According to Legend

GERRI BROUSSEAU

SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

New York

ACCORDING TO LEGEND

Copyright©2013

GERRI BROUSSEAU

Excerpt from
A Pirate’s Ransom
Copyright © Gerri Brousseau

Cover Design by Rae Monet, Inc.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Published in the United States of America by

Soul Mate Publishing

P.O. Box 24

Macedon, New York, 14502

ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-
186-8

www.SoulMatePublishing.com

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

This book is dedicated to my son, Mark,

and his lovely wife, Sarah.

Thanks for believing in me.

I would like to thank my son, Mark, and his bride, Sarah, for listening to me constantly talk about this story. I would also like to thank my dear friend Amy for the endless hours of reading and re-reading the book in the early stages of editing. Thank you to my editor, Barbara Solomon for all her help. I would never have succeeded without her. Thank you to my family and friends, both here and in California, for their love and support.

A special thanks to Jeanne Kent B.F.A., M.A., ed. a/k/a Morningstar who sat with me in the northwestern woods of Connecticut on a very warm summer day and shared the history of her People with me and helped me to actually visualize the Indian village. Thank you to the Tribal Princess and other tribe members of the Schaghticoke who were kind enough to meet with me one pleasant autumn afternoon and to share their legends and beliefs with me.

Thank you to everyone who had anything to do with helping me get this book written, edited, and published.

Five years, not such a very long time for some, yet an eternity for others. Five years have passed since the accident.
Tragic
, the headlines read.
Family Car Forced Off The Road by a Hit-and-Run Driver
—
Both Parents Killed, Daughter in Critical Condition.

I don’t remember much about the accident. I woke up five days later in the intensive care unit to discover both my parents were killed in an accident I couldn’t remember. Why them and not me, too? Why had I survived?

Not a day goes by that I don’t feel guilty that I lived and they didn’t. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of them. My only comfort is living in their house. I feel close to them there and don’t think I could ever bear to leave. The emptiness in my life is a black void, but what haunts me are the nightmares.

The doctor says my subconscious is trying to recall the accident I so desperately try to forget. I dread the night, sleep, and most of all . . . the dreams. I dread the dreams.

But last night was different. Last night I dreamed of my mother. She stood in the center of a county fair . . . beckoning me to come . . . telling me she had a gift for me . . .

Was that a dream catcher in her hand? I recognized the location, even in the dream. We’d gone to this fair many times when I was a child. I woke up in a cold sweat with the feeling that I must go there . . . to the fair . . . today.

Zooming down Route 7 in northern Connecticut toward the fair, colorful leaves danced and swirled in the road in my wake, but I hardly noticed. My only focus was getting to the fair. Coming around the bend in the road, the first hand-painted sign boasting COUNTY FAIR AHEAD appeared. A line of cars backed up at the entrance, and my nerves started to fray as I mindlessly tapped my fingers on the steering wheel.
When had this little fair gotten so popular?

Chill, the fair’s not going anywhere and you don’t even know what the heck you’re looking for, let alone if you’re going to find it.

After parking the car on the mowed down field they used as a parking lot, I tiptoed over flattened cow patties and rushed toward the entrance gate.

Wandering around, I stopped at some of the craft booths, picking up handmade trinkets and touching the quilts, hoping to get a feel of what I was looking for, what I was supposed to find. Would I even know it when I saw it?

Lines of people milling around seemed like a motionless mob to me, as if I were caught in a dream, and everything was moving in slow motion. An anxious flutter burned in my stomach as I was drawn further into the crowded fair. The loud cacophony of carnival rides came from the mid-way, annoying, distracting. Smells of fair food, which usually enticed me, sickened me today. I don’t have time.

Why? Why do I feel so anxious?

I kept replaying the dream in my mind.
What am I supposed to find here?

Glancing from side-to-side, rushing from exhibit to exhibit, I searched for that something. Craft booth? No, nothing. Baked goods? No, that couldn’t be it.
Stop.
Standing still in the middle of the throng of fairgoers, I took a deep, calming breath, but the need to move on compelled me as I wandered through the crowd.

What is it you want me to find, Mom? You brought me to this fair. My gut tells me I’m supposed to be here, and I always trust my gut, but what is it I’m supposed to find?

As I came around a corner, I spotted a table with a gypsy woman sitting behind it. Beside her table was a simple handwritten 8” by 10” cardboard sign advertising fortune-telling.
CONTACT LOST LOVED ONES
. I had tried to contact the spirits of my parents shortly after they died in the accident, but to no avail.

