In the Shadow of the Moon

by Karen White

“Isn’t now enough?”

  The pressure of his hands on my head increased. “No.”

  The fear and desperation of his dream filled his eyes, the eyes of a soldier. They were foreign to me, and I felt a flash of alarm.

  “You’re hurting me. Please let go.”

  He began shaking, and the pressure eased as he removed his hands, staring at them as if they didn’t belong to him. “Forgive me. This war dehumanizes us.”

  “I know.” I grabbed his hands and turned them over to kiss each roughened palm. I had felt how gentle his hands could be. Wanting to erase the haunting images in his mind’s eye, I held his shoulders and pulled him down on the pillow once more.

  His gentleness was gone this time, his lips hard on mine, his body rough and demanding. His lovemaking left me feeling like a shattered and fallen star, splintering down toward earth, then coming to rest on the barren winter grass.

  * * *

  The last sliver of light disappeared from the floor, leaving only the dim glow of dusk from the windows illuminating the room. Slipping on his pants, Stuart walked across the room to rekindle the fire and then returned to the bed with me.

  I rubbed my hand against his cheek. “You shaved.”

  “I was ordered to.” His cheek creased as he smiled.

  “I didn’t order you. I’m much more subtle than that.”

  “Subtle, hmm? I do not think I noticed that about you.”

  I elbowed him in the ribs, making him grunt.

  “Why hasn’t Zeke come back?” My fingers were busy entangling themselves in the black thickness of his hair, brushing it off his forehead.

  “He will not be back for a while—he might even spend the night in the woods.” Stuart cocked an eyebrow. “He knows. He always knows things that are not always apparent to others.”

  “Won’t he and the others be scandalized?”

  “Not Zeke, and I doubt anyone else would find out. I think that the citizens of Roswell are too busy worrying about their next meal to worry about who is going around unchaperoned.”

  “But it’s freezing outside. It’s making me feel incredibly guilty.”

  “Zeke prefers to sleep outside. He once told me that the stars were the eyes of those not yet born. He takes great comfort in sleeping under them.”

  I smiled, resting my head on his shoulder. “That’s beautiful. I’d like to think it was true.” I thought of the eyes of my parents, not yet born, watching over me.

  I ran my finger over a scar on his chest that I had noticed earlier. It was about the size of a quarter, but it must have been deep, because the skin was purpled and puckered. “What’s this?”

  His hand rested over mine. “William. He shot me with an arrow when we were boys. It was an accident.”

  From what I had heard of William, I somehow doubted it.

  He turned to me and touched his lips to mine. “They are the color of moss, I think.”

  I looked at him questioningly.

  “Your eyes. It will always be your eyes that I will think about when I am away from you.”

  I held a finger to his lips. “Don’t. Don’t talk about us not being together.”

  “Then stay, Laura. We could—”

  “Sh,” I said, and leaned forward to kiss him and silence the next words from his lips. Words that I expected to be my undoing.

  A booming shot filled the room, echoing from the nearby woods. Stuart had scrambled from the bed and pulled on his shirt by the time I realized it had been the sound of a shotgun.

  “Wouldn’t that be Zeke hunting?” I was reluctant to move from the comfort of the quilt.

  Looking down to button his shirt, his reply was muffled. “Most likely. But he said he was checking traps. He would only use his gun if he ran into trouble. I had best make sure he is all right.”

  “What kind of trouble?” I wrapped the quilt around me and walked over to him as he buttoned up his coat and buckled his belt over it.

  “If a catamount became interested in Zeke’s trap, there might be a fight. Zeke could probably take care of it, but I would like to make sure.”

  He avoided my eyes as he settled his hat on his head. I grabbed his elbow as he reached for the rifle. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  Pulling a sidearm from its holster, he handed it to me. “Do you know how to use this?”

  Reluctant to touch it, I stepped back. “Why would I need that?”

  He opened the gun, checked it for ammunition, then snapped it shut. “These are uncertain times. I cannot leave you here unprotected.”

