Miracle in the Mist (4 page)

Clara turned her attention from Emanuel to the burly woodsman. The large hand gripping Alvin's coffee cup had stopped halfway to his mouth and every ounce of color had drained from his normally ruddy face.

Chapter 2

The next morning in Clara Webb's cottage
…

For a moment Carrie panicked. Disoriented and half-asleep, she had no idea where she was. An unfamiliar room surrounded her. The old chest of drawers in the corner; starched, white curtains blowing in the balmy breeze from the open window; and the hand-worked, multi-colored quilt folded neatly over the foot rail of the bed had never been part of her bedroom.

Then recollections of the night before flashed through her mind. She remembered Irma guiding her through the snowy night and into a glen shrouded in a strange, brightly glowing, white mist. Though Carrie had initially held back, Irma had reassured her with a calm voice that banished all fear and replaced it with the kind of security only a true friend can command. Carrie had allowed herself to be ushered into the mist. Though the mist had glowed like a thousand candles, she had felt only comforting warmth. Instantly any residual fear or hesitation had been completely removed. It had felt like coming home after a long, exhausting journey. In her heart, she had known it had been the right thing to do.

Then she and Irma had stepped out of the mist and onto a small, rustic footbridge. On the other side of the bridge lay a village that seemed to have dropped from a fairy tale, illuminated by a sliver of pale yellow moon. Despite that lack of light, she had been able to make out the flowers abounding everywhere, even though, where she had just come from, it was the dead of winter. A mixture of their heady fragrances had filled the air. Quaint gaslights had illuminated the single, narrow dirt street curling through the scattering of thatch-roofed cottages.

Standing alone on the footpath on the opposite side of the bridge, apparently waiting for her with an outstretched hand, had been a woman who looked like everyone's image of their grandmother—except she seemed to have passed through a time warp.

Her white hair, which was almost concealed beneath a mobcap straight out of Colonial times, framed her smiling face. She wore a white muslin blouse and a long, dark skirt covered by a full-length, white apron. Her feet were encased in black shoes with large silver buckles that reflected the moonlight.

"This is Clara Webb, the village Weaver," Irma had told her. "You'll be staying with her during your time in the village."

"Welcome, my dear," Clara had said in a voice that oozed over Carrie like maple syrup on a hot summer day and left behind it a residue that reminded Carrie of her grandmother's love.

Carrie had barely had enough time to register that she'd recalled a small tidbit of her past before Clara had taken her hand, and Irma had vanished back into the mist. Left with little choice, Carrie had followed Clara to one of the cottages where the kindly woman had urged her to eat something and then took her to the loft and put her to bed, as though she were tending to a beloved child.

The bed had felt wonderful last night, warm and cozy, but this morning, it felt even better, and Carrie found herself very reluctant to leave her haven against the cold. She snuggled deeper into the heavenly, warm folds of the down comforter. From somewhere outside her cocoon the rich aroma of coffee brewing and bacon sizzling in a frying pan wafted temptingly to her.

Her tummy growled with hunger. She could almost taste the bacon and feel the warm coffee slipping down her dry throat.

How frustrating that she automatically remembered inconsequential things like the smell of bacon and the taste of coffee, while important details of her life remained tantalizingly just beyond the edges of her memory.

She sighed, rolled onto her back, and stared unseeingly at the peaked, open-beamed ceiling. She had no idea what would happen to her here, but if it helped her to finally grasp more than just the fringes of her memory, as Irma, Steve, and Meghan had promised, then she would be patient.

Throwing back the heavy comforter, she slid from the abnormally high bed and dropped to the floor, surprised that the room was comfortably warm. Her bare feet hit the pine boards before she saw a small set of steps that had been provided to get down from the bed. On a chair near the door lay her clothes—freshly laundered, meticulously ironed, and neatly folded. The bright red splotches of blood were gone from her white blouse, as well as all traces of the dirty smudges that had covered her brown skirt last night.

Dressed and barefooted, Carrie made her way noiselessly down the ladder from the loft.

