The Man from Forever (13 page)

Finally he opened a shelf filled with Indian baskets. He reached for one before she reminded him that the white gloves on the nearby table were to protect fragile objects from body oils. “It just seems like overkill,” he said as he pulled one on. “No one ever comes in here. It's not like they're going to get mauled. That's another thing I'm working on. Trying to set up a hands-on exhibit so people can experience life as the Modocs did—at least as much as we know. You know, how they cooked their meals, what their bows and
arrows and stuff were like. That's bound to bring more people in than sticking things away in a back room.”

She conceded that it might. Although she wanted to be reassured that Fenton had no intention of letting people handle the genuine article, she couldn't concentrate enough to ask the question. Taking over, she methodically studied each drawer and glass case, appalled to find only a few baskets, a limited arrowhead collection, some ragged clothing. Certainly more than that had been salvaged.

“That's it?” she asked. “I can't believe it—there's almost nothing.”

“I guess there's some stuff over at the county museum. I haven't gone there so I can't be sure. Look,” he indicated one of the glass shelves “—I've been told that some of these rusty old rifles still work, not that I'm going to take a chance on shooting myself. They weigh so damn much, I can understand why it was hard for the soldiers to make a decent advance on the stronghold.”

She didn't care about the soldiers' weapons, their uniforms, even their personal belongings. The army had been the invader, and yet there was much more of their possessions than what had been part of the Modocs for thousands of years. “What happened?”

“What do you mean, what happened?”

“The Modocs had an entire culture, an ancient and enduring way of life. There has to be more of its physical evidence still in existence.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. People were all over this place before it was made into a landmark, you know. A lot of it was probably carted away.”

He was right, of course. The same thing had happened over and over again at other Native American sites. But although she'd been upset over the destruction and vandalism, it had never before felt like a personal invasion. “They'd been partially assimilated before they went to war,” she muttered. “That means they'd forsaken many of their traditional materials, like baskets and—and obsidian knives—for what the
settlers had. So much was already lost.” Although the room was windowless, she looked around for some ray of sunlight, anything to keep her from thinking they'd entered a pathetic repository of the dead.

“It happens. There's nothing we can do about it.”

Something in Fenton's tone caught her attention. Concentrating, she wondered if she really had sensed regret in him. Maybe he wasn't as materialistic and insensitive as she'd thought. “No, I guess not.”

Although she already knew it was an exercise in futility, she made a systematic search of the room's contents. She had to admit that what had been collected had been carefully preserved. The Modocs, for whatever reasons, hadn't overly concerned themselves with art. She'd been to Petroglyph Point, a nearby high bluff filled with prehistoric carvings and drawings, and had tried to find meaning in the seemingly random symbols, but if they represented examples of the Modoc religion, the truth had been lost to history.

The climate here was such that the Modocs had spent most of their time as nomads who concentrated on food gathering and otherwise preparing for the long, harsh winters. True, they'd been so tuned into their surroundings and what nature provided that they'd been able to live comfortably, but there must not have been enough time left over for such creative endeavors as the totems found on the Pacific Northwest coast, elaborate blankets and jewelry like those the Navaho were known for. Even their language was gone—except for Loka.

“Are you done?”

Pulled out of her musing by Fenton's question, she nodded and left the room so he could lock the door behind them. “It seems so tragic,” she couldn't help saying, “to think that a whole way of life has been lost. I…”

“There's the library. One of the books was written by Winema's son—you probably know that. I haven't looked at it but I'd think it would be pretty accurate.”

She knew about that text, had read it in fact. Winema, the Modoc woman married to a white man during the Modoc
Wars, had played a pivotal role in bringing the war to an end, but her son had been only a child then, and many of his recollections had been disputed. Still, she wandered into the library with Fenton and thumbed through books for several minutes.

To her disappointment but not surprise, everything in the small but complete collection had been written from an outside perspective. She found the personal diaries by soldiers fascinating and wished she had more time to pore over newspaper accounts of the war. Still, there wasn't a single word describing what that time of upheaval and change had been like for the Modocs themselves.

