“How long have you heard ringing?”
“Since I was a child. My doctor said everything’s fine.”
“You should get another opinion, just to be certain.”
Dante ponders a moment. “Touch your nose with your fingertip one last time,” he asks.
Skylar complies. “I’m fine, see,” she says, touching her nose.
“So, it seems, but head injuries are tricky. How long were you unconscious?”
“I’m not sure… maybe five minutes.”
“It wasn’t long,” Twyla says. “From the time we heard the fall till the time she gained consciousness was less than 10 minutes.”
He checks Sky’s eyes, moving his finger from side to side. Tilting her head gently, he runs his fingers across the spot where she’d banged her head. “I’m not feeling any swelling, no visible signs of head trauma.” He walks around to Sky’s back and lifts her pajama top.
Curious, Charlie waltzes around and peeks at the long, reddish bruise running from her back into her pajama bottoms. “Babe, that’s quite a bruise.”
“She’ll be sore and stiff for a few days,” Dante says, lowering her top and helping her on to the pillow. “I know you prefer medicinal herbs to over-the-counter painkillers. But I don’t have any herbs or the bergamot tea Tessa swore by,” he says with a chuckle.
“Oh, but I do,” Skylar says. “We kept her herbal remedies in the kitchen. I’ll make a willow bark or pennyroyal tea later.”
“No, you’re staying in bed. I’ll make the tea,” Charlie insists.
“Ugh, so bossy,” Sky says, smiling.
Charlie approaches the bed and kisses Sky on the forehead. “Dr Whelan, thanks for looking after this one.”
“She’ll be fine in a day or two.”
“I’m getting that tea, Sky, stay put and listen to the doctor,” Charlie says, leaving the room. His voice booms from the family lounge. “Hey, Jayson, I’m heading to the kitchen. Breakfast is ready if you’re hungry.”
“Sure, man,” Jayson replies.
Twyla pokes her head from the bedroom, seeing Charlie holding the door open for her barefoot fiancée as they both saunter from the suite. Anxious, she pictures her protective father and devoted fiancée alone together, fearing Charlie will grill Jayson doggedly. She inhales and exhales, wanting to run after them but turns her attention back to Sky.
“Now, you sure you don’t want a painkiller for the headache?”
“If it gets worse, I’ll reconsider,” Sky promises.
Dante’s brows furrow. “OK, but heat and ice therapy for the back, and a 24-hour vigil for the head,” he states in a firm voice. “Since I’m snowbound for at least another day, I’ll check on you throughout the day,” he says, with a confirming glance at Twyla.
“Dr Whelan, I’m so thankful for your help and apologize for disturbing you so early. Oh, and I’d love for you and Cristal to join the family celebration this weekend.”
Twyla frowns. She envisions Grams and Papa outraged at the last-minute invitation. How tacky and inconsiderate. They should have sent a formal invitation in advance.
Unoffended, Dante accepts. “Thank you. We’d love to, and please call me Dante, as Tessa and Ian always did,” he says to both Sky and Twyla.
After years of greeting him as Dr. Whelan, it won’t be easy switching to Dante, Twyla thinks, recalling the giddy emotions his name aroused as a teenager.
“Dante, it is,” Skylar says, inching into the large headboard.
He glances at Twyla, then Sky. “I’m glad I have both of you together, alone. I need to talk with you both before we head back to Rochester.”
“Is something wrong?” Skylar asks.
“No, nothing’s wrong. Tessa gave both Cristal and me letters a year ago, saying we should meet with you a year after her death when you’d had a chance to settle into your new roles. I won’t go into details here. It’s important and too complicated to explain right now. Tomorrow, when you’re feeling better, we can meet here in private with Charlie.”
“Is it Keepers of The Western Door?” Twyla asks.
Dante glances at her and nods. “Somewhat, and your family heritage. Let’s meet tomorrow and I’ll explain everything,” he says, walking toward the door.
“OK,” they both say in unison.
“Mom, I’ll be back. I need to make sure Charlie and Jayson are behaving.”
At the mention of Jayson’s name, Sky throws her a sharp glance. Twyla suspects she knows Jayson slept in her room, but she ignores the oblique expression.
