by Mez Blume
“Just before I left, Tom Tippery gave me this locket so I could always remember Sophia and Vagabond. But it’s also proof. Proof that it really happened. Just like this is really happening. And the sooner we accept it”—we both jumped as somewhere overhead an owl hooted. I blinked and refocused— “the better.”
I wondered if Imogen even noticed how dark it had become. She had listened at first with a grumpy grimace fixed on her face, mindlessly fiddling all the while with her useless smart phone. But as she hadn’t interrupted, not even once, and my story went on, the grumpiness had given way to a look of confusion, then fear. Now that I’d finished, she took a shaky breath and looked up pleadingly into my eyes as if hoping I would crack and confess it was all a joke after all. When I didn’t, her glazed-over eyes wandered over the rock with the face on it and the gnarled old trees before dropping to the smart phone resting like a dead thing in her hand. All of a sudden, something seemed to click.
She gasped in a sharp breath. “If this really is happening,”—her voice sounded unusually small— “that means everyone I know … my mum, my dad, Poppy…” She froze, looking horror struck.
I nodded. “They haven’t been born yet. It’s just you and me.”
“But we can get back, right?” Imogen asked between breaths that were getting faster by the second.
“I … don’t know,” I answered and felt a prickly chill go up my spine. “I don’t know any more than you do.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? You said you got back last time, so there has to be a way.” Her panic was mounting like a tidal wave.
“There might be a way,” I spat out in a rush. “I don’t know what it is or how to find it. But we will. We just … we have to stay calm.”
That was easy to say, but though I didn’t dare show it, the seriousness of our situation was starting to sink in for me too. The dark gathering fast around us certainly didn’t help. I wiped the hair out of my eyes and noticed the reddish-brown paint on my fingers. The cave. That’s where this whole thing had started. I cleared my throat and tried to sound confident. “The first thing we should do is try to find the cave. Maybe we can get back through the painting … or at least find some clue to help us figure out who did it.”
Imogen closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then nodded. “Ok, then let’s go before it gets any darker.”
Though the paths we’d taken on our trip to gather water didn’t appear to exist in the past, luckily the little stream we’d followed did, and we were able to trace our steps down the river, then follow our ears to the waterfall.
Imogen didn’t speak on the hike ― I think she was still too much in shock – which gave me the chance to think, to try to make sense of things. Imogen was right—if there was a way back last time, there had to be one this time too. But last time, I hadn’t fallen through that painting by accident. It had been Tom’s doing, and it was Tom who got me home again. But how could Tom have anything to do with those painted horses? Tom belonged to another time, another country.
And yet … my heart jumped at the thought – what if, just what if Tom was behind this? What if, somehow, he’d travelled here too and painted those horses knowing I would find them?
“Slow down, Katie. I can’t run anymore,” Imogen whined.
My pace had quickened into a jog without my noticing. But the idea that had hatched inside my brain, the idea that I might find Tom at the cave, and if Tom, why not Sophia, had given me a rush of excitement that gave my feet wings. I’d just fallen through a magical painting for the second time, after all. Anything was possible.
By the time I’d reached the slippery rock path that led behind the waterfall, my head was spinning with excitement. I felt sure of it. I was going to see Sophia any second now!
“Katie, SLOW DOWN!” Imogen yelled over the roar of the falls. “You’re going to slip!”
Had she slowed down that morning, running away from that snake? And I had much better reason to be in a hurry. A fine, cold mist tickled my face as I sprang from the last wet rock into the cave behind the waterfall and saw…
Nothing.
The cave was almost completely dark and showed no signs of Tom or Sophia. I heard Imogen drawing in shivering breaths behind me. “Come on,” I said, edging along the stone wall of the cave. “The horses were deeper in, right at the back.”
A small hole in the rock above filled the deep alcove with grey, misty light. It was enough to show me what I dreaded: there was no one there. And what was even worse, there was not a single painted horse to be seen on the stone wall. “It hasn’t been painted yet,” I whispered, a lump of disappointment inching its way up my throat. I gritted my teeth, determined not to melt into a heap of tears. How could I have been so foolish as to believe Sophia would be waiting for me in a cave in the middle of an American forest?
