Keepers Of The Gate

by E. Denise Billups

  “You sure? I heard only one.”

  “It was three and the rattle cracked the ground. I found these under mom’s favorite maple tree. You ever noticed the carvings on the bark?”

  “No,” he says, picking up the axe.

  “Mom was fascinated with that maple tree.”

  “Why?”

  Sky recalls a hot summer eve when she and her parents dined on the porch. “Years ago, Mom once told me, ‘That old man’s hundreds of years old. If he could speak, he’d tell a fantastic tale.’ Stumped, I stared around for a person, then realized she meant the maple tree. From a distance, three gouges and white patches resembles a gray-mustached old man. And the wide-open bottom gouge gives the bark face an open-mouth expression. Maybe the carved V and bird are historical markers.” Hundreds of years… If that tree spoke, it might divulge many mysteries.

  “I bet the V is from sapping maple. Many of the Indians carved a deep V-shaped groove to drain sap from trees.”

  “You’re right, Charlie. I realized that when I…” The V blazes in her mind, but she knows Charlie will doubt it was ablaze.

  Charlie catches her sudden pause. “What?”

  “I recognized it was from sapping,” she says, taking another sip of coffee.

  “Is this a spike tomahawk? It looks ancient.”

  “Without a doubt it’s precolonial. I found it at the base of the tree, and the choker was beside it. I believe they’re precolonial artifacts, given the oblique parallel lines and three-dot face Iroquoian symbols.”

  “Well, you’re the expert on Iroquoian relics.”

  “I can’t believe they were in the backyard,” she says, staring at the choker and pondering whether an Iroquois warrior donned it during battles to protect his neck. But a woman might have worn it, too. What happened to them years ago?

  “Why so surprised? You know Geneva and the entire Finger Lakes region was Iroquois Confederacy territory. For years, locals unearthed relics through farming and land excavation for homes.”

  “I’m not surprised they were there, just surprised no one’s found them before now. I’m positive the three quakes from Seneca Drums drove them to the surface.”

  He sniffs twice and rubs his nose. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “What?”

  “Why do you smell of burnt food?”

  With his erudite mind rooted in scientific facts, Charlie will scoff at and refute her ghostly experience. After a 20-year stint teaching folklore and mythology, ghosts are nothing but myths to him. Given their divergent beliefs, they’ve disagreed many times. Thank heavens their quarrels weren’t damaging enough to split their marriage asunder. She respects his beliefs, but Charlie’s not always willing to accept hers, though he backs off most times with a polite, “We'll just agree to disagree.”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  Charlie’s eyes narrow as they often do when he senses an imminent dispute. “As far as I can tell, you weren’t in the kitchen because I’ve been there for an hour preparing breakfast, and I just lit the fireplace in the parlor. So, tell me, Sky.”

  “Ghosts,” she replies outright, noticing his scowl as her demeanor grows defiant. “I know the topic irks you, but that’s why I ventured into the snowstorm. A woman was near the tree without a coat or shoes. I thought she was in trouble, so I went out to offer help. Charlie, she wasn’t real. She walked right into the lake. And when I closed my eyes, I heard horses and smelled burning food, timber, and soil. The scent and sound disappeared the moment I opened my eyes. Then I found the artifacts.”

  Charlie squints and scratches his head. “Sky, you sound like your parents. But if you believe you saw ghosts, I’m not going to dispute it. There’s always an explanation for these things. Maybe the storm…”

  “Oh, no! Don’t try to justify what I saw as a figment of the snowstorm because it wasn’t. And snow doesn’t smell like burned food,” Sky argues.

  “OK, OK, don't get your dander up,” he says, avoiding her eyes as he does when he doesn’t want to argue. “I’m just saying there are other reasons than ghosts. Maybe the wind carried smoke from a neighbor’s chimney toward our property.”

  “Oh, forget it! I’m wasting my breath. Geez, Charlie! For such an intelligent man, you can be closed-minded sometimes. Can’t you just listen for once? I’m telling you the truth, damn it!” Sky exclaims with a loud huff, releasing pent-up frustrations on her stunned husband.

