Whisper Falls (2 page)

“Are you trying to distract me?”

“Yes.”

“It's working.” She added a glob of butter to her broccoli. “The job is tough. There's a lot to learn.”

My mother had switched from trauma nursing to hospice care the same week Marissa moved. The timing wasn't so great.

“Like what?”

“We don't try to save people. Our goal is to keep them comfortable. It's a different mindset. I didn't expect it to be as difficult as it is…”

She talked for a while. When she paused to chew, I asked questions. And I actually paid attention to some of what she said, although I watched the clock, too.

Dad rescued us both by calling. While she paced around with the phone, I headed for the garage.

The delay meant I'd have to change my route. I couldn't train far from home this close to nightfall. Conveniently for me, there was a greenway that edged our neighborhood, connecting Umstead State Park to the other pedestrian/ biking paths leading into Raleigh. I would take the greenway toward Umstead.

Helmet on, I wheeled my bike across the backyard, through the wooden gate, and onto the wide pavement. No one else was out during the dinner hour. I loved the greenway like this. Quiet. Deserted. No people or dogs to dodge. It was as if I owned a dim, cool tunnel of trees.

A quarter mile away, a dirt track forked away from the greenway's pavement and into a dense pine forest. Ready to go off-road, I turned onto the rutted track, hopped over a pair of tree roots, and maneuvered down a slope toward the banks of Rocky Creek. Up ahead, I could hear Whisper Falls murmuring as it plunged from a low bluff into the shallow creek below. The bluff had a steady incline. Steep, but not crazy steep.

I didn't slow as I swooped along the bottom of the hill. I'd studied another cyclist—a guy with a lot of first-place finishes—who attacked inclines like this head-on, as if he would knock the hill down. I was going to give the technique a try.

I slammed into the approach, caught a tire on a rock, and lost my balance.

Okay, that didn't work. Fortunately, there was plenty of natural compost to break the fall.

I tried again and got a little farther this time.

“How foolish.”

The words whispered past me, so faint it could've been my imagination. I looked around. Was somebody watching me? Did they assume I was being an idiot? Not that I cared. To train thoroughly, I had to practice skills like this, which meant I had to fall and bust my ass on occasion. All part of the process.

It was just irritating that anyone might've witnessed it.

I walked my bike down the hill and stopped at the bottom. Rocky Creek babbled a few feet away, boulders dotting it at irregular intervals. When I was little, I loved trying to hop across the creek without getting wet. I'd rarely succeeded.

The falls were the best thing about the greenway, and it wasn't only the eight-foot curtain of water that was cool. There was also the cave. Not very tall or deep, but eerie. Full of moss-covered rocks. A great place to hide and chill and be totally alone in the middle of the city.

Something hovered near the mouth of the cave, behind the falls. A rectangle of cloth seemed to glow in the fading light.

A shadow wavered and shifted. It was a girl about my age. She wore dorky clothes—a long-sleeved brown shirt, an ankle-length skirt, and a ghostly white apron. Silent and unmoving, she stared at me through a liquid sheet of glass.

I guessed it was my turn to speak.

“Did you say something?”

She waited before responding. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and husky. “You're being foolish. If you wish to reach the top, perhaps you'll arrive more quickly by carrying your odd machine.”

And there it was, a completely wrong interpretation of a perfectly reasonable technique. The need to explain was irresistible. “I don't want to arrive at the top quickly. I want to get there by riding the bike.”

She had no reaction—just watched with big, dark eyes in a pale, oval face.

This was stupid. Why couldn't I drop it? The daylight was disappearing while I wasted it on a stare-down with an Amish girl.

After securing the bike to a tree, I hopped from boulder to boulder along the creek's edge, stopping on a rock that would get me as close to the falls as possible without being sprayed.

“Do not take another step, or I shall scream.”

I halted and gave her a closer look. The girl stood on a flat rock behind the falls, only a few meters away, her face expressionless and fists clenched against her sides. She was a head shorter than me, thin but not to the eating disorder level, with dark hair hidden under a cap. Her bare toes were visible below the hem of her brown skirt.