Maybe that’s it.
Maybe I’m supposed to contact my mother.
I took a seat at the table.

The gypsy sitting across from me wore a colorful outfit. Her long dark hair flowed to her waist and her amber eyes danced with a smile.

“Good afternoon, pretty lady. Would you like to know what the future holds for you?”

“Yes, very much,” I said as I handed her the ten-dollar fee. She took the money and placed it on the table between us.

“I am Madame Carmelita. What is your name, pretty lady?”

“Pam. Pam Hastings.”

She stared into my eyes and took both my hands into hers.

Closing her eyes, she spoke. “You have a very powerful energy, Pam Hastings. Your parents . . . their lives were cut short by a tragedy. I feel the depth of your sorrow. You miss them very much, but do not grieve. They are close to you. They, too, have a very powerful energy.”

“My parents? You know about my parents?” My stomach muscles clenched and tears stung my eyes. I swallowed hard and forced down the lump in my throat.

She smiled and nodded. “Yes, I know of them, and they are closer to you than you imagine.”

“I want to . . . Can you contact them?”

She didn’t answer, but closed her eyes for a moment. Then she continued. “You are a single woman, but I see a deep and abiding love. A love from long, long ago, which has never died is about to resurface.”

“Really?”
Not likely
.

“Yes, a very strong love. There are two men coming back into your life, one dark, and one light. One is the moon and the other is the sun. They both love you, but one, one would die for you. You have love for both these men and must choose. But your path is wrought with danger, Pam Hastings. Be careful where you place your trust.”

“I’m looking for something here at the fair. Can you tell me where to find it?”

She threw her head back and laughed, her long hair flowing in the breeze. “We are all looking for something, Pam Hastings. Be patient and that which you seek may find its way into your hands.”

“What is it? What am I supposed to find?”

She smiled and her amber eyes twinkled, but she didn’t answer. She studied me with a questioning expression on her face. “Are you a twin?”

“No!”

“I sense the presence of another spirit. Perhaps you shared your mother’s womb with a twin that did not survive?”

“No, not that I know of.” The hair rose on the back of my neck.

“There is another spirit, as if you were a twin. Not quite you, but much the same. This spirit has a deep mystical power. You may feel it or find that you may draw on it from time to time. Remember this as you go forth,” she said, abruptly releasing my hands as if burned by my touch.

Confused and struggling to keep up, I frowned. My reading appeared to be over and as I stood to leave, she grabbed my arm. Our eyes met over the table. After what seemed like a long moment, she spoke. “I cannot take your money,” she said and pushed the ten-dollar bill back toward me.

“Why not? You did a reading.”

She shook her head. “No, I cannot.”

“Okay, well, thank you.” I took the money, stuffed it into the pocket of my jeans and turned away. Goose bumps ran up my arms when I thought about the twin spirit.

“Wait, Pam Hastings,” she called. “There is something I wish to give you. I know you dread the dreams . . . this will help you. You will no longer fear your dreams, but will come to cherish them. This is my gift to you, daughter.” Taking my hand into hers, she placed a small, tissue-wrapped object into my palm.

Daughter?

“How do you know about the dreams?” My pulse quickened as the question erupted from me.

“Your mother wants you to have this,” she answered. “Open it, child.”

My gaze fell to the wrapped item she had placed into my hand. It hardly had any weight to it at all. With last night’s dream of my mother fresh in my mind, I closed my fingers tightly around the gift as the gypsy patted my hand tenderly. Her amber eyes gleamed with excitement.

“The Spirits smile this day as the rightful owner has returned, the only one who can reunite the stones,” she said.

What the heck is she talking about, and what is she trying to give me?

My fingers trembled as I gently pulled the thin tissue paper apart.
This is it
. My heart fluttered.
It has to be.
I gazed down at the most beautiful dream catcher I had ever seen. I recalled the gypsy’s words. “
Be patient and that which you seek may find its way into your hands
.”

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the beautiful dream catcher. The threads of the net were so thin they could have been made of silk, as delicate as a spider’s web. Woven into the very center was a beautiful stone with an intricate carving on it, yet one side of the stone was flat, as if it had been sliced in half. Semi-precious stones had been woven and entwined into the soft leather around the outer circle and from it hung the most colorful feathers I had ever seen.

I don’t know how long I remained there, transfixed on the beautiful artifact, but when I finally looked up, Madame Carmelita was gone. I stood staring at an empty chair.

Who was the mysterious gypsy woman, and why did she give this to me?
Her words filtered through my mind.