“They're in here,” she said at last. “But they've been filtered, disturbed, and too much has been lost.”

“Like I said, we can't do anything about that,” Fenton said, obviously anxious to leave. “If we could recapture that time, well, that would be incredible. Absolutely incredible. Think of the hoards of people who'd flock here then. It boggles my mind just thinking about it. Well, at least the land is the same, and the more people we can get here to see it, the more who will think the way you do.”

Maybe, she thought, but lacked the energy to contemplate that, or the energy to fathom how Loka would be exploited if his existence became known. Now that she'd been up and moving for several hours, she had to admit that last night had been anything but restful. But did she expect it to be any different? After all, she'd spent it with the final living link to the culture she'd been searching for this morning.

But he'd been more than that. Loka was a man, young and healthy, sensual and sexual in a way that defied description.

When she stepped outside, the sun was waiting for her. It lay heavy on her shoulders, heated her hair. She walked over to a stone wall and looked out at miles and miles of beautifully barren land. She sensed Fenton's presence behind her, but couldn't concentrate on him. This was Loka's world, damn it! His and his people's! Only, they no longer existed.

Except for him, it had all been lost.

You have a responsibility, Loka. You can't keep an entire culture trapped within you! You know that. Damn it, I know you do. That's why you reached out to me—why you keep seeking… What?

A way of life can't die with you. It can't.

Die?

 

Despite the wind swirling around him, the mother lake remained calm. For a long time, Loka simply stared at its peaceful surface, remembering how as a child he'd gone fishing with his father and uncles. The men had been intent on spearing as many fish as they could, but he and the other children had found it impossible to remain motionless for what seemed forever, not when tiny fish ventured close to nibble at their toes.

Closing his eyes, he heard again his son's excited giggles the first time a fish did that to him. At least, he reminded himself, he would always have that memory.

Memories. There were so many of them, gnawing at him with hungry fingers. He surged to his feet, belatedly remembering to look around to assure himself that he hadn't been spotted. Realizing he'd let something come between him and the need for caution, the instinct for survival made his temples pound. Still, no matter how hard he tried to remain rooted in the past, thoughts of General Canby's great-great-granddaughter continued to haunt him.

He'd told her he would seek out Bear and take Bear's wisdom as his own, but there'd been an even more compelling reason for him to go in search of the wise one. While they were together, Tory's presence had blinded him to the truth in the messages from Coyote and Owl, but she was gone now, and he could no longer ignore certain things. Coyote's howl had lasted for days while the Maklaks attempted to flee the white men. Now Coyote was back, his haunting cry so close that Loka knew his life was in danger.

And the only thing that had changed about his life was that Tory had entered it.

“
Blaiwas.
Return to me. Hear the questions in my heart. Give me the answer I seek.”

He had to repeat his prayer twice but finally the familiar dark dot made its appearance. Freed from the distraction of Tory's presence, he concentrated on the great bird. If the enemy was about, they would see an eagle and think it had come to the lake in search of something to eat. Only he knew the truth—he and Tory Kent.

“
Blaiwas.
I am yours, as you are mine. I would lay down my life to protect you. Surely you know that. I seek only your wisdom. I walk a dangerous path. I fear nothing, but a warrior who wishes to live another day must understand his enemy. Is it her? Is this the message from Coyote—have I angered Kumookumts by taking her to the sacred mountain? By trying to understand her world? By wanting to take her to my bed? If I expend myself inside her, will she keep my strength?”

As the questions he'd been most reluctant to ask swirled above him, he studied Eagle's awesome wingspan. Eagle's strength had become his during those long-ago days of fighting and trying to stay alive and vowing to do the same for the other Maklaks. If it hadn't been for his son, he would have willingly died a warrior's death. But he hadn't, and because he hadn't, he now found himself alone in a world not of his making, torn between loyalty to the past and a woman from the new world.

