The Man from Forever (8 page)

“And food. Without the cattle they stole, they would have starved. I've seen the work of anthropologists. Fenton thinks because I am old with dirt under my nails that I'm a stupid man, but he's wrong. I know what you and the others are trying to do.”

“Then you know we're trying to salvage what's left of the past. I don't understand why you're against us.”

“Because you put my people's heritage in boxes.”

“Boxes?”

“The past is not something to put labels on. You write books that say this and that and the other thing about my ancestors. That isn't right. My heritage isn't about what my grandparents' grandparents called their gods and how one became a shaman. How do you know? Were you there?”

“Of course not, but—”

“You look at a carved mask or boat and decide that those things were used in a certain way, but because you weren't there, you will never know. A lie told and retold becomes a lie believed by all.”

“It isn't a lie. We—”

“No! Listen to me. I was educated at a white man's school. I live in the white man's world. It's not what I want, not when my eyes and heart are Modoc. But my ancestors are dead. Because they were torn from this place, I'll never know the truth about them. The past is not a picture to be placed in a book. It is belief and nature, the land and creatures living on it speaking to a boy and guiding him into manhood. History should be free to live in the air and fly with the wind so each of us can breathe in the air and find our own truth.”

She wasn't sure what he was getting at, and yet it made a terrible and proud kind of sense. “The truth,” she whispered. “Is that why you're here this morning? Because you want to learn the truth about this spirit warrior?”

Jaw clenched, Black stared over the steering wheel until she despaired of getting any kind of answer from him. Then: “Your heart is white. More than that, it's the heart of one who seeks labels, not understanding that which lives in the earth and on mountaintops. You'll never know the truth about what I seek.”

Wouldn't she?

S
o many men had died here. Staring out at the windswept expanse, Tory tried to imagine what that long-ago spring day had been like. Historians considered the ambush that had taken place here to be one of the greatest examples of Indian military strategy. But had those historians stood on this spot and thought, really thought, about the young men who had lost their lives on this barren land?

Turning in a slow, deliberate circle, she went back in time to that fateful day not long after General Canby had been killed. The Modocs, for reasons she didn't fully comprehend, had left their stronghold and had scattered—or so the soldiers thought. A number of troops had taken off in search of them. Why they had chosen a gully to climb into was something else she didn't understand. What she did know was that the decision had been a fatal one because the Modocs had snuck up on the soldiers while they rested. The first shots had sent the men into panic. She didn't blame them for trying to run back to headquarters; the tragedy was in how few had made it.

A sense of unease crawled up her spine, and she lifted her hand to shield her eyes, staring intently at anything that might hide—hide what, Loka? It was still early enough in the day that no other visitors had yet made their way out here. The thought that she was over a mile from the road and that the path she'd come on was narrow and rocky increased her sense of isolation. If Loka, man of mystery and intrigue, stood beside her, would she still feel this way? Maybe—maybe it wasn't Loka at all who was filling her with apprehension.

The wind brought history with it. It was as if it had never lost touch with the sounds of wounded and dying men, terrified horses, desperate warriors. If she remembered right, the day of the ambush had been warm, the sky cloudy but not threatening. The soldiers must have thought the war was coming to an end.

Had the solders laughed and sung that day? Surely there'd been talk of what they'd do once they went home. Maybe they were thinking of sweethearts and wives, the relief of being able to go to a more civilized place. And then—

And then death had visited them.

Had Loka been part of that? She'd asked him if he'd been among those who'd attacked her ancestor and he'd told her no. She'd believed him, but what about here at what was now known as the Thomas-Wright Battlefield? Was that what had put her on edge—the memory or soul of a soldier searching for a peaceful resting place?

So many things assaulted her senses and emotions. She felt as if her entire being had been rubbed raw. She was sensitive, so damn sensitive to what had happened back then. She didn't want it this way, didn't want to think about resting men being stalked by relentless braves.

Damn you, Loka. Damn you for being part of this slaughter!

“You do not understand.”

A tidal wave of emotion slammed into her, spun her around. She stared up at Loka, not in shock but fascination.
That he'd been able to approach her without her knowing didn't surprise her. After all, this land was his, and he was as at home here as any rabbit or antelope. “What don't I understand?” she mouthed as he stepped over a rock. She ached inside, an ache more all consuming than anything she'd ever experienced. She felt starved, a breath away from death. If he didn't touch her—

“Why we did what we did here.”