I couldn't stop a smile. She had nothing to fear from me. “Don't scream. You're safe.”

“Indeed? Why should I believe you?”

“For starters, that's an incredibly expensive bike back there. I'm not leaving it alone.”

“A bike? Is that what you call your odd machine?”

As if she didn't know what a bike was. “Right.”

The girl was so still. Her face. Her body. Nothing on her moved except her lips and her eyes. “May I ask an impertinent question?”

“Sure.”

“You wear most unusual clothes. Where are you from?”

Damn, she was frickin' strange. Did her keepers know where she was? They really shouldn't have let her roam around on her own. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“You're the stranger in our village, not me.”

“Right.” Village? With a half million people? “I was born and raised in Raleigh.”

Her chin jerked up. It was the first real reaction I'd seen from her.

“You cannot be speaking the truth. Raleigh is miles away, nor did it exist when you were born.”

“What are you talking about?” I shifted onto the balls of my feet and scanned the bluff above her, looking for signs of other freaks in dorky costumes. But I saw no one.

A chill wind swirled around me. This was getting creepy, like I'd stepped onto the set of a bad reality TV show, only there were no cameras rolling anywhere that I could see. “We're in Raleigh right now. And the city's been here since the 1700s.”

“Indeed, it has. Since 1794, to be precise. Two years ago.”

Who might this handsome stranger be? And why would he tell such an outrageous lie?

He had the smooth, supple hands of a gentleman but the lean body of a laborer. He spoke like one of the upper class, yet his manner was too familiar. No true gentleman would ever talk so directly with a servant.

His apparel added to the mystery. He wore a shirt made of silky green cloth, tailored close to his chest. His hat resembled a cracked bowl. Lustrous black trousers stopped above his knees, and he wore no stockings. I had never seen a man with bare legs. It was too interesting to embarrass me properly.

“This is psycho.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “Who are you?”

I could see no reason to hide my name. “Susanna Marsh.” “What year do you think it is?”

Think?
Did he expect me to make up an answer? “It's 1796.”

He looked down at the water, his face tight. “Who's the president?”

“Mr. Washington.” His questions insulted me. I might live in a village, but that didn't mean I was unaware of the outside world. “And you, sir? What is your name?”

“Mark Lewis.”

“Why have you come to Worthville?”

“Worthville?” His gaze snapped back to mine. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“A joke?”

Truly, this was an extraordinary conversation. Was he unstable? A whisper of unease rippled through me. I was alone and far from my master's house. No one would hear me call. Glancing over my shoulder, I gauged my distance to the cliff behind me. If the young man were mad—if he were to leap into the cave with me—how quickly could I climb to the bluff above?

“I have answered your questions honestly. What part do you take for a joke?”

“It is
not
1796,” he said through gritted teeth, as if I were the one mocking him.

“Which year do you believe it is?”

“Nowhere near 1796.”

He eyed the bridge of rocks that connected the two sides of the creek by passing behind the falls. He hopped onto the first boulder, then a second and a third. He disappeared. I braced to flee, expecting him to emerge on my side of the curtain of water, but he didn't come.

He stepped back into view, his eyes wide. “Where did you go so fast?”

“I have not moved.”

“This is seriously weird.” With a step sideways, he vanished again and then instantly reappeared. “You promise you're not moving?”

I nodded. “I promise.”

“Okay, that's it.” Removing his odd bowl of a hat, he set it on a dry ledge and turned to face me. “I'm coming over there.” He crouched, ready to spring.

I shrank backwards, stumbling over my petticoat to land with a hard thump. Fear whipped through me, flooding my limbs with urgency. I rolled to my knees, scrambled to my feet, and clawed at the cliff, my toes fumbling for a hold.

Seconds passed, yet no hand wrenched me down to the cave floor. I paused long enough to glance over my shoulder and then stopped, arrested by the scene behind me.