“But … what does this mean?” Imogen insisted, her voicing rising with panic again.
“It means,” I rubbed my forehead, “I don’t know.”
There was a pause when we just looked at each other. In the grey light, I saw Imogen’s nostrils flaring with every breath. “Katie” – she spoke in a low, dangerous voice – “you got us into this mess, and you had better get us out.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “I got us into it? You’re the one who ran into the cave in the first place, all because of a harmless little snake!”
“Yes, but you’re the one who looked at the painting. You’re the one who made it move. You’re the one with the habit of time-travelling!” Her voice rose and rose until it echoed off the cave walls, sending a couple of bats over our heads into a flurry. We ducked and I spun around to watch their flight out into the night air. As I did, something else caught my eye: a beam of light bounced off the rock. It was coming from somewhere inside the cave.
“Imogen, get down!” I hissed. “Someone’s coming.”
We huddled together in the shadows of the alcove, our knees pulled in tight, both holding our breath, listening.
The beam of light grew, accompanied by soft, padded footsteps. Suddenly, two dark figures appeared as if stepping right out of the stone. The light cast their strange shadows up on the cave ceiling. One might have been a giant. He stood head and shoulders over the other and looked like an oak tree standing beside a scrawny sapling. The smaller man was speaking to him in a hushed voice. One hand rested on his back hip, probably close to his gun holster.
“Look here, Black Fox. You know you ain’t s’posed to be sniffin’ around in here. Not ’til the treaty’s been signed.”
“You show me. Then I go.” The big man’s voice was as deep as a bullfrog’s and sent shivers down my spine.
“You know I can’t,” the little man answered, and his shadow moved back a step. “Governor’s orders.”
The big man took a step closer so that he towered over his companion. “You tell Governor I want what’s mine.”
The little man’s voice was considerably higher as he answered quickly, “J…just, take it easy, Black Fox. Governor Blunt’s a man of his word. You’ll get wh…what he agreed to, b…but it’s like I told you: not ’til the treaty’s signed… just a week’s time.”
And with that, the smaller shadow disappeared, leaving the giant shadow standing in the dark with us. He made a sound in his throat like a bear growling. Imogen fidgeted beside me, and the growling stopped. I looked at her, the whites of her eyes practically glowing in the dark.
The shadow moved into the darkness so we could no longer see it, but we could just hear his footsteps, soft and slow. Were they coming closer? Imogen clenched my hand with all her might, and I clenched hers back, praying the footsteps would go away.
Then, sudden as a firecracker explodes, a hideous, snarling face appeared right in front of us, his teeth bared, his eyes menacing. Imogen let out an ear-splitting scream as the man drew a shining object from his hip. The tomahawk glinted in the dying light, and all I could do was pull Imogen closer and squeeze my eyes shut.
>
“Black Fox!”
My eyes opened at the sound of the familiar voice and were met with a flood of light. The hulking beast spun around. It was Wattie. At that moment, he looked like an angel standing in a puddle of light from the little lantern he held over his head. He stepped forward without the slightest hesitation and spoke to the man in what I figured must be Cherokee. I nearly wilted to the ground with relief when, to my amazement, the huge man turned without a second glance at Imogen and me and disappeared into the night.
Wattie set down his lantern and offered us a hand up.
“What did you say to him?” I asked, my throat so dry that my voice came out in croaks.
“I told him you were guests of mine, that you must have lost your way and I’d come to find you. And I thanked him for seeing you were safe until I got here.”
“Safe?” Imogen croaked. “He was about to kill us!”
“Trust me,” Wattie said, raising his thick black eyebrows, “It’s best I didn’t accuse him of that. Black Fox has the temper of a mother bear. I’m just glad I found you when I did.” He took a little pouch slung over his shoulder off and held it out. “Here. Drink.”