The realization that he alone knew what had compelled the Modocs to commit an act that they must have known would be avenged gave her something other than him and the raw sensuality that was him to enter her mind. “Why, Loka?” she whispered and dropped cross-legged to the ground. He stood over her, a living wall of a man full of challenge and promise. “The Maklaks killed General Canby, but the soldiers kept coming. Surely you didn't believe that killing a few men here would save you.”

“You do not understand,” he repeated.

She wanted him to sit beside her, but he remained on his feet, dominated her with his size and the power in his voice.

“Have you ever watched a doe with a fawn? If her fawn is being hunted by a predator, she will tell her fawn to run. She will lead the way, pacing herself to her baby's strength. It is not a doe's way to fight—her legs are swift because Kumookumts created her to run. But if a wolf overtakes her fawn, she will turn and fight. We were like that doe.”

“But you weren't trapped. You could have gone on running.”

“Where? How long?”

He asked his questions so softly that for a moment they didn't register. She looked around, thinking to point at the distant hills, but before she could, full realization sank in. “You're saying—you're saying that your children were like that fawn, aren't you? They couldn't run anymore.”

“And some of our women and the old people.” He lowered himself to the ground, the movement more graceful than anything she'd ever seen in her life. He sat opposite her on
the hard, rapidly heating earth. Morning sunlight caressed his flesh, glistened off his chest and shoulders. An image of her hands gliding slowly, reverently over his flesh settled inside her and refused to leave. She wanted to concentrate on what he was saying. Damn it, it was vital to her understanding of him. But she could barely think around him, not when he looked the way he did. When she reacted the way she did.

“They were exhausted?” she finally thought to ask. “But they hadn't been on the run that long.”

“No.” The muscles around his mouth tightened and then relaxed. In his eyes, she saw the effort that took. “Not running. But we were a proud people. We built good homes, strong homes to keep us warm through the winter. It was not our way to burrow into caves like bears. To spend moons living underground like frightened animals—” Again his jaw clenched. “We could no longer go to the sacred butte for our spirit quests. The new ways—the things we had been doing since the white men came—they had brought us heartache. We wanted back the old ways, to be close to Kumookumts again, to feel Bear and Wolf's wisdom, but how could we be as we once were if we were not free to live on the land our creator had given us?”

She had no answer for him, or maybe the truth was, she understood him with a depth she didn't believe possible. Yes, they were weary of being trapped at the stronghold, of what must have been a Spartan diet. But it had been more than that. “You had always felt yourselves a part of the land. And now that was being denied you.”

He'd been staring at the ground, his eyes unfocused. When he looked up at her now, she saw something she hadn't seen in him before. Was it possible that he trusted her? That she'd said something that resonated deep inside him?

Wanting that, praying for that, how could she not believe in him?

“I met a man this morning,” she whispered, not sure what, if anything, she could say. “A Modoc. He said the same thing, that an Indian's belief is part of who and what he is.
That the land and sky are as essential to who he is as his strength or intelligence. I don't think I ever understood that before.”

“And now you do?”

“I'm trying.” He might disappear. If she said the wrong thing, he might evaporate like the morning mist. She didn't think she could bear it if that happened. “You're making it possible.”

A darkness that seemed to originate from deep inside him slid slowly over his features. She watched in fascination and fear, desire for him lapping through her body, her mind even. She
needed
to feel his arms around her as much as she needed air in her lungs, and yet it wasn't for her to make the first move. “Please,” she whispered. “What are you thinking?”

“How long it has been since I have spoken to anyone.”

Desperate to stem the tears that threatened to engulf her, she breathed in deeply. This was his air. He knew its smell as intimately as he knew the land around him. He was sharing it with her this morning, and her gratitude knew no bounds. “What was it like?” she asked. “When you first woke up, what was it like?”

“Sorrow.”

Sorrow.
“Loka, please.” She held out her hand but let it drop without touching him, because if she did, she would be lost. “Tell me everything. Please. You aren't alone. I'm here—you can talk to me. What was it like? You saw what had happened to the land and—”

“No!” He straightened, his eyes so fierce that she thought only of him and the eagle she'd seen yesterday. “It was more than that. So much more.”

“I don't understand. I want to understand.”

Although he remained silent, she sensed that she'd said something dangerous, something he didn't want to hear.