"Good morning, my dear."

Carrie swung around and found Clara with her back to her. True to her designation within the village, Clara was deeply engrossed in working her loom and producing a long swath of dark green cloth.

"Morning," she said shyly, remaining at the foot of the ladder, unsure of what she should do next.

Clara continued to guide the shuttle to and fro on the loom. The
clickity clack
of the loom working its magic as it produced yard after yard of material broke the heavy silence in the room. Totally in awe of her surroundings, Carrie took the opportunity to look around her.

From the hand-hewn ceiling beams to the wide pine flooring, this entire place could have fallen out of a travel brochure for Williamsburg, Virginia. The keeping room, as she had known instantly it was referred to, like the loft and the woman who lived here, smacked strongly of a bygone era.

An unfinished, wrought-iron crane held a large, blackened teakettle over the blazing fire. Steam spewed from its spout. Next to the fieldstone hearth, a pile of logs half-hid a crudely made straw broom leaning against the stone fireplace. On the other side of the hearth, a black iron frying pan sat waiting to be used on the only close-to-modern thing in the room—a woodstove. A polished, well-used trestle-style table took up much of one end of the room and the loom filled the other. The highly polished pine floor was partially hidden beneath a rainbow-colored, handmade braided rug. Candles were placed strategically to spread a warm glow around the room, which was void of any sign of electricity. Like her bedroom, large hand-hewn beams crisscrossed the ceiling and held up the floor above. Muslin curtains framed the open, mullioned windows and fluttered in the soft, warm breeze. Outside the windows, flower boxes dripped with a blanket of pink petunias.

The smell of pine tickled Carrie's nose. She suddenly remembered that it was Christmas Eve, and like the Gateway Cabin, the cottage abounded with holiday decorations. Garlands stretched their greenery across the doorway and hearth and filled the air with their intoxicating scent. Candles nestled in beds of fresh pine dotted with pinecones. A much smaller tree than Steve and Meghan had in the cabin stood beside the window. Instead of the bright lights and shiny ornaments, Clara's tree held small, white candles at the tip of each branch, popcorn and cranberry strings, and sugar cookies. On top was a wooden star.

"Best eat before it gets cold," Clara said without turning around.

Carrie started and turned her gaze back to the trestle table. On it a plate of crisp, brown bacon; perfectly fried eggs; and golden, buttery toast awaited her. Beside it sat a mug of steaming coffee.

For a moment, Carrie could only stare in awe at the food. She could have sworn the table had been empty when she'd come down the ladder, and yet Clara hadn't moved from the loom in that time. So where had the food come from? She glanced at Clara, who continued weaving the seemingly never-ending swath of dark green cloth. Carrie's stomach growled, and instead of continuing to wonder where the food had come from, she sat down and dug in.

***

Clara peeked over her shoulder, smiled to herself, and turned back in time to catch the shuttle and slide it easily between the threads stretched over the frame of the loom. When things started happening that the Assignments couldn't logically explain, they looked so puzzled and surprised. Clara loved that. Just as she loved watching that puzzlement and surprise turn to wonder and then, eventually, to calm acceptance. Her breakfast was only the first of many things in Renaissance that Carrie would question, but have to come to accept.

Such a sweet thing this Carrie was, Clara thought. But, unfortunately, Emanuel was right. Carrie had no idea who she was or what she was, and it had nothing to do with her amnesia. It had to do with losing her soul, her courage, and her inner strength. Little did she know, her soul wasn't entirely lost. Just misplaced. And God willing, Clara would help her put herself together again into the wonderful woman she was before—well, before her life went sour.

Clara caught the shuttle and laid it aside. Glancing out the window toward the babbling stream that ran alongside the pathway and then made a sharp right turn to pass behind her cottage, she smiled and gave a faint nod. It was time for Carrie's first memory to return. She turned to Carrie, who had just finished the last bite of her breakfast and was gathering her dishes to take them to the washbasin on the table beside the sink.

