a year old when she’d died. She looked to the next stone.
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Here lies Samuel, husband of Elizabeth and father of Sarah and Hans. Born in 1751. Went home in 1776.
Sadness engulfed her. She ached for Hans, felt his sorrow as though she’d been there to comfort him the day his father had died.
Wai closed her eyes briefly, a shaky palm lifting to cover her forehead. “What’s going on?” she whispered. “I’m scared.”
Glancing up, her light brown gaze drifted to the end of the cemetery, to two stones that lay apart from the others. As if in a trance, she slowly walked toward where the headmarkers lay. She didn’t want to see the tombstones, but felt as though she had to.
Coming to a stop before the first one, she took in a deep breath of air and exhaled.
Her gaze slowly drifted down to the stone.
Here lies Puawai, wife of Jack. Birthdate unknown. Went home in 1776.
Wai clutched her belly and gasped. Feeling as though she might faint, her gaze flew to the next headstone.
Here lies Jack, husband of Puawai. Born in 1747. Went home in 1776.
“Oh my God,” Wai murmured, goose bumps creeping up and down her spine. She knew she was going to faint. She blindly felt around for something—anything—to hold her steady. “This isn’t happening.”
Falling to the ground, she cried out as her knees hit hard earth. Jack…he was real.
No! This can’t be!
It was her last coherent thought before her head hit Jack’s gravestone. Gasping from the pain searing her skull, Wai’s eyes rolled back into her head and closed.
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Chapter Four
Wai awoke to the sound of horses neighing and the clip-clop of hooves. She moaned, her eyelids batting rapidly, fighting to open. Her head pounded, her knees were sore.
“Please wake up, miss.”
“Are you injured?”
Where am I?
“Do you speak English?”
“Perhaps we should inform the preacher. He speaks her tongue.”
My tongue?
Forcing her eyes open, it took a blinding moment to adjust to the light. Sitting up, an instant wave of nausea stole over her. Whimpering, Wai hugged her tummy, drawing her legs up underneath her. She squinted, trying to make out the faces of the two children hovering near to her.
“She is ill, Hans,” a high-pitched, female voice said.
“I shall fetch the preacher.”
“No.” Wai fought with her vision, opening and closing her eyes until she could see more than mere silhouettes. When at last her eyes cooperated with her, she stared at the children—and had to do a double-take.
They were dressed like…pilgrims.
The girl, roughly ten years old, wore a simple light blue dress with a white apron covering the majority of it. Her hair, long and blonde, had been twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck, a big, white bonnet covering the top of her head. The boy, probably twelve, possessed shoulder-length brown hair that had been tied back into a leather
Jaid Black
thong at the nape of the neck. He wore a white shirt under a long, brown jacket adorned with dozens of fancy buttons. Brown pants were tied off at the knee, white stockings covering the rest of his legs.
Wai blinked. She took a quick glance around and noticed that she was no longer sitting in front of a gravestone. There were only ten or so headmarkers in the graveyard now, and absolutely nothing where she was at—only high, untrimmed grass lay beneath her.