She knew the secret. Suddenly everything that she had learned on the mountain became clear. Love was not onedimensional, a joining of bodies. It was a unique blending of the mental, the emotional, the spiritual and the physical. Maybe there were even more dimensions to love than she and Tate had even dreamed—just as there were more dimensions to reality than they had suspected before Peg and Tsani had entered their lives.
Make this new knowledge work for you, Peg told her, and Maggie closed her eyes, summoning the infinite power of love into her most profound consciousness, willing herself to transmit that limitless love to Tate and to the baby and to every human being who came into her sphere of influence forever after.
“Maggie?”
When Tate spoke her name, Maggie opened her eyes and saw that they were surrounded by a golden glow, and in that moment it seemed to expand to include the whole world, the universe, galaxies. She felt happy, joyous, loving.
Tate touched her face, touched her hair, touched her breasts. He felt the wonder of