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“There are interesting legends of Michael Bryant,” she added with a glint in her eyes. “Besides his obvious heroics in helping the villages. Or maybe because of them.”
“Share, share,” I said.
Maggie scratched the side of her chin in thought. “Well, some claimed that he was able to fight against the raiders by shapeshifting and overpowering them.”
“What?” I chuckled.
“I know, old tribal superstitions,” she added, “but Bryant’s superhuman feat was rumored amongst the local tribes for decades. Apparently he had the ability to become a bear or a lion or wolf or eagle—whatever he chose. At least that’s what my grandmother told me. Then again, I think she half-believed in our own people’s magic, so take that with several grains of iodized salt.”
“Goodness. He was successful then. In helping the villages fight against the invaders, not the shapeshifting.”
She half-nodded and shrugged. “Sometimes. Until he was killed himself during one of those raids.”
“Bummer. What happened?”
“What you’d expect. A group of angry white men selected one of our villages to raze to the ground. Grandma called them Arcan Hunters. They saw it as their personal mission to irradicate every native here that threatened their new white way of life, which was all of us. They strategically and systematically massacred every village they came across.
“Anyhow, they were planning another raid, when Bryant got wind of it and barreled in with guns blazing. Got most of the bastards before they took him out, too, or so the story goes. But he did manage to help most of the women, children and old folks escape first.”
A sense of both pride and despair welled up inside me for reasons I couldn’t begin to fathom. I really wished I had a chance to meet this man, talk with him, maybe even help him with his last worthwhile, heroic quest in some small measure.
“Amazing when you hear the legends about the guy,” Maggie concluded. “Although most of which have greatly evolved in the telling.”
No doubt. That was always the most difficult part of any historian’s work—to separate fact from highly exaggerated fiction.
“Oh! And some say that he had Second Sight, too. Another interesting factoid.”
“He could predict the future?”
Maggie lifted a shoulder. “Something like. He, I don’t know,knewthings. I don’t know how much of that is true, of course. Like I said—legends. Either way, Michael Bryant was a good man. For a white guy.”
I grunted. “There are a few of us out there.”
“A few,” she agreed with a smirk.
So peace pipe smoked, no Peyote needed. Maggie may never become my bosom buddy, but at least we were temporary allies now.
We finally reached our destination at a trailhead. From there, we grabbed our gear and hiked another mile through rugged forested terrain until reaching a hillside cave marked with a red flag and a warning sign not to cross due to archeological discoveries, the crime punishable with a severe fine and possible jail time. A deterrent only to those posting the sign, of course. If curiosity seeking hikers or teenage mischief-makers happened by, it was like a juicy fly to a hungry trout.
Donning my coveralls, headlamp and backpack of various tools and equipment, I viewed the dark opening like a fat lady drooling over a box of chocolate iced, cream-filled eclairs.
“Hello, darkness, my old friend,” I sang quietly, clicking on my headlamp. “I’ve come to talk to you again.”
“Hmm. Let’s hope it talks back,” Maggie said, switching on her own headlamp and flashlight. “Let’s go. And watch your step.”
FATED MATES
CHAPTER 3
Free Falling
“I said watch your step, McEwan,” Maggie snapped as she helped me up after I stumbled into another squishy, unseen pothole.
“Sorry. I can’t see two inches in front of my feet,” I griped back, wiping the slimy cuts on my palms that braced my latest fall.
I swept the ink blackness with the beam of my flashlight. The cave was tall enough to allow a person to stand fully, but so narrow at points that we had to walk single file. There were several side tunnels that led into further black abysses, but Maggie waved them off and we continued forward along the main line.
“How much farther?” I asked. “We’ve been hiking more than an hour already. I feel like we’re going into bowels of hades. By the smell of rotten eggs, I’d say the irritable bowels.”