  “Sky…” he says, heaving a hefty breath. “I don’t doubt you. I’m sure you saw something, just not a ghost. Ok…” he sighs, “…let’s talk later, I have to get breakfast going,” he says altogether, dodging the topic.

  Sky’s skin warms with rising ire. She won’t let him dismiss her this time. “To be honest, I believe ghosts scare you. And the moment you see or perceive one, it will shatter your religious beliefs and preconceived notions of death. Science can’t and isn’t supposed to explain everything, Charlie. And it’s OK to be afraid.”

  “Sky, now you know that’s not true. If I saw a ghost, I’d have to readjust my beliefs. Until that happens, my views remain the same and there’s no sense getting worked up over phantoms you can’t see or that don’t affect me.”

  “How obtuse for such an educated man. You can’t see, smell, or touch air, but it’s there and affects every breath you inhale. Charlie, do you think I just invent shit or have an overactive imagination?”

  “No! You’re the most honest and sensible person I know. I just don’t believe in the afterlife. To say ghosts exists implies life after death. Until a person comes back from the dead and tells me otherwise, I won’t change my mind.”

  “So, the woman, the scorched odors, horses, soldiers with bayonets, and Twilight in flames were just my imagination, right?”

  “You saw this in the yard?”

  She nods, studies Charlie’s twisted face over the cup’s rim, takes a large sip, and swallows rising irritation before more anger rips from her tongue. “I swear, Charlie, it happened. It wasn’t my imagination. God knows the last thing I want is to see ghosts as my parents did. But the smell on my hair and clothes, and these,” she says, pointing at the artifacts, “confirm it was real.”

  Charlie sighs. “I believe you, but…” he says, wiggling his head. Stepping toward the desk, he kisses the top of Sky’s head. “I see you’re bothered. Let’s sit and talk later when we have more time, OK?” He says, backing to the door. “We have guests to feed, and I want to make another batch of your mom’s scones before they wake. Oh, besides Cristal and Dante Whelan in the carriage house, how many guests do we have upstairs?”

  Another dismissal. “Stubborn bastard,” Sky mumbles under her breath. Our talk later won’t change his mind. It’s just a momentary pacification.

  “I heard that, Sky.”

  “Yeah, well, you are a stubborn bastard…” she says in a trailing voice while checking guest registration on the computer, angrier than the raging snowstorm. Why’s he getting under her skin this morning? Most days she ignores his indifference.

  He drops his chin into his hand, stares at Sky, and grins.

  “Really, Charlie? I’m not laughing.”

  “Neither am I, you’re just so cute when you swear.”

  She tosses him an evil eye, glances back at the computer, and reads the guest list. “Nine guests checked out yesterday. That leaves the Whelans in the bridal suite, Mr. Dox in the Eagle’s Watch Tower Room. That young unmarried couple checked out last night. If this storm doesn’t let up, we’ll have no choice but to include Cristal, Dante and Mr. Dox in our weekend family celebration.”

  He glances out the window and sighs. “Well, from the looks of the storm, our three remaining guests aren’t going anywhere. I suspect the airports have cancelled flights, and the roads are too dangerous to drive.”

  “I wonder when Mr. Dox will get around to mentioning he’s our competition. So far, he hasn’t stated his agenda, if he even has one. But mom warned me he might sh
ow up one day.”

  “He’s a sneaky one. I’ve kept my eyes on him the entire time.”

  “Maybe he’s lost interest in Twilight.”

  “Oh no, don’t let his silence fool you, Sky. I’ve seen interest glowing in his eyes.”

  “Well, he won’t get what he’s after, not while I still breathe.”

  “That’s my girl,” Charlie says with a wink. “Has Twyla’s boyfriend arrived yet?”

  “I believe he came in late last night. I heard them talking in Twyla’s room.”

  “In her room? Did he sleep there?”

  There’s that stern expression that reminds Sky of her father’s mulishness, a demeanor she hated as a teenager, and the reason she’s quick to take her daughter’s side. I’ve married my father. She realized the similarities between Charlie and Ian years ago, but it’s more visible with age. “Charlie, she’s 23, and Jayson’s 28.”

  “And they’re unmarried. I don’t want her disrespecting us. I’ll have a talk with her later.”