“See you soon, Sky,” Dante says, leaving the room with Twyla.
Twyla walks from the suite beside Dante, her head meeting the shoulder of his six-foot frame. Is he now the leader of KWD, as Tessa wanted? Given the society’s secrecy, she’s wary of probing, but Grams is no longer here to protest. “I noticed your KWD ring. So, you accepted Tessa’s offer years ago?”
“I knew you’d ask when I saw you staring at the ring in the room. I turned down the offer from your Grams for many years because I didn’t have a clear understanding of KWD’s mission. With better knowledge, I had a change of heart. Two years ago, I finally accepted Tessa’s offer. I’m a member of KWD’s board of directors. I’ll explain everything in detail tomorrow,” he says, catching her curious eyes as they descend the stairs.
“What did Old George mean when he called you brother and warrior?”
“Ahh! so, you were listening on the veranda?” He says and grins.
“I wasn’t snooping. There was an important call for Tessa, but I was reluctant to interrupt the conversation.”
Dante pauses on the staircase. “You remind me so much of your Grams. She said one day you’d be filled with questions,” he says, gazing at her as if seeing his dear friend Tessa. “There’s much you need to understand before I answer that question, Twyla. That’s the reason for the meeting tomorrow.”
“I see,” Twyla says, nodding her head as they continue into the Grand Hall. Whatever information he possesses, she suspects it’s secrets Tessa hid from the family for years, information that might change their lives for ever.
A moment later, in the kitchen they find Jayson and Charlie involved in a passionate conversation on religion and spirituality. Twyla knows Jayson broached the topic, not her atheist father who shies from talk of God and is not one to impose his beliefs on others unless provoked.
“Spirituality is divinity without rules. It’s logic, a person’s search for the truth. Therefore, you are spiritual, Charlie,” Jayson’s voice echoes across the cavernous kitchen.
Twyla’s eyes freeze on Charlie, waiting for his usual, instant intractable stance.
“Perhaps,” Charlie says in a hesitant tone as he places the kettle on the stovetop.
An inaudible gasp escapes Twyla’s throat. Is he having second thoughts about long-held beliefs, or is it a polite response to defuse the awkward conversation?
Intrigued by the topic, Dante steps in and agrees with Jayson. Soon, the matter turns to death and reincarnation.
Twyla never knew Dante’s beliefs, but he holds similar views to Jayson’s. As an atheist, Charlie is outnumbered in this discussion but holds his ground without resentment. The men’s casual discussion of a controversial topic strikes Twyla as odd. She had expected a few disagreements from Charlie, but not one opposing argument leaves his mouth.
Charlie loves an intellectual, especially one dating his daughter. When he discovers Jayson is a Cultural Anthropology Professor at Cornell University, a nonstop volley of queries rebound back and forth until Twyla intercepts, ending a grueling conversation she’s positive will resume before Jayson leaves for campus.
Twyla smiles. They like each other. The same sincerity and compassion that charmed her a year ago has won over her parents. Will their sentiments change when they learn of the engagement? Regardless, their approval or disapproval will not change her decision to marry him.
Dante says goodbye to everyone and heads back to the C
arriage House. Charlie searches through various containers labeled with different herbs for willow bark or pennyroyal. Jayson heads to his room for a shower after winning her parents’ initial approval, an acceptance hinging on the dreaded engagement announcement.
12
The Dreamcatcher
What a weird morning, Twyla thinks as she squeezes water from the sponge, and swabs puddles from the next step. The engagement announcement is nerve-racking but with the sleepwalking, Sky’s fall, the image in the carriage house and the freaky storm, her anguish has multiplied. Was stress the trigger for her sleepwalking? She wonders as she mops to the landing.
When she opens the bedroom door, a damp, marshy chill wafts from the room, and a watery woman wavers over the bed, stroking the dreamcatcher on the wall. The mop and pail slip from Twyla’s hand, clanking to the floor. The woman turns, and a frightened teenage girl emerges through the boggy veil, glowering, opened mouth, emitting a stifling, foul air. The horrific chill and swampy odor intensify, pungent, icier as she inhales oxygen from the air.