  I straightened my spine. “Then you had better show me how to use that thing.”

  It was the first gun I’d ever held, and I found this Colt Navy to be surprisingly light. Stuart showed me how to cock the hammer and quickly moved aside as I pointed the gun at him. “Watch where you aim that. It has an easy trigger.”

  He took the gun from me, released the hammer, and laid it on the table. “I want you to keep the door latched and only open it when you hear our voices. Do you understand?”

  I nodded, feeling numb. He wrapped his arms around me. “It is probably nothing. I just want to make sure.”

  I reached my arms around his neck, letting the quilt fall, and kissed him solidly.

  “We will talk when I get back.” Stooping, he picked up the quilt and handed it to me. “And you might want to get dressed, just in case Zeke gets back before I do. Not that I think he will be surprised, but he is my grandfather.”

  “Be careful.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said softly, and let himself out the door.

  Drops of rain spotted the wood planks of the porch, blown by a strong wind. I latched the door and stood there briefly, my hands flat on the hardwood, and whispered a little prayer.

  The cabin suddenly seemed vast and empty. I walked over to the fire to stoke it, making the wood pop and crackle, the homey scent of pine filling the room. I found a clean nightgown Julia must have sent with the soap, and I slipped it over my head and began to wait.

  The thick silence of the evening woods filled the air with a palpable heaviness. A discernible feeling of expectation lingered on the darkened windowsills. I peered out into the emptiness and saw only my reflection, my eyes wide. The wind battered the small cabin, the rain falling heavier as the night progressed.

  I paced the room until my gaze rested on the full bookshelves. I pulled out Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables, smiling to myself as I thought of Zeke reading about the French Revolution.

  Propping myself up in the bed, I placed the gun on the bedside table within easy reach and began to read. My eyelids grew heavy as the fire burned low, and I quickly fell asleep.

  The gray tones of dawn sent a tentative light into the darkened cabin. The fire had long since gone out, explaining the numbing cold that permeated the room. I sat up abruptly, the heavy book sliding off my lap. I had no idea how long I had been asleep.

  I crept out of bed. The early light lent a muted quality to the colors of the room, as if I were still dreaming. But the sharp poke of the table corner told me I was indeed wide-awake.

  Gnawing worry invaded the morning peacefulness. The men had not returned, and I had no idea what to do next. I walked to the window, my footsteps sounding oddly muffled. Peering out, I was met by thick, swirling puffs of fog. I leaned my forehead against the glass but could see only the hulking shadows of trees near the house.

  A shout in the distance made me jump. It had definitely been a male voice. I sprang to the door, unlatched it, and opened it wide.

  The crisp smell of morning and wet pine straw greeted me as I stood on the porch and strained my eyes to see beyond the steps. I took a few hesitant steps before stopping, the hairs on the back of my neck standing at attention, a primordial sign of warning
. The soft whinnying of a horse came from nearby. “Stuart?” I called.

  A footfall came from behind me. “Turn around slowly.”

  Despite the frigid morning, sweat ran under my armpits. I turned to face the double barrel of a rifle not two inches from my face. I could not see them through the thick mist, but I felt two dark eyes boring into me.

  “Why are you doing this, Pamela? I’ve never done anything to you.” I amazed myself with my calmness. Inside, my stomach churned with terror.

  “I am afraid I must disagree.” She nudged me in the arm with the barrel. “Let us go inside. We have a little talking to do.”

  She followed me into the cabin, closing and latching the door behind me. “Sit down.”

  I allowed myself to drop into the rocker, not taking my eye off the rifle. I had seen the gun before in this cabin. I knew it was Zeke’s.

  “Where’s Zeke?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

  Without turning her back to me, she examined every detail in the room, her eyes registering surprise as she took in the well-stocked bookshelves. Her gaze drifted to the tousled bed. “Ah. So you have seduced Stuart. I warned him, but he would not listen. Just like a man. I have found that the best way to deal with a man is to eliminate him—just like Julia’s father.” She chuckled lightly.