  “OK, Dad, don’t go telling your grown daughter what to do. She’s not your baby girl any more.” In fact, she’s strong-willed, virtuous, with a deep love of her parents, and always trying to do the right thing, just as her mother does. “We raised her with good values, and she always respects our wishes. How could you ever question her morals?”

  “I was that boy’s age once and know their effect on inexperienced girls. That boy will sleep in his bed on the second floor while he’s a guest.”

  “Not boy, man,” she retorts. “You know darn well Twyla’s not disrespectful. I trust her judgment. Besides, I heard Jayson moving around the room I prepared on the third floor, not the second floor,” she’s says, correcting him.

  “Good, and that’s where he’ll sleep the entire weekend.” Charlie stares at her with a glint and one raised eyebrow. “Remember us at that age?”

  As he approaches the desk again, Sky perceives his intent from the flirtatious look in his eyes. But after her ghostly experience and his sheer lack of concern, flirting is the last thing she wants or needs from her husband.

  “When we first started dating, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. And we still can’t, Mrs. Ferguson. You’re just as alluring as the day we met.”

  “Yeah and was it my brains or looks?” She asks with a hint of sarcasm.

  “Hmm, you were mesmerizing when I saw you standing in front of your class holding that bow. An Indian goddess with raven hair falling around deep, soulful, honey-brown eyes and luscious lips… and that body,” he says, moving closer with a grin.

  “Uh-huh, typical male bull…”

  “Mind your mouth, woman,” he says with a playful grin. “Seriously, Sky, your intellect and beautiful soul won my heart.”

  He runs his fingers over Sky’s earlobe with an amorous expression that always leads to more. Even in anger, her body betrays her with a rising pulse and surging warmth. But her mind, rapt with ghosts, thwarts Charlie’s arousing touch. “Not now, I need to shower off this spectral dust,” she says to taunt him. “Don’t you have breakfast to prepare?”

  Detecting resentment, he kisses Sky’s cheek and backs away. “OK, I know when I’m not wanted.” Before he exits the office, he turns with an awful British mimicry. “Milady, will you be joining me for breakfast before our guests arrive?”

  Often, his imitations garner a smile, but not today. “Maybe,” she replies with a rigid face.

  He lifts one brow. “OK, Mrs. Ferguson, we shall talk later,” he says, escaping her burning glare.

  Sighing, Sky places the artifacts inside the desk drawer and quickly slams it shut. Rising and shoving the swivel chair back with a leg thrust, she heads toward the office’s private access. Although the narrow ascent and descent leading to the attic and office make her feel a little claustrophobic, she prefers the crushing discomfort over guests seeing her bedraggled. She’s thankful the architect built the staircase but feared the steep sharp twists of the stairs and always took careful strides as a child. Now she appreciates the space, her secret passage, which she recognizes as a servant’s restricted access, but the Newhouse family never relegated staff to back stairs.

  Entering the stairwell, Sky’s past tiptoes downstairs wearing a black miniskirt and holding a pair of midnight-blue suede Bandolino, ankle-strap heels. Years ago, she’d paused, plastered her ear to the door, and rushed through when it was safe to exit. Dad discovered her the same night, returning from a forbidden party. The next day, when she’d tried to exit the stairwell, she couldn’t. She’d fumed and stomped upstairs to the main staircase. Wandering downstairs to the office, she’d found a silver lock on the door where it remained until she left for college.

  And now, she can’t believe her only offspring has taken up residence in her old room. A few months before Twyla graduated, Charlie renovated the attic apartment where she lived during her teenage years. The floor is distant enough to give them privacy. She and Charlie stay in the family suite on the second floor’s east wing. They’d considered turning the Carriage House into the family’s living quarters but reserved it as bridal suites as her parents intended.

  As she climbs the stairs, the second, fourth, and eight steps creak beneath her weight. It’s amazing the entire staircase built from local trees and stones a century ago doesn’t squeak. She imagines the original family, settlers from the old world, climbing these stairs. Are their ghosts still roaming twisty treads?