I took the pouch from Imogen and took a long, wonderful swig of cold water, then handed it back to Wattie. “I’m glad too,” I breathed. “But how did you find us? And why did you come looking for us?”
He smiled. “I tracked you at first. Luckily, when darkness fell, I was able to follow the screaming. Impressive how loud it was, even over the sound of the waterfall.”
Imogen sniffled.
“As to why I followed you,” Wattie continued, “you appeared distressed before, and a gentleman could never leave two young ladies distressed and alone in the forest. Especially after the good turn you did my family by saving Crow Feather.”
“Is he all right?” I asked, suddenly aware that if Wattie had come after us, that meant he hadn’t seen his cousins back home.
“He is with Grasshopper,” Wattie answered looking grave. “They will have reached Nickajack by now, and then we will see.”
“Nickajack?” I asked.
“My village,” Wattie answered.
To my astonishment, Imogen rushed forward and grabbed Wattie’s arm in both hands. “Please, take us with you!” she pleaded.
Wattie leaned back and smiled nervously. “Ah… of course I’ll take you. My mother would welcome two girls most heartily. But…” He gently drew his arm away from Imogen, “don’t you girls have somewhere to be? I mean, don’t you want to tell me how you came to be lost in Cherokee Country in the first place?”
“Cherokee Country?” Imogen whimpered.
“We were travelling to visit our uncle,” I blurted and shot Imogen a sideways glance. “Our Uncle Tom Tippery.”
She nodded, slowly catching on.
“And where is your uncle’s house?” Wattie asked.
“It’s … uh …” My mind went blank.
“We lost the address,” Imogen said confidently, coming to the rescue. She had always been a much better liar than I am.
Wattie rumpled his thick mop of black hair, thinking. “I don’t know of anyone by the name Tom Tippery in these parts, and I know just about everybody.”
For half a second, I feared Wattie was on to us. Imogen and I exchanged a quick look. I was sure we were thinking the same thing. What if he decided to leave us in the woods after all?
He picked up his lantern as if getting ready to go. “That settles it, then.”
“Settles what?” Imogen asked anxiously.
“You’re coming to Nickajack. You can stay at my house until we track your uncle down.”
I felt so relieved, I could’ve hugged Wattie. Imogen must have been even more relieved. She flew at the stunned boy and planted a kiss on his cheek before collapsing onto his shoulder in a waterfall of tears.
8
Nickajack
“See the cabins down in the valley?” Wattie waved his hand towards a sea of cornstalks below us set against a backdrop of deep blue hills. The valley was dotted with little timber cabins with smoking chimneys and lit-up windows. “That’s the village. Not far to go now.”
“Aren’t Indians supposed to live in teepees?” Imogen asked drowsily down at Wattie from the old mare. We were taking turns riding her while Wattie led us on what felt like a never-ending journey to his village. At last we’d stepped out of the trees and stood on a precipice overlooking a moonlit valley dotted with cabins with flickering windows and smoking chimneys.
Wattie eyed her sideways. “Teepees?”
“You know. Those cone-shaped tents that Indians live in?” Imogen said as if explaining something completely obvious.
“I don’t know about other Indians, but we Cherokees live in cabins mostly … same as you settlers.”
“I live in a Georgian town house in London,” Imogen corrected him haughtily. Embarrassed as I was at her tone towards the person who had just saved our lives, it was a relief to hear a bit of the old Imogen coming back after the shock.
Wattie frowned. “I forgot. Well, I hope our home will be sufficiently comfortable for you, Miss… Ha!” Wattie stopped in his tracks and put his hands on his hips. “I never asked your names!”
“Imogen Humphreys,” Imogen answered, still in her high-and-mighty way. “But you can just call me Im. I think it suits my image better.”
Wattie looked at a loss for a response, so I took over. “And I’m Katie … uh, Watson.” I added the last bit under my breath, hoping Imogen wouldn’t hear. It wasn’t quite enough.
She snorted. “Watson? Since when is your surname Watson? Your surname is Wolf… I mean …” She caught my glaring eyes and cleared her throat. “Woof!” She waved her hand in front of her nose. “Is something burning around here?”