She spoke of two men coming into my life, but I didn’t even have one man in my life, so what were the chances of two? And a twin. Where did that come from?
Creepy
. A shiver ran through me. Suddenly, I had the feeling I was being watched. I glanced over my shoulder. Nothing. No one unusual.
Was this what I was supposed to find? It must be . . . it had to be
. The memory of my mother smiling and holding a dream catcher out to me in my dream made me certain this artifact was meant to find its way into my hands.

But, I had questions. I moved through the crowd to find the gypsy.
Why does she think I’m the rightful owner?
I searched the crowd, scanning all the faces as I passed by. I asked just about everyone, yet no one had seen the gypsy.

Making my way to the administrative booth, I asked for a list of the exhibitors at the fair. Looking it over closely, I found there was no fortuneteller on the roster. Turning back, I realized I was standing in the exact spot where the fortuneteller’s table had been. But now there was nothing here.

Am I losing my mind?

It was getting late and I knew I was not going to find the elusive gypsy. Accepting defeat, I put the artifact into my purse, made my way back to the car, and headed home. My mind raced as I tried to figure it out, piece it together. Somehow I knew I was the one meant to have the beautiful dream catcher.

“Okay, Mom, I’ve got it, now what the heck am I supposed to do with it?” I asked aloud.

By the time I got home, it was already dark. A shiver ran through me, and I hoped it was from the autumn chill. With a fire blazing in the fireplace and a warm cup of tea in hand, my thoughts turned back to the gypsy and the beautiful dream catcher.

Grabbing my laptop, I decided to do some research. Legend had it that Native American tribes believed dream catchers changed people’s dreams. Only good dreams would be allowed to filter through and bad dreams would be trapped in the web, where they would perish with the light of dawn.
How did the gypsy know I was having nightmares?
Taking the dream catcher from its paper wrapping, I held the fascinating object up to take a better look at it.

Where did you come from? Who really is your rightful owner?

As I held it up to the firelight, dizziness swirled in my head. I was captivated by the hypnotic and magical quality the stones around the edge took on as light danced over them.

I shook my head, trying to clear this feeling, but the heat of the fire warmed me, and my eyes grew so heavy I could hardly keep them opened. Maybe the craziness of the day was catching up with me, I thought while I watched the firelight swirl around the dream catcher.

I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I remember was dreaming of being in a deeply wooded forest near a running stream with fish swimming past in the cool shadows of its depths. Kneeling beside the pool, I leaned over to look into the water, expecting to see my reflection, my deep red hair falling to my shoulders, my clear amber eyes, alert and watchful, my pale lips turned up in a smile.

I gasped when I realized it wasn’t my face I saw in the reflection . . . it was the face of a beautiful Indian maiden. Her deeply tanned skin was smooth over high cheekbones; she had full lips, and round amber eyes that gleamed with excitement. Her long dark hair hung loose and fell to her waist in what looked like a sheet of dark satin. She wore a soft deerskin dress with intricate designs on the bodice. Strands of leather and colorful feathers were entwined in her hair; feathers just like those hanging from the dream catcher. Around her neck was another thin strand of leather holding a delicately engraved stone. Leaning in closer to take a better look, I saw it was the very same stone that was woven into the center of my newly acquired dream catcher.

Suddenly, there was someone looking over her shoulder into the reflecting pool. In the watery reflection, a smile touched the maiden’s lips, and then, suddenly, I was the one looking down into the pool, but through her eyes.
I
was the maiden. Pink showed upon my cheeks in the reflection as the heat of a blush flushed my face. I was keenly aware of my surroundings. The rock my hand rested upon was damp, cold, and rough to my touch; the moss beneath my knees felt like a thick warm carpet and the cool smell of the dancing stream was refreshing.

Part of me knew I should be afraid, but I wasn’t. Nothing about this strange dream felt wrong.

Smiling, I gazed at the reflection of the man beside me. His features were stark, raw, and powerful. His long dark hair hung past his shoulders. Thick lashes framed dark eyes in his deeply tanned face. A face so striking it appeared as if he were chiseled from stone. His well-muscled chest glistened as light reflected off the water. Around his neck, he wore a piece of leather with an engraved stone identical to the one that hung around the neck of the maiden.

“You have come back to me, Takshawee,” he said. “I feared I would never see you again. When Weekatay told me she had found you, I rushed here to see for myself. To see with my own eyes. Oh, my love,” he whispered. “How I have missed you.”

I stood and turned to face him. He was over six feet tall and perfectly proportioned.

“What did you call me?” I gasped.
That’s not my voice
.

“Takshawee . . .” A frown creased his brow. “Weekatay told me she had found you.” He extended his hand toward me.