“I lost myself in her eyes,” he told the circling bird. “My flesh was weak—I took her to sacred ground because I wanted her to see the power of Kumookumts. Because I wanted to see understanding and belief in her eyes. Maybe I was unwise.” His fingers clenched. “Maybe I have become a man who has forgotten that he is foremost a warrior. She wants me to reveal everything to her people, to those she calls Modocs but are not. I ask of you, should I listen to her or turn from her? Is there wisdom in her voice? Or treachery?”

Eagle floated lower, a wing dipping so close to the lake's
surface that it cast a vivid shadow. Loka felt himself being embraced by the bird. Like a warm blanket, a wing touched first one shoulder and then another.

Eagle's message was clear.

Danger lurked. Eagle wanted to protect him from that danger.

T
ory waited while Fenton unlocked the metal grate over the entrance to Fern Cave. Taking the lantern he'd brought along, he stepped onto the narrow ladder and made his cautious way past the vibrant ferns reaching for what little sunlight made its way into the cave. She followed him, careful not to brush so much as a single frond. Once on the ground, she walked around the large green mound until the narrow path widened enough for her and Fenton to stand side by side.

“Pretty impressive, isn't it?”

Although Fenton was referring to the ferns, which had been growing for thousands of years in this uniquely protected environment where shade and constant moisture made it possible for water-loving plants to grow, her attention was immediately drawn to the drawings on the rock walls ringing the small opening. The markings at Petroglyph Point had been behind cyclone fencing, too far away to touch and high overhead; thus, it had been impossible for her to get close enough to see much in the way of detail. Here, however, was an anthropologist's delight.

Yes, a botanist could and probably had devoted months to studying this anomaly, but although she wanted to know more than she did about soil and water and air conditions underground, this wasn't the time.

When she realized Fenton was watching her, she went through the motions of taking pictures, but although she'd told him she needed to record the drawings to incorporate these with what hopefully would be done on the coast, the truth was much more personal.

Maybe Loka had been responsible for one of these symbols. A number had been placed here using some kind of dye. Other marks had been carved into the rock itself. Although she'd seen markings similar to these ever since she began taking anthropology courses, she knew that interpretations as to their meaning was nothing more than educated guesswork, something she wasn't going to indulge in.

“I don't know,” Fenton said. He'd been kneeling near the ferns, studying them intently.

“You don't know what?”

“How much people are going to be interested in this. Sure, botanists, biologists, people into plants get off on this kind of thing, but I've got to look at the larger numbers. If I propose a publicity blitz and we get only a few hundred more people a year coming here because of the ferns, it's not going to be worth the effort. And Robert's right. It won't be long before the ferns are trampled, and then we'll be back where we were, scrambling for dollars.”

It was cool down here, not cold enough that she felt the need for a jacket, but after the heat of the lava beds, she knew she couldn't stand still for long. The cave's opening was highest here near the opening. It sloped away behind them until the roof and a massive jumble of boulders in the distance seemed to meet. Between the muted sunlight and Fenton's flashlight, she had no trouble seeing back here, but she could make out little more than shadows at the cave's far reaches. They called to her, encouraged her to step back in time.

Had this been a sacred place? She didn't see how it could have been otherwise.

“What do you think?” Fenton inquired. “Would you pay good money to be brought here?”

She was hardly the one to ask. After what had happened to her life and heart and emotions since coming to the lava beds, no price was too great. “I think you're going to get a lot of opposition, and not just from the park director and board members.”

“I've been thinking about that.” Fenton walked around to the right of the ferns as far as he could go, then, arms folded, surveyed them again. “There's so little room down here. No way could we get more than a dozen, maybe twenty people jammed in here at one time.”

She tried to hold on to what he was saying, tried to convince herself that if she came up with a compelling enough argument, she might be able to stop his potentially destructive plans before they went any further. But something was calling to her, taking her away from today's world just as spending the night on top of Spirit Mountain had. The walls felt alive with history. More than that, they gave out a timeless message of heritage and belief, thousands of years of Modoc tradition just beyond her fingertips.