"Leave them, dear. I'll see to them shortly. You've more important things that need your attention." She rose and went to Carrie. Laying a hand on her shoulder, she motioned with the other at the window overlooking the backyard. "I think you might want to take a walk outside. Perhaps to that large rock beside the water. I like to go out there sometimes when things become too heavy for my mind to bear. It helps me to put order to my thoughts."

Carrie paused in the midst of stacking the mug on the plate and starred at Clara with confused eyes. "But—"

"Shush. I'll not have an argument. Now, off with you," Clara said softly, and after urging the young woman to her feet, she guided her out the back door.

***

Carrie stepped off the stone steps onto the cushiony grass. A few feet away, the clearest water she'd ever seen gurgled and babbled its way zealously over various size rocks as it cut a zigzag path through the green lawn. Beneath the surface Carrie could see silvery fish swimming about. Occasionally, one would leap from the water and snare an unsuspecting insect, then drop back with a splash.

Along the path that ran adjacent to the stream, a well-tended flower bed teeming with a rainbow of blossoms spilled a myriad of sweet scents into the breeze and enticed dozens of bees and butterflies to savor the treats hidden within their colorful petals. Leaving the insects to their busy work, she strolled along the water's edge until she came to the large rock Clara had mentioned. With a sigh, she lowered herself to it and dug her bare toes into the sun-warmed, damp grass.

As she stared into the moving water, Carrie shook her head. How could she remember the insects' names—bumblebee, monarch butterfly, dragonfly—but she only knew her own name because of a slip of paper she'd found in her pocket? She didn't even know for sure that it
was
her name. But for the time being and until she found out differently, she was willing to be Carrie.

Unconsciously shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her skirt, she felt something small and smooth. Hesitantly, she drew it out and stared down at it. Crudely carved from a black stone, it resembled a tiny bear about an inch long and an inch high. It bore an inlay of another reddish stone that ran in a line from its mouth and terminated in an arrow shape about mid-chest near its heart. Its eyes were inlaid turquoise.

For a long time, Carrie studied it, turning it over and over in her fingers, feeling the slick surface of the warm, polished stone. Slowly the memory emerged.
Shashtsoh
, the grizzly bear. The line of red was a heart line and indicated a brave heart. Nana George, her part-Navajo maternal grandmother, had given it to her after she'd come back from a vacation in Arizona. Carrie had thought she'd lost it years ago. To find it in her pocket now was very strange, but very comforting.

"The Native Americans believe that the bear is the bravest of their forest brothers," Nana had said as she lay dying. "Keep him close. When I am gone, his courage and strength will help guide you down the true path of your life."

Why had her grandmother felt that way? Carrie racked her brain for an answer, but none came. All she saw were the blank pages of memory. Carrie bowed her head, closed her eyes tightly, gripped the small bear in her fingers, and concentrated with as much energy as she could. But nothing came to her except the dull throbbing behind her eyes.

Be patient, my sweet girl
.

Carrie started. Her eyes popped open, and she looked around for the person who had spoken. But she soon found she was alone with only a robin for company. The robin looked at her. Blinked and flew into a nearby maple tree.

It will all come back to you soon. For now, you must concentrate on you, what you need, who you are, not as a name, but as a woman
.

That voice again. Was it inside her head or coming from a real person? Again Carrie scanned the area around her. Still no one. Then who—

Suddenly she recognized the voice. "Nana George? Is that you?"

But the only sounds she heard were the buzzing of the insects and the twittering of the robin high above her.

***

Later that evening, while helping Clara with supper and still contemplating what had happened by the stream, Carrie glanced out the window. "It's getting foggy out."

"No, dear. That's the Transition beginning."

"Transition? What's that?"

Clara took her hand and seated her at the table.

"When a troubled soul, such as yourself, comes to the village, the village must come into a material state to admit that person. That process is called a Transition."

Carrie frowned. "A material state? But isn't it material already?"

Clara laughed softly. "Renaissance exists in the mists of time. When it's needed, it then takes on its material state to welcome the troubled within its embrace."