The Man from Forever (6 page)

She did but hadn't committed it to memory because she hadn't thought she'd need to get in touch with her boss during the few days she'd planned on being away. Glad for the
reminder of a world she understood, she looked around for a pay phone. When Fenton said she could use the one in his office, she had a momentary hesitation about indebting herself to him, but the pay phone was close to the parking lot. It might be difficult to carry on a conversation.

Unfortunately, Fenton wasn't content to simply lead her to the cubbyhole at the rear of some kind of storage building that he referred to as his office. Showing absolutely no hesitancy about what he was doing, he leaned against a wall, watching her as she dialed the number.

The phone rang so many times before Dr. Grossnickle came on the line that she was about to give up. As was usual with him, he wasted no time in small talk. Yes, he was sorry to inconvenience her, but she had told him where she was going to be. He knew she'd want to hear this.

She listened while Dr. Grossnickle brought her up to speed about the Oregon Indian Council's latest attempt to block the university's involvement in the Alsea excavation. Although the district court had ruled that the council had no exclusive right to the site because it was on federal land, they'd drawn up an appeal based on their original contention that the artifacts were sacred and thus should be entrusted to Native Americans, not outsiders.

“What really worries me is the way the press is reporting things. They were so excited by the discovery—well, you know what they were calling it, a vital key to the past. It looks like they've changed their tunes and are saying we'd be exploiting the site instead of giving it the reverent treatment the Indians would. Can you believe that?”

Dr. Grossnickle continued detailing his objections, but because she'd heard them so many times during the protracted legal maneuvers, she listened with only half an ear. The university's official stand—with Dr. Grossnickle as its spokesperson—was that only trained professionals should be allowed to document the Alsea culture. Knowing what could happen to a site if someone who didn't know what he was doing trampled over it, she had no argument with any of this.
But there was more at stake than uncovering an ancient village. Whoever headed the project would see his career take a giant step forward. Already they'd been approached by national magazines, and the three major TV networks had all sent representatives. She wouldn't hazard a guess at the chance for a Pulitzer, but she also had no doubt that Dr. Grossnickle was in part motivated by what this project would do for him professionally. All right, she admitted. She had been motivated by the same thing: ambition. After all, it wasn't every day that a twenty-eight-year-old woman got her name linked with something that rivaled the locating of the
Titanic.

As Dr. Grossnickle rambled on, she found herself staring out the tiny window to the left of Fenton's office. She couldn't see much, just a small chunk of the horizon and a butte so far away that it lacked definition. Still, the butte held her attention.

Did Loka ever go up there? If he did, what could he see?

Loka—a key to the past.

Something was softening deep inside her. She couldn't put a name to it, could barely face the reason for its existence. She tried to tell herself that she'd been on a killer pace for so long that she hadn't had time for herself, but it was more than that. Loka had touched her. Left something of himself. That was what had crawled inside her, might never leave.

Barely aware that Fenton was still watching her, she walked from one side of the desk to the other so she was closer to the window. Dr. Grossnickle's voice was part and parcel of who and what she was as a professional. She'd been on the same fast track to success, so single-minded that the notion of having a personal life was a joke. Her mother had stopped asking about boyfriends. Her sister no longer teased her about getting into the baby business.

Coming here had put distance between herself and her professional goal. Now that it was no longer within reach, it seemed unimportant. Unnecessary.
Wrong.

“Tory? Are you there?”

“What? I'm sorry. It must be the connection,” she told Dr. Grossnickle.

“I said, when are you going to get here? We've got to work on our strategy. I'm meeting with the rest of the team tonight, but you're our spokesperson. We need you on-site.”

She was their spokesperson because she was young and reasonably attractive, intelligent and articulate; she'd never had any delusions about that. But something had been missing from her life during these months of feverish activity, legal posturing, publicity and dreams of prestige. That
something
waited just beyond her reach, might exist in the distant butte.

Might have everything to do with a warrior named Loka.

“Give me another day or two,” she heard herself say. “I promise I'll get there as soon as I can.”

“Two more days? Damn it, Tory. This is important.”

“I know it is,” she said, although at the moment, if anyone had asked her why, she wouldn't have been able to answer. She tried to concentrate on what he said in response, but between the poor connection and the way a cloud now hovered over the butte, she lost his words. She repeated her promise to wind things up here in the next day or two and then ended the conversation.