While Wattie was busy sniffing the air for burning smells, I slapped my palm against my forehead. I didn’t expect Imogen to understand, but Watson had been the name I’d chosen for myself last summer when I’d travelled back in time, and it had served me well. I wasn’t the same Katie then. The name Watson reminded me of that other Katie, the brave, daring Katie who had helped to rescue Sophia. I needed to be that Katie now, so Watson it was.
“Well then, Miss Humphreys, Miss Watson, welcome to Nickajack.”
At the bottom of the hill, we skirted around a cornfield that glowed eerie blue in the moonlight. A chill breeze rustled through the rows of cornstalks, making a sound like whispering as we passed. Our path soon met up with a wide dirt road that ran like a ribbon through the middle of the village. The log cabins we passed looked homey and inviting with their tidy rows of squash and beans and porches hung with drying herbs and woven baskets. And yet the frightened faces that peered around doorways or sent darting glances out of windows told a different story: Nickajack was in trouble. On one porch, a wrinkled old Cherokee man sat outside the door with a rifle across his lap. He dipped his head when Wattie greeted him in Cherokee, but continued to watch Imogen and me with a suspicious eye.
“It wasn’t like this before,” Wattie said, kicking a pebble in the road. “It used to be on an evening like this all of Nickajack would be outdoors. Women weaving baskets on the porch, men telling stories, and children playing chunky in the roads. Now fear chases them all inside, making caged animals of us on our own land.”
“You mean the horse thieves weren’t the first to attack Nickajack?” I asked.
Wattie shook his head. “Lately there have been many attacks, not only on Nickajack but on our neighbouring villages as well.”
“But who’s behind the attacks?”
“Outlaws. Bandits. Greedy people who see our land and our goods as theirs for the taking … people like Lieutenant Lovegood.”
“I don’t get it,” Imogen yawned. “Why don’t you just call the authorities?”
Wattie scratched his head. “It’s as I said before. Lovegood is the authorities.”
“Oh yea.” Imogen sounded ready to fall off the horse with
exhaustion. I silently hoped we would get to Wattie’s house before she did … and before she said anything else that might raise Wattie’s suspicions about us.
To my relief, just a few seconds later, we approached a house at the end of the road, and Wattie announced we’d arrived.
“Well this does beat sleeping in a cave,” Imogen slurred. She was right about that. Wattie’s house was the finest in the village. It was not a log cabin, but a two-story wooden house with a brick foundation and a porch with tall column posts. Two flickering lanterns on either side of the door glinted off a brass doorknocker.
Wattie helped Imogen down from the mare’s back and hitched the horse to a stake in the ground, then opened a gate in the fence and led us up a brick walkway to the porch. Before Wattie could so much as touch the brass knocker, the door swung open, and a woman threw her arms around him. Wattie looked a little embarrassed when she didn’t let go for a long minute. At last she held him by his forearms, and the two began firing away in Cherokee. Watching them both, face to face, I could see the woman was, beyond doubt, Wattie’s mother. She was very pretty, with smooth brown skin and pink lips, and her dark eyes framed with long, thick lashes, just like Wattie’s. Though obviously Cherokee, she dressed like an American lady in a chequered dress and her hair twisted up under a lacy cloth cap. I was still examining the likeness between mother and son when both suddenly turned towards Imogen and me.
“This is my mother, Ulma McKay,” Wattie explained as the woman smiled at us and made tiny curtseys. “I’ve explained who you are and how we met, and she insists you lodge with us for as long as you need.”
Imogen blew out a puff of air. “Well, that’s a relief.”
Still smiling warmly, Wattie’s mother gestured us both into the house. She called to a dark-skinned girl dressed quite plainly—I assumed she must be a maid—and before we knew it, Imogen and I were ushered into a room with nothing in it but a great big hearth with a kettle over an open fire and a large copper tub, full of water. The young maid didn’t speak any English, but she made gestures to explain that she wanted us to undress and get into the tub.