One of the hard realities of her career was that much of her work was speculative in nature. She could look at what remained of a shaman's belongings and basically guess how he'd used a mix of herbs and other materials plus the power of belief to heal his patients. What she hadn't known—what her generation would never know—was whether a warrior truly believed in and trusted his guardian spirit, and whether that belief gave him courage far beyond what today's so-called sophisticated men could possibly understand.

Loka held that key—Loka whose essence haunted her every thought.

Did she dare tell Dr. Grossnickle about him, she asked herself for what seemed like the thousandth time. She went back to studying the seemingly random wall markings. Dr.
Grossnickle was one of, if not
the
foremost anthropologist in the world, and although he was sometimes criticized by the academic community for the way he used the media, he was brilliant. And just as frustrated as she.

Together they could—with Loka they could…

Could what?

If she insisted on being in charge of working with Loka, she could guarantee he would remain protected from the media. Dr. Grossnickle would know how to handle that.

Wouldn't he?

What was she thinking about! If so much as a hint of his existence leaked, Loka would become a specimen fought over by hundreds of ambitious researchers, the press, maybe even the government.

If that happened, it would destroy him; he would hate her for as long as he lived.

Maybe he already did.

Head pounding, she placed her hand over one of the drawings. It looked rather like a sun being held aloft by a stick figure. It could mean that the early Modocs worshiped the sun. And it might be nothing more profound than a representation of one of their games.

No, not a game, she decided as her palm warmed. She stared at her hand, at the stone, and forgot to breathe. It wasn't possible! Surely she was letting her imagination get away from her. Or was she? The back of her hand felt cool thanks to the cave's temperature, but she could swear, almost, that her palm had become warmer.

Tearing her attention from what she was doing, she looked around for Fenton. He was down on his hands and knees gazing at the far side of the ferns, which grew up to the cave wall there. She could hear him muttering something but didn't think he was talking to her. Not that it mattered.

Heat? Coming from an unknown source?

Eagle. Wolf howling.

She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. Feeling as if she'd been dropped into a twilight zone, she simply
asked herself if she'd become privy to something that couldn't possibly be and yet was.

Loka existed. Being who she was had awakened him. That in and of itself was a miracle—only there was more to it than that. She couldn't let this link with the past, this link between a man and a woman—remain locked within her.

But Loka would hate her if she told anyone, and a word from her might jeopardize his life. No wonder he'd remained separate from everyone. If she, who was a supposedly competent member of the here and now, couldn't figure out his role in it, how could she expect more from him?

But he'd been alone, shut off, for so long. He hungered for some sense of belonging. Wanted to be touched by a living, breathing woman.

“It'll work.” Fenton's unexpected comment shook her from questions without solutions. “I'll just have to make sure there's plenty of signs around telling people what they can and can't touch. We'll have to have someone around to guide the tours. I thought I might be able to get away without tying up a ranger for that, since no one puts restrictions on other activities around here, but having an employee on hand will give people the clear message that vandalism won't be tolerated. Yeah, I think it's going to work.”

She didn't realize she still had her hand over the drawing until she felt numbing cold seep into the bones of her fingers. Shocked, she drew back and held her palm up to her mouth. There was no denying it; her hand was as cold as stone.

“You're not saying anything. You think I'm wrong, don't you?”

“What?”

“I said—never mind. I've got to get back to headquarters. Are you about done?”

She nodded because she didn't trust herself to speak. She took a single, tentative step and then another. If only she could tell someone what had happened. But what, if anything, had she experienced? And who, or what, if anything, was responsible?

Fenton started up the ladder. She gripped the railing, telling herself that sunlight and fresh air might bring herself back to reality, but couldn't make herself leave. For a moment, her attention remained fixed on the drawings, but then, slowly and relentlessly, she felt something at the rear of the cave call to her. Turning, she stared into shadows. Fenton had told her the cave ended back there, that if there'd ever been another opening, boulders shaken loose by a long-ago earthquake had sealed it off.

She and Fenton were alone down here.

Or were they?