  “Where is Zeke?” I repeated, refusing to be goaded.

  Pamela hooked a chair leg with her foot and dragged it out from under the table to sit. “Somewhere in the woods.” She paused to give me a wide grin. “With a bullet in him. And I hit him in the head with the butt of my rifle for good measure.”

  “Why?” I started to stand up, but her rifle motioned me back. “What has he ever done to you?”

  “He helped you. That makes him my enemy.”

  My mouth went dry and I could almost hear my heart thumping. “I don’t understand.”

  Her look softened slightly as she raised a quizzical smile. “Do you really not know who I am?”

  I shook my head, then forced myself to ask the next question. “Where’s Stuart?” I clung to the chair like a lifeboat. No matter how much I wanted to get up and run, I knew just as strongly that Pamela would have no problem with shooting me before I reached the door. She had already tried to kill me once before.

  “He is alive—for now. I find that keeping the two of you alive would be a most prudent move on my part. You are far more useful to me living. Right now, anyway.”

  I tried to reason with her. “Pamela, I think you are a very sick woman. I know you didn’t mean to hurt Zeke—or me. Perhaps there are doctors who can help you. Just put down the gun so there are no more accidents.”

  She stared at me, amazement spreading across her face. “I know who you are. Do you not know who I am?”

  Where is Stuart? I glanced at the window, white wisps of fog still stroking the glass. “I know you’re a spy for the Confederates, if that’s what you mean. But I am not a Yankee spy, as you probably think. I don’t think I’m even capable of choosing sides in this conflict.” I kept talking, hoping it would buy me time until Stuart returned.

  The sound coming from her sounded like a bark, making me cringe. “I am not stupid, Laura Truitt. I know you are a traveler.”

  The blood seemed to evacuate my body, leaving my extremities to tingle with dread. “A traveler?” My voice sounded foreign to my ears.

  “When I heard that you had been found on Moon Mountain, I suspected. And then you sang that rainbow song. When you sang it when you were sick, then I knew for sure. What I do not know is who sent you.”

  “Who sent me?” My mind reeled. How could she know about the traveling?

  Her face narrowed into a tight pucker as she walked closer to me, the rifle barrel prodding me in the chest. “I will not be toyed with. And I would be happy to shoot you if you do not cooperate with me.”

  Realization, white-hot as lightning, struck me. “Are you a traveler, too?”

  She cackled again. “Of course. From 1953, to be exact. I’m here on a mission, and you are going to help me succeed.”

  I remembered her astronomy books that she had sent down from Tennessee for safekeeping, and her ever watchfulness of me. But she was here for a purpose. “No. That can’t be,” I whispered. “You mean other people know about this?”

  Her lipless grin showed small, even white teeth. “Oh yes.” She looked at me with hooded eyes and pulled up the sleeve of her dress. A dark crescent-shaped birthmark marred the whiteness on her forearm. I sucked in my breath.

  “How did you get here?” I couldn’t move my eyes away from her arm.

  “The same way all Shadow Warriors travel: wrapped in the atmosphere of a comet intensified by a lunar eclipse.”

  “Travelers,” I whispered.

  “Yes, dear. Like you and me. And your daughter. I saw her mark when I found her on Moon Mountain. I knew I needed to keep her close by to see who came after her. It was so convenient when Julia’s daughter died. Otherwise, I would have had to help her along.”

  I felt sick. “Surely you wouldn’t harm an innocent child.”

  Her face was serious. “I will do whatever it takes.”

  I swallowed my fear, eager for answers. “Are there many of us?” I began to shiver. Pamela grabbed the quilt off the bed and tossed it at me. Picking up my gun from the nightstand, she returned to where I was, pulled out a chair, and sat down opposite.

  Still keeping the gun aimed at me, she began talking. “Not many—usually just one or two every generation. I thought I was the only surviving Shadow Warrior, but now I know I am wrong. I am a Southern Loyalist, and I am here to make sure the South wins. The South will rise again.” Her voice shook with vehemence.

