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Not a dream then, the last vestiges of that dim possibility now dissolved.
Bryant walked over and took the broken Nikon out of my hands.
“It’s called a camera,” I explained as he curiously examined it. “It snaps photographs, but a much more sophisticated version that what Henry’s equipment takes.”
Serious concern flashed across his face.
“What?” I questioned.
“You’re not safe here. If others, Arcans, should discover that you can travel to other periods...”
“I know.”
Evil men, any group, could weaponize such an ability to change historical events that would destroy hundreds, thousands, possibly whole civilizations. When I posed to my students the idea of stopping political monsters from coming into power and saving future catastrophic events, I never once considered the opposite. Not until this minute.
But apparently my mother had.
...Because you are unique in a way that others will find dangerous, no telling what they might do to stamp out that threat to their power. So I’m writing this letter and making legal and financial provisions for you in case they are successful, and I am no longer on this earth to keep you safe...
“How did you do it the first time?” Bryant questioned quickly.
“I don’t...I had cut my hand and accidently smeared it across those symbols when I was examining—”
Bryant whipped out his knife and gripped my hand, slicing the blade across my forefinger, then squeezing the tip to push a thick drop of blood which he roughly swiped across the symbols.
When nothing happened, he repeated the action and waited. Then a third time.
“Are you certain you didn’t do anything else?” he asked.
“No! I’m not certain of anything,” I shouted, yanking my hand away. “I wish I did. Besides, it’s not supposed to work now, according to Flying Deer. Not until the next Samhain. I’ll just have to wait and try then.”
Bryant didn’t look happy to hear this, then checked around. “What else did she say about this place?”
“Not much. Nothing that makes sense to me anyhow.”
“We’ll go back to the village then,” he said, sheathing his knife. “Tomorrow. Next time I’ll hear what she has to say for myself.”
I dug my fingers into my pocket to feel the security of my crystal, grateful now that Flying Deer had gifted this to me.
I was glad that we would be returning to the Indian village tomorrow, because I had more specifics questions for the medicine woman myself.
* * *
The next week passed as I grimly settled into nineteenth century life with this mountain man in his wild, primitive world.
Between Arcan Hunters, wolves, bears and other natural predators, I asked Bryant to teach me how to shoot and wield a knife properly. He assured me that it wasn’t necessary, that he would protect me well enough. I pointed out that he wasn’t always around, particularly when he went out hunting or was on another illusive midnight patrol. So after a few days of persistently nagging, he finally agreed.
I was an apt student and effectively learned how to brandish a knife and take down my opponent. Shooting the gun was another tricky skill. It took spending all of its ammunition, but eventually I was able to hit at least two out of the five targets Bryant set up.
We made a few other trips to the Snoqualmie village. The first to speak with Flying Deer with Bryant himself acting as translator and asking his own questions. The next, so that he could speak with the men and elders about the so-called priests and school masters(I wasn’t convinced they were legit)coming in from the outside world to teach their children. Many weren’t convinced of his concerns and warnings. Others at least listened and seemed to take his words into consideration.
While Bryant was occupied with the men either in a yet another roundtable discussion or group hunting party, I spent time with Dove-caller and some of the other women.
They were just like any other hen group, chitchatting and knocking back a sweet berry wine or grain beer they fermented while munching on tasty fried cakes or fruit desserts. Dove-caller and her daughters were all very talented at arts and crafts, and they taught me how to weave some very beautiful baskets that I brought back to the cabin.
For some reason, I became a reluctant celebrity amongst the kids. There was always a troupe of little girls clustering around and following the curious “magical” White Lady (my new Snoqualmie name). The harder I avoided the pesky critters though, the more their numbers increased.
Bryant thought my anxious reaction to the kids quite funny, especially since I was supposed to be a schoolmarm who should be naturally grateful for my adoring tiny fans. In fact, I suspected that he disclosed my secret whereabouts to them for a good laugh at my expense.