Twyla stumbles backward with phantom liquid flooding her eyes and nostrils. Breathless, she drops to her knees, choking on invisible water. She clutches her throat and tries to scream, but only a smothered gurgle bubbles from her mouth, an inaudible squeal for help.
The sodden specter propels air from her wide mouth before she fades from view. Twyla gasps and wheezes several deep breaths. Strangled tears roll from her eyes to the floor. Rising from her four-limbed crouch, she scuttles backward into the doorjamb, hugging her knees into her chest as the pungent odor dwindles from the room.
“I just saw a ghost!” she gasps to herself.
The air returns to normal. She sits straight and glares at the dreamcatcher swaying from the spectral breeze. With flattened ears, and a long mew, Mystik wiggles from beneath the bed, climbing on her lap.
“Shh, shh… it’s OK.” Twyla rises from the floor with Mystik on her shoulder, stroking her fur for comfort and stepping farther into the room. Her eyes lock on the purple-feathered talisman that fell on Jayson’s head earlier and lay on the pillow when they’d rushed to Skylar.
Did the ghost hang the dreamcatcher on the wall? “Impossible,” she mumbles as the dreamcatcher slows from its wide swings. Twyla searches the loft for the girl, noticing wavering walls shadowed with snow flurries, not ghosts.
Mystik hisses and sinks her sharp claws into her skin.
“Ow! No! Shush… it’s OK, Mystik,” she murmurs, pulling Mystik’s stuck talons from her T-shirt.
Mystik squirms from her hand, leaps, and scampers with a low-slung lope from the attic, into the stairwell, recalling images of her frightful screech and quilled hair earlier. Mystik sensed the specter before she and Jayson left the bed and moments before mom’s tumble on the stairs.
Twyla pokes her head through the door and calls, “Mystik, come here, girl.” The collar bell jingles farther to the bottom of the stairwell. She’ll hide for hours when she’s frightened, but she can’t get out of the staircase. She’s safe, Twyla reassures herself.
Twyla hugs her shoulders, eyes the now-motionless dreamcatcher, fearing the teenage specter will reappear. There’s no denying the intense strangulation reminiscent of choking underwater. And no one could have entered a locked room and hung the dreamcatcher above the bed. Grams gave it to her years ago to prevent nightmares. Even though it never worked, she loves the purple feathers on the wall.
Why was the ghost interested in the dreamcatcher?
With caution, she advances toward the pail and mop, lifts them from the floor, never taking her eyes from the room. She always believed she wouldn’t be afraid if a ghost appeared, and never expected a knee-dropping-gasping-for-air reaction. She stares at the dreamcatcher. Did it move again? For a moment, the feathers appeared to flutter. No, it’s just storm shadows from the window, not the spectral girl.
Who was she? Is she gone for good?
Twyla wonders as she swabs the floor to the bed, pausing when water droplets appear on the plum comforter and pillows. Running her finger over the spot, she sniffs the boggy odor that had suffused the area moments ago.
Impossible! Can a ghost leave tangible proof?
At once, the woman’s aqueous form explains everything – the watery trail, and Mom’s reticent behavior. They both saw the girl. Mom didn’t want to share what she’d seen in front of Jayson, which she understands, given people’s skepticism about the paranormal. Who would divulge such experiences while surrounded by naysayers? But there’s no denying the water on the bed and floor.
The ghost appeared in the mirror, startling Mom. That’s the reason she fell.
Ah, now she understands Sky’s perplexed expression when they mentioned the water on the staircase. Sky thought the water was illusory, unreal.
Did she have a fright?
Why did Cristal ask that question unless she saw the girl, too? It explains her odd behavior at the window and in the bridal suite.
She ponders the watery nightmare, sleepwalking, damp clothes, the chill at the window and the image of the long-haired woman in the Carriage House mirror. A childhood fear beleaguers her mind once more, a fear of another entity controlling her body while she slept. Did the specter invade her body? It explains the dampness of her clothes. But is it possible?
Jayson’s alarming words replay in her head. “Your sleeping soul walks with ghosts.”
Perhaps he’s right.