  I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. “You can’t be serious. You’re only one person—you can’t win a war single-handed.”

  She leaned back in her chair. “You know, Laura, for a young woman of obvious intelligence, you can be dense at times.” Sitting up straight, she continued. “It is like playing the lottery, only you know the numbers beforehand. I am not alone. I have a group of loyal followers. And now I have you.” She drummed her fingers on the rifle butt. “Now, why are you here?”

  I swallowed and took a deep breath, trying to clear my brain. “I really don’t know. It was an accident. I was just trying to find my daughter on top of Moon Mountain and I ended up here.” My eyes widened as I considered another possibility. “Do your loyal followers know who you really are?”

  “Of course not. Who would believe anything like that? No, they have all been handpicked by me to be slow of brains but quick on the trigger. And a little low on morals. Money talks with these men, and I have got lots of that. I came here prepared.”

  She laid the rifle behind her chair, but kept the handgun still trained on my chest.

  I tried to reason with her, if only to keep my panic at bay. “I am not here for any purpose, and I refuse to help you do something that will deliberately change the course of history. Aren’t you concerned that anything you change now might not have the repercussions you’re planning on?”

  Her eyes sparkled with energy as she leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. “This war will bring the South to her knees, forever tying her to the yoke of Yankee dominance. These things will happen if I don’t intervene. If I succeed, I can relieve the South’s suffering by eliminating Reconstruction and lessening the effects of the Great Depression. I will be the South’s savior.” Her eyes flashed with a fanaticism that chilled my skin.

  “I will not help you. Even if the South wins now, it’s only a matter of time before they’re fighting again. The South cannot win, now or later. It doesn’t have the resources. It’s ludicrous.”

  She leaned forward and hissed. “I am not asking for your opinion. It does not matter to me anyway. And besides . . .” A feral grain crossed her thin face. “If yo
u ever want to see your daughter again, I suggest you listen very closely to what I ask of you.”

  My heart tightened in my chest. “What do you mean? Where’s Sarah?”

  “She is with my associate, Matt Kimball. We tried to get rid of you before, remember? But Matt wanted to have a little fun with you before he killed you, and missed his opportunity. It is just as well, because now I have a better idea.”

  “Why is Sarah with Matt?” My fingernails bit into my palms.

  She smiled almost maternally. “That is my better idea. Matt is holding Sarah until you do what I ask of you. And if you do not . . .” The smile vanished from her face. “Matt will not think twice about cutting her throat.”

  I stood, feeling as if I were high on a tightrope. “She’s only a child. You can’t do this. Please. Think of Julia—of what you’d be doing to her. I won’t say anything, I promise. Just tell me where Sarah is.”

  She smiled gently at me. “Now, where would be the fun in that?” She pushed the barrel of the gun into my chest and shoved me back in my chair.

  “I want you to understand something. All it will take is a word from me, and you will never see your daughter alive again. But do as I ask, and I will release her to you. It is up to you, my dear.”

  “Laura!” It was Stuart. He was getting closer, probably at the edge of the woods.

  I gripped the seat tighter, willing myself to remain where I was instead of wrapping my hands around her throat and choking her to death. Only the cold steel barrel of her gun prevented me from moving.

  “What do you want me to do?” My voice croaked, my breath vaporizing in the chill air.

  “I need you to kill General William Tecumseh Sherman.” She paused, as if waiting for the enormity of her request to sink in. “We cannot let him take the city of Atlanta. If he is repulsed and forced to retreat, then the Northern war effort will crash. Our Northern neighbors are sicker of this conflict than we are—it will not take much to make them give up. Without a strong victory here, Lincoln will not be reelected in the fall. His opponent, McClellan, will win and sue for peace with the South. The nation will be torn apart—permanently. The Confederate States of America will be her own sovereign nation, never to be held in bondage by the Yankee oppressor again.” She tightened her hold on the gun. “I would do it myself, but I am much too valuable.”