Aware of Fenton's scrutiny, she hung up the receiver. But her gaze remained on the horizon. Her great-great-grandfather had looked at that same butte during the last months of his life. Had he, like she, wondered if it was worth dying to protect that hunk of rock, and why the Modocs had been willing to fight for it?

“I can't believe what I'm hearing,” Fenton said. “He's depending on you. Dr. Grossnickle himself is depending on you.”

“I know he is,” she agreed before weighing her words.

“And yet you're going to hang around here?”

The sun would be setting in a few hours. When it did, the park would quiet down for the night. Creatures who spent the day asleep or hiding would venture out. Did Loka know
that world as well as he did the one they'd already shared? A wave of sorrow raced through her with such strength that she felt sickened by it. Loka belonged in his time. With his son.

“What is it?” Fenton pressed. He'd shifted so he, too, was looking outside. “Rocks and weeds. That's all I've looked at for too long. There's got to be more than what we can see out there keeping you here.”

“More?” she muttered, then forced herself to try to satisfy Fenton's curiosity. “I haven't had anything approaching a vacation for nearly two years. I'm beat.”

“Yeah?” He didn't sound at all convinced. “Well, fine, but why here? If it was me, I'd be on my way to some resort for a little pampering.”

“Maybe next time.” She winced at how inadequate her response sounded, but The Land Of Burned Out Fires had wrapped itself around her heart and soul, and she had no will to try to break free. Loka, alone.

Maybe thinking of her.

Maybe hating those thoughts.

T
he underground tunnel cared not whether it was day or night. Its temperature remained nearly the same in winter or summer, and there was an ancient smell to the air, which kept Loka from staying in it any longer than he had to. However, the long, narrow corridor led from Wa'hash, the sacred place, to another that had once also been sacred. He needed to stand in what the enemy called Fern Cave, needed to place his hand over ancient drawings and seek wisdom from his ancestors, so—maybe—he would understand the woman who'd touched his today.

When he reached the barrier Cho-ocks had blessed so long ago, he easily pushed the boulder aside and stepped into the large underground room. Because it was nearly dark, only the faintest amount of light reached the thick mound of ferns growing near the opening in the cave's ceiling. Although he'd told himself not to, he stared up at the metal bars the enemy had placed over it. When he first saw what had been done, he had wondered if someone had learned of his existence and was foolishly trying to keep him out. Now he believed that
those who thought they owned this land feared that other strangers would come into the cave and steal the ferns. He still hated that the small opening had been imprisoned, but at least the enemy came here only infrequently and in small numbers.

It didn't matter. What had once been a holy place, a place of reverence, had been destroyed. From his hiding place, he'd watched the enemy stare at the drawings that ringed the rock walls or walk to the cave's dark corners. He'd heard some of them speak in awe of what they saw and felt here. They knew nothing. And Tory? Would she understand?

Confident that no one would drive out to the isolated area so late in the day, he crouched at the base of the ferns. They had been growing here for generations; his grandfather had told him so. They were part of Kumookumts's blessing, put here by the creator because he knew the Maklaks would care for them. He'd been coming here since his awakening, praying over them and asking Eagle to safeguard the fragile growth. Seeing the low rock barrier around the ferns, he cursed the enemy who'd placed it here. If they'd left this place they had no right to alone, there would be no need for barriers. And no risk to both the ferns and drawings.

Leaving the plants, he returned to the wall and touched a strong nail to the outline of a figure with its arms outstretched. He'd heard the enemy say many things about what it might be and had shaken his head at their stupidity. The answer was so simple: Telshna, the power of vision, had been granted to only a few since the beginning of time. This was the first Telshna, a man who'd brought his people to The Land Of Burned Out Fires because Kumookumts had told him what he'd created. Eyes closed now, Loka took his thoughts back through time to when the Maklaks ancestors came here. How blessed they must have felt when they gazed at the mother lake and uncounted birds that made the lake their home. His ancestors had dipped their hands into the cold, clear water for camas and wocas, dug into the soil for sweet epos, gathered fruit and berries to dry for winter, turned
their attention to the mountains where deer and elk and mountain sheep roamed.

The world had been good then. Good and safe.

Fists clenched now, he sent up a prayer that was half anguish, half desperate hope. His people's heart still beat in his breast; he alone understood the meaning beneath the ancient drawings.

Was it enough? Was that what Kumookumts wanted, for him to safeguard the treasures of the past for as long as he lived? But when he died—when he died, the legacy of the Maklaks would die with him because he was the last, the only believer left alive. Maybe it would no longer matter so much if he could share this with
her.