13
Tekakwitha
December 1778
“Hë’ëh! No!” Teka springs upright in a watery dark, damp and gasping as if rising from abysmal water. Lost for a moment, she twists her head from side to side, straining to see in the dark. A primal howl sounds outside and a familiar snore wheezes beside her, revealing she’s home. She breathes deep and wipes sweat from her brow, relieved she’s not inside that strange house. It wasn’t real. It was a dream, but unlike any dream she’d ever seen.
Jawanda’s dream-snare breezes from the bedpost to the floor. The instant she touches the useless talisman, the beautiful one with soft purple feathers, glassy beads, and firm wooden rim that she’d held in her dream comes to mind. It felt so real. The web was tighter, finer, but how could she feel in a dream?
Teka recalls the woman who showed more fear than she did. The obvious horror and disbelief in her eyes thrust Teka from sleep. Was it a dream? It couldn’t be. Everything in that place felt of substance. The man the woman calls Jayson appeared a stranger, but familiar. He can’t be Pilan. What does the Great Spirit show me? She fears she’s disturbed her sister’s slumber when she stirs beside her. “Garrentha, I’m sorry, go back to sleep.”
“Are you all right?”
“Just another ga:etgë’ óísëhda’, bad dream,” Teka whispers, trying not to disturb others sleeping. Chilly air seeps through ceiling vents, icing her clammy skin.
Garrentha’s slender arm opens wide on the bed, inviting Teka into her shoulder – a soothing place she’d rested many nights after nightmares. She slinks into her warmth, lays her head in the crook of her shoulder, and closes her eyes at once, then opens them, afraid of falling into another nightmare. Teka breathes deep, replacing the boggy smell in her dream with dried pumpkin, squash, apples, herbs, and sweetgrass honeying the bunk above her bed.
Garrentha wraps her arm around Teka. “You’re drenched,” she whispers, feeling her sweat-soaked clothes and pulling the fur tighter around Teka. The cornhusk mat creaks and squeaks beneath the thick pelt as she moves closer.
“In my dream, I saw a strange house and woman. She appeared familiar, a member of our people, our clan, but wore strange clothing. I couldn’t understand why she feared me. I believe I appeared just as strange to her as she to me. Such clothing I’ve never seen, and that place with unfamiliar objects was not of our time. I tried to escape, but energy pulled me deeper within the walls.” Teka touches her chest, still sensing the sharp tug. “What is the Great Spirit showing me?”
“Clan
mother says dreams are signs of our soul’s yearning.”
“There’s nothing my soul wants in this dream. That place’s not our world, so why does my spirit yearn for the unknown?”
“You need to search deeper. Your spirit is reaching out, listen harder to what it seeks,” Garrentha murmurs.
Afraid to sleep, afraid the otherworld will trap her again, Teka stays awake, listening to the night and the sleeping wolf clan’s silent breaths. Soon, her thoughts turn to the choker she’d carved a day ago – the wolf-face on a turtle shell, a symbol of her and Pilan. Why did it look ancient and soiled in my dream? Am I seeing the future?
“Do you think the dream’s a message from the Great Spirit?”
“You should share your vision at the dream-sharing ceremony. Our shaman will know the true meaning,” Garrentha says with sleep in her voice.
“That might be days away. The festival’s postponed until our hunters return.”
“Then don’t wait for the festival. Seek advice tomorrow.”
Teka grows quiet, fearful of the shaman’s prediction, afraid to know what fate awaits her future. “Gi’shëh ëyo:hë’t, maybe tomorrow.”
14
The Corridor
There was never any doubt of Grams’ or Mom’s paranormal experiences. Deception contradicted their persistent candor. They could never fabricate stories with straight faces and always delivered tales with expressions that showed they didn’t believe them themselves. After years of hearing about their ghostly encounters, Twyla figured she’d be unafraid if a ghost crossed her path. To her dismay, it was the most terrifying experience she’s ever had, except for the scare in the cellar.
Now shaken, she’s afraid the boggy specter remains unseen in the loft. Perhaps she’s always been here, and something forced her into view. Twyla dismisses the thought and lifts her face to the shower’s lukewarm stream, trying to soothe her nerves. But behind the vinyl curtain, she’s paranoid the girl is watching from the other side. Every second, she peeks through the opaque shower curtain for movement or any unusual sound.
Keepers Of The Gate Page 10