The young man had not pierced the falls. Instead, the water bent, enfolding him in a crystal cape, and was gently delivering him back to his boulder. It was impossible, yet lovely to behold.

“Damn.”

I blinked at the strong language. He'd forgotten me for the moment, his gaze tracing the falls from top to bottom. With a grunt of exertion, he sprang again, only to reap the same miraculous result.

He scowled at the water, an angry jut to his chin. When he punched at it with his fist, it bowed but didn't break.

“What is happening?” Even though he muttered, the words came through clearly.

Fear forgotten, I returned to my favorite rock and stood a respectful distance from the force of the water. The falls were different, somehow. Dazzling.

Fascination drove me one step closer, then another. When at last my toes gripped the edge of the rock, I glanced down and wavered. The falls pounded the stones below, the creek a boiling cauldron of foam.

Dare I take the risk?

The young man watched me, a challenge in the arch of his eyebrow. Did he find my caution childish? I didn't like that possibility. No, indeed. I squared my shoulders and stretched forward until my hand breached the flow. Water sparkled over my fingertips, yet they remained dry. When I withdrew my hand, the glittering glove disappeared.

It was so delightful I ignored the young man and the stones and the boiling foam. I played in the flow, marveling as it wound about my splayed fingers like fine silk ribbons.

Mr. Lewis raised his hand slowly and flattened it against mine, palm to palm, fingers to fingers.

I shivered with pleasure. It was most improper for us to touch this way, yet I didn't break the contact. People never touched me by choice. No, truly, that wasn't correct. I was grabbed, prodded, or shoved. But a caress? Never. It was alluring.

He offered his other hand, and I met it, too, pressing tentatively at first and then with greater curiosity, enthralled by his warmth. We touched through a shimmering barrier—a silken screen of water that did not wet.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“I'm from the twenty-first century.”

The words echoed hollowly in my ears. The twenty-first century? Why, no indeed. He had misspoken, or I had misheard, or…

I snatched my hands away. “What do you mean?”

“If you really live in 1796, I won't be born for over two hundred years.”

Two hundred years?

I backed up until the rock wall stopped my progress. It was all a bad joke, a bit of foolishness at my expense, for what he claimed was impossible, and I didn't want Mr. Lewis to be a liar. “You're teasing me.”

“No, I'm not.” He gestured behind him. “You see that odd machine? Bikes were invented around 1820.”

“It cannot be.” I shook my head emphatically.

“I agree. It makes no sense.”

Mr. Worth had thundered similar words from the pulpit on Sunday.
That which makes no sense must surely come from Satan
.

Could Mr. Worth's claim explain this young man? I didn't wish to believe it. Mr. Mark Lewis was too polite, too kind, too bewildered to be a demon.

But what other explanation could there be?

Perhaps I had eaten spoiled chicken. Yes, that must be the cause of this incredible dream. I was ill and overtired. I needed rest.

“It's time for me to leave.” I felt along the cliff for the crevices which served as rungs on my rocky ladder. With a mighty pull, I lifted myself over the lip of land that hid the entrance to my refuge.

“Wait.”

I persisted, ignoring the velvet voice of my dream demon. Swiftly, I pushed through the tall grasses, then plunged into the darkening woods toward the home of my master.

Behind me, the falls whispered:
come back
.

* * *

The Pratts always retired at dusk. Candles were a luxury my master didn't care to waste.

The house had settled into silence, save for the occasional scratching of squirrels across the gables. I climbed the narrow steps to the attic, stripped to my linen shift, and crawled onto a pallet of straw in my little corner under the eaves.

Yet sleep eluded me. Memories of the stranger haunted my thoughts. Merciful heavens, he'd been handsome, his hair the deepest of browns and eyes the rich amber of honey. How could evil have such a charming face or such a warm demeanor?

The image of his smile faded into the attic's darkness and left uncertainty in its wake. Of course, evil could be attractive. What better way to deceive?