  Startled, Sky catches her image in the new floor-to-ceiling mirror Charlie hung above the landing a few days ago. He said the mirror gives the narrow space an illusory width. But she dislikes how it reflects a person’s girth, squat and round as they ascend the stairs.

  Approaching the second-floor landing, the stubby image emerges in the beveled mirror, lengthening to her true five-feet-seven, size-six figure as she grows closer. She tries not to compare her maturing body to her younger self. I look damn good for my age, she thinks, studying the fine lines on her oval face still flushed crimson from the snowstorm. Or is it her frustration with Charlie?

  Catching sight of the clunky boots, she grumbles and glances back at the watery trail left by the melting snow. Rattled by strange morning events, removing her boots slipped her mind.

  Sky turns around, and a glassy image glides past the mirror’s top corner. Then she hears it, vibrations that are never present in this area. She jerks her head toward the upper landing. No one has access to these stairs except family, but it wasn’t Charlie or Twyla. And mirrors don’t lie. Someone’s there.

  Although the hum’s a clue to what’s above, she calls, “Hello?” Before taking another step, she asks, “Who’s there?” Sky waits a few seconds, takes three timorous steps, and pauses when the hum changes to faint unintelligible words. Cautious but determined to see what’s there, she continues to the top floor and stops when liquid wets her face.

  Water trickles from the landing, crawling downstairs toward her boots. She gasps and halts wide-eyed when a woman shimmers on the uppermost landing. Sky’s gaze freezes on frightful, hollow eyes altering a sorrowful watery brown glower on her. It’s the specter she’d seen near the tree. She opens her mouth with a deafening roar, overwhelming Sky’s loud gasp.

  Sky staggers and flounders backward, overstepping the next stair. Her fingers snatch the slippery rail for an instant, softening her fall. She skids on her rear to the third-floor landing with a blinding head bang against the wall. Consciousness wanes, narrowing on the sodden woman gliding toward her daughter’s bedroom door. Water rises along the frame, crests, cascades, and seeps beneath the narrow door crack. On the other side, the woman’s forlorn cry echoes, “Pilan!”

  Tekakwitha

  Present Day

  “Ga:weh, where am I?” The aberrant tempest whirls around her in this familiar yet strange place. She feels nothing on her skin. “De’tá’gwisdë’, I’m numb!” But external life forces breathe through her lungs, pulses through her heart, water drums in tune to a hypnotic f
lute nearby. A soft voice disturbs the surreal haze, and she turns to a foreign landscape and a wide-eyed woman. A shrill scream fills Teka’s throat, spilling into the air. She’s puzzled when the woman closes her eyes and covers her ears, but more bewildered by the strange fortress on the hillock where her village had been. The trees… what happened to the forest? The shade, security, and whispers of their brother maples, dogwoods, and pines are missing. Palisade walls, cornfields, and fruit groves vanished, exposing land for miles. “Where is my family, my village?”

  Tom-tom of drums and trilling whisper of flutes grows louder. A vibration disturbs the water. Someone calls, “Teka,” and she turns to a thick mist dividing the ground from the water’s edge. The alluring flute that called her once calls again. She turns and walks through the misty veil to beckoning shadowy figures, but a force pins her back. Once again, time suspends, resuming with an invisible force propelling her toward the woman rushing toward the asymmetrical structure. Though she struggles to stay near the lake, she grows further away from the thinning voices behind the mist. But inside, a familiar energy summons. “Pilan?”

  Teka is drawn toward the tower and behind its walls, another world unlike her own with foreign objects she’s never seen. The woman stares right at her, ignoring her. A man enters the room carrying food. Teka moves from these strangers, speaking the language of settlers and missionaries who visited her village but with an unfamiliar tone.

  Don’t they see me? She’s sure the woman caught her eyes outside in the blizzard. Teka moves, but they never look at her. She’s invisible, a mere dream. Recognizing the choker atop the long timber table, she touches her bare neck. Had it fallen away? The beads, no longer milky white, but old, soiled gray. Am I mistaken? Is it mine? She looks closer, noticing the wolf clan symbol she’d carved on the turtle shell. When she reaches to touch it, a sharp pressure tugs at her chest, a lightning thread drawing her from the room. Time suspends until the woman’s voice echoes below a narrow stairway.