As her eyes became accustomed to the dark, she saw something in the shadows. Something—some
one
who stared back at her.

Loka.

 

Hours later, Tory sat in the only chair in her cabin and stared out the nearest window. After returning to park headquarters, she'd tried to get in touch with Dr. Grossnickle, but had reached only his voice mail. She'd left a message that she now regretted, a disjointed comment about having discovered something she had to try to understand better. She was sorry about this delay in getting back to work and would be there as soon as possible.

What would she say when Dr. Grossnickle demanded an explanation as she knew he would?

It was the strangest thing. I met this Indian who fought the army here in 1873. He's got this pet eagle and we heard a wolf; you know, wolves haven't been here for years. I—he touched me and I changed. I want him, need him.

No! She couldn't say a word; it might risk Loka's life. Certainly her emotions, splintered and dangerous and overwhelming, were too private to share.

But if she kept her secret, everything he represented—a proud and noble way of life—would remain locked within him.

Sighing, she leaned her head against the back of the chair and tried to think of nothing. Unfortunately, that didn't work.

Darn Fenton, he'd refused to give her any privacy, and she'd been forced to call Dr. Grossnickle with him hanging on to every word. And the way he'd looked at her as she made her way out of the cave—it was as if her expression had given something away.

There wasn't enough air moving in the cabin. She supposed she could go outside, but it seemed like too much of an effort. Maybe she'd spend the rest of her life sitting here listening to insects buzz and chirp and make other insect sounds. And maybe she had no choice but to head into The Land Of Burned Out Fires, The Smiles Of God, and ask Loka to make love to her.

As thoughts of his hands on hers grew stronger, she easily dismissed everything else. She wanted to know what his chest and back and arms and legs felt like, ached to lose herself in his embrace.

Needed to feel him entering her.

Her mouth parted; she didn't care. Eyes closed, she allowed herself to be swept into a world of imagination and imagery. Loka would be waiting for her. It didn't matter whether she went back to Fern Cave or climbed Spirit Mountain or took the trail through Captain Jack's Stronghold, he would find her.

He would know why she was there.

Her fingers began moving restlessly up and down the chair's wooden arms. They needed not hard wood, but a man's flesh. It didn't matter how he took her; she didn't need foreplay. To come together in heat and need—to reach for and find that sensual explosion, to—

She wasn't alone.

Sitting up, she looked around, but the cabin hadn't changed. This wasn't Fern Cave and Loka wasn't staring at her from the shadows. Still, she had no doubt that he was near. After kicking back into her shoes, she stood and walked over to the window. Although she peered in all directions,
she saw nothing that hadn't been there before. Just the same, the belief that he was here intensified.

She opened the door and stepped outside. The insects became noisier. The afternoon's heat should have made her feel lethargic. Instead, anticipation and raw hunger surged through her.

“Loka? Where are you?”

Nothing. Slightly apprehensive now, she looked around more carefully. Loka wasn't some high-spirited lover. He might not know that men and women sometimes teased each other, that it was possible for them to laugh and play.

He didn't trust her; she knew that. And he wasn't her lover.

“Loka?”

She didn't really expect him to answer. Still, when the silence stretched on, she experienced a moment of abject loneliness. They'd spent most of a day and a night together and he'd been in Fern Cave with her. Now they were apart, and she felt more alone than she had in her entire life. The weariness she'd been experiencing a few minutes ago no longer mattered. Nothing did except finding him.

The wilderness stretched out around her, called her to it; she had no urge to fight its pull. She made her way around rock and brush, over rises and into small gullies drawn by a powerful and undefinable force. With every step, she felt herself moving farther and farther from civilization and toward the only place she wanted to be.

With Loka.

She became aware of his presence by degrees. At first he was nothing more than a shadow beneath a scraggly evergreen, but slowly, hauntingly, shade became substance—his substance. Shaking a little now, she continued toward him. She felt the afternoon's sun beating down on her head; the summer heat filled her with energy. She'd told Fenton she would be leaving soon but now, coming closer and closer to Loka, the future meant nothing.