Fascinated in the way of a bird staring into the eyes of a stalking cat, she watched as he reached for his knife and pulled it free. When he held it up for her to see, the sun briefly kissed it. He leaned forward, challenging her with his
body. Somehow she found the courage not to move; or maybe the truth was, she would never be able to pull herself free from him. The knife came closer, an extension of him, keen and ancient, both artifact and weapon. She knew what it was like to be incapable of movement. To have her life held in another's grip.

“Loka,” she whispered. “I can't give you back what you had before I arrived. I wish I could.” That wasn't the truth. She would never want him to return to the slumber that had been his existence. “I believe in you. It's insane. There's no way you could possibly be who and what you are and yet—”

“Cho-ocks.”

The shaman who'd given him whatever it was he'd taken so he wouldn't have to leave his son. She wanted to tell him that that was impossible, remind him that the shaman's red rope hadn't prevented the army from storming the stronghold, but Loka stood as living proof of Cho-ocks's power, didn't he? Maybe—no!

“You should not have come out here this morning. Surely you knew I would find you.”

She hadn't known, but she had hoped. “Maybe that's why I came.”

He still held his knife in his competent fingers. Looking at the strength in his arm, she had no doubt that her life would end in a single movement if he so desired. But if he'd come here to kill her, he would have already done it—ended whatever it was that existed between them.

“I sensed—” Barely moving, she indicated the barren ground around them. “As I approached, I sensed the presence, maybe it was the ghosts of the soldiers who'd died here. I felt their fear and pain.”

“Yes.”

Yes.
With that single word, he was acknowledging that something brutal had happened on this site. She wanted to leave it like that, to place the burden of the massacre on the Modocs, but she couldn't. “Loka, if it was in my power to
give the Modocs back their land, I'd do it. I'd have already done it.”

He blinked, said nothing, his essence a living curtain around her.

“But we both know that isn't possible. I want—” No, she couldn't tell him that, couldn't lay herself naked and vulnerable before him. If only she could stop shaking, stop thinking about what could be between them.

As if her hand no longer belonged to her, she watched it reach out to touch his chest. The day had just begun to heat up, but she could already feel its warmth in his flesh. Maybe, she thought, the warmth came from inside him. He was alive then, alive and here. With her.

Made weak by the thought, she increased the pressure on his chest until his beating heart seemed just out of reach. She looked up into the eyes of this man who couldn't possibly exist and yet did. He stared down at her, his emotions unfathomable. It seemed to her as if the world had slowed down, maybe stopped entirely for them. She wanted to run her fingers over every inch of him because maybe then she would understand. Instead, she continued the fragile contact and let her eyes speak for her.

The breeze eased over his flesh, ruffled his long, glossy hair, spoke of unsettled souls and regret, said something about promise and tomorrow. She felt on the verge of tears and yet far beyond that, as if what was happening between them eclipsed any emotion she'd ever known. Life itself seemed to hang suspended between them, waiting—waiting for her to understand.

She heard a sound, dismissed it because only he mattered. But when she saw the look of utter concentration in his eyes, she forced herself to listen. The howl seemed to ride on the wind and yet control it at the same time. She'd seen so many emotions in Loka's eyes. They were by far the most expressive part of his expressive body. He'd become almost childlike in his fascination, a boy-man hearing something essential to his existence.

Again the howl touched her nerve endings, the impact more intense this time. “Wolf,” she said, unaware that she'd been going to speak until she heard her voice. “That's a wolf.” But it was impossible because wolves had been extinct from this part of the country for decades.

“Wash.”

“Wash,” she repeated, wondering if that was Modoc for wolf.

“Wash, the trickster coyote. Maybe she…” His voice trailed off when the haunting note again rode the windways to them. “No,” he muttered. “Not Wash.”

A wolf, then? Was that what he was saying? Fighting his continued impact on her senses, she scrambled to her knees. He stood, held out his hand and she took it. He effortlessly helped her to her feet and she waited beside him, feeling proud, feeling part of him and the land he commanded.

“I want it to be like this again,” she managed around the great lump in her throat. “For it to be the time of the wolf. If there was any way I could make that happen…” She wanted, needed to say more, but nothing sorted itself out inside her. She stood shoulder to shoulder with Loka and looked out into the distance with him. He smelled of the desert, pungent sage, heated lava rock, clean, mountain tainted wind. Until this moment, the rational, logical part of her had continued to disbelieve his existence. He couldn't possibly be who and what he was. He couldn't! But his scent changed that.