 

His sensitive fingers reaching automatically for the tunnel walls for guidance, Loka made his way from Fern Cave toward Wa'hash until he reached the spot where the tunnel broke through to the surface. Because he'd built a new ladder, he easily climbed out and into the night air. Although a little of the sun's memory remained in the distance, he could already see the first star.

“Yainax! Mountain of the gods. Do you hear me tonight? Do you know of my uneasy heart, thoughts without answers? Yainax. I pray to you and wait for your guidance. What do you want of me? Why am I alive? Alone. Why am I here?”

He watched as several bats swooped and dived around him. Bats were creatures of little consequence. Although their presence meant that the land was healthy with insects, they carried no wisdom in their tiny bodies. Knowing they would sense his presence before flying into him, he lifted his arms toward where the moon would make its appearance. “
Blaiwas!
Eagle, hear me. I have stood face-to-face with the one who brought me to this unwanted time. I ask you. If her heart beats no more, will I feel peace?”

Peace. The word, the concept even seemed foreign to him. His heart hadn't known rest since early childhood, when the ranchers began allowing their cattle on land that belonged to
the Maklaks. He still mourned everything he'd lost in life—his son most of all. If he had to walk his time on earth, at least his heart should be quiet, not full of a woman, of
her.

“
Blaiwas.
Eagle, you are my spirit. Wisdom lives deep inside you. When I became a warrior, you gave me your knowledge and guided my feet. In my grief I turned to you for guidance and you showed me that it was right for me to walk beside my son. Maybe he no longer needs me. Maybe that is why I have been torn from his side.”

Taking a deep breath, he waited until his throat no longer felt clogged with emotion. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The day was gone; in the few moments he'd been here, heavy darkness had fallen over the land. He spotted a few stars, but the moon hadn't yet joined them. He still sensed the presence of bats. Crickets and distant frogs created an ageless hum, which took away a little of his loneliness and reminded him that the enemy hadn't stolen everything. Wolf might be gone. Grizzly might have sought more isolated places to live. But most of the creatures he'd known as a child still existed here, and he was grateful for that. Most of all, when he stepped inside Wa'hash, his son's memory waited for him; the walls spoke of his heritage.

Maybe it was enough.

“Eagle. I want quiet in my heart, for her to leave me alone. If I am to roam alone over The Land Of Burned Out Fires, I will do so. Kumookumts must have plans for me I do not yet understand. I want—I need understanding.”

Although he couldn't see it, he gazed in the direction of the great mountain Yainax, where the sun god lived. Tory Kent knew nothing of the high court of heaven that was held there, of the Lemurians who waited on the sun god so he could concern himself with making decisions, with deciding right from wrong. “She does not belong here,” he said aloud. “I do not want to see her again. She tempts me, makes it impossible for me to listen for wisdom from Kumookumts. Eagle, tell me. How do I strip her from my thoughts and body?”

Wise in the way of Eagle, Loka didn't grow impatient. Instead, he waited until the moon slid out from behind the night to spread its cool silver light over the land. Bit by bit, shadows took form until he could see Spirit Butte, distant Yainax, until he almost believed he had Telshna, the power of vision. When even individual sage bushes took on definition, he again lifted his arms to the heavens, thinking to call Eagle to him. Instead, he absorbed a sky filled with mysterious stars, the moon's beauty, the song made by crickets and frogs and thought.

She, Tory Kent, wouldn't be about tonight. He'd learned that the enemy feared darkness, that even their man-made lights didn't push back enough of the night to make them feel safe. She stayed alone in an isolated cabin; he'd learned that earlier today. Her fear wasn't as strong as many, and for that he had to admire her.

Maybe she was standing at her window staring up at the moon. Was it possible that the enemy saw beauty in Kumookumts's gift? If she did, what feelings did the night bring to her heart? Although he wanted to deny the thought and throw it from him, he wondered if she felt the same fullness he did when it was only him and this dark-quieted world.

There were many of her kind, so many of the enemy. It was an easy thing for her to reach out to a man. Still, she'd come here alone and would sleep alone. Why?

What would she be like in his arms, writhing under his man's body?

“Eagle! I do not want her inside my thoughts! Tell me! How do I rip her from me?”

His spirit rode to him on a wind known only to the great birds. Not breathing, he watched Eagle turn from shade and shadow into the form he knew so well. Wings outstretched, Eagle hung over him and made him ache with the desire to join him in freedom. “Eagle,” he whispered. “You heard. You are here.”

One slow circle became another and then another. “Eagle,” he repeated, making no attempt to rid his voice of the
sense of awe he always felt. “Do you bring your wisdom to me?”

A high, powerful scream forced the other creatures into instant silence. Wondering if Eagle intended the same message for him, he waited. An image of Tory staring upward as he was doing entered his mind; he wrenched himself free.

Again Eagle ruled the heavens with his voice. Loka continued to stand unmoving, absorbing, listening. Learning. When Eagle came lower, he saw that the bird held something in its talons. After yet another circle, Eagle abruptly released whatever it had been holding. It fell to the ground in front of Loka, but he didn't look down until he could no longer see Eagle.

His spirit had brought him a dead mouse. Squatting, he touched the creature to assure himself that it had recently been alive. He imagined its tiny heart beating in fear as the bird of prey clamped its claws around it, felt the same tearing pain the mouse must have felt.

“Is this your message?” he whispered into the night. “I will know peace only if she is dead?”

The question seemed to swirl around him and ignite a fresh pain. Still, because he'd lived his entire life believing and trusting in Eagle's wisdom, he clamped his fingers around his knife and drew it out of its resting place. The weapon felt heavy and sure.

 

If she couldn't sleep, she should have at least gotten up and read. And if it had been no more than a week ago, she would have used her insomnia to brainstorm what her role in this new wrinkle with the Alsea project should be. But this wasn't a week ago, and she wasn't the person she'd always believed herself to be.

Feeling too unsettled to fit within her own body, Tory threw back her covers and washed up as best she could at the makeshift sink. Because the day already showed signs of being hotter than the one before, she pulled on shorts and a loose cotton blouse with sleeves she could roll up when nec
essary. As before, she debated between tennis shoes and boots, angry at herself because she didn't seem capable of making the most basic decision. In the end she chose the tennis shoes because they were closer to where she sat.

She had to stop dreaming of him.

Upset because she'd allowed the thought to break free, she filled a thermos, checked to make sure she had enough film and stepped outside. Although she wasn't sure it would make any difference, she went through the motions of locking the front door. It was cooler out here than it had been inside, and she started walking purposefully toward park headquarters. It didn't matter how fast she went because her thoughts kept pace.

She couldn't block out dreams of him. He existed inside her, his presence so strong that she knew fighting him was a useless battle.

This isn't like me. I should be logical and practical. I'm a researcher! I don't want to dream. To feel. To want…

At the last thought, she stopped and breathed deeply several times. The smells here had already become a part of her. She would miss them when she left—which should be today.

But dry sage and mountain air weren't all she would miss.

What was he doing this morning? She could rummage through the cooler she kept in her car for some fruit to go with a granola bar, probably make a sandwich for lunch. But Loka—she loved the way his name sounded—had never been inside a grocery store. His food came from the land. She shuddered a little at the thought of his bringing down a rabbit or some other animal, but that was the way his people had sustained themselves for generations. Just because her culture relegated meat processing to something done behind closed doors didn't change reality.

She looked down, aware that she'd stopped moving. She gazed out around her, listened to the lava beds.

She no longer questioned the truth of him. She could—she guessed—argue and discuss and debate until, like a good attorney, she'd thrown so much doubt on what her heart ac
cepted that it would be silenced. For hours, days maybe, she'd go along smug in the knowledge that logic once again had the upper hand. Loka the warrior couldn't possibly exist.

But eventually her heart would demand that its own brand of logic be heard and she would again believe. How much simpler it was to simply accept.

Somehow, the Modoc, the Maklak called Loka, had traveled through the years, bringing his world with him. He'd joined her in her time.

Only, they weren't truly connected—except by her ancestor, who was responsible for the limbo Loka found himself in. She felt guilty.

By concentrating, she forced herself to start moving again. Still, she wanted to remain in her own brand of limbo. If she spent the day here where no one else seemed to care to come, would she somehow find that channel through time? Could she enter his world? Could she—could she possibly understand the heart and soul of his time?

Tears burned her eyes but didn't surprise her. How was it possible for a dedicated anthropologist to toil at her trade for years without realizing that understanding primitive people had nothing to do with documenting where a shaman stood in a tribe's social structure, what foods they ate, who raised the children? It didn't matter what names those people called their gods, what rituals were performed, who was allowed to be part of spiritual ceremonies and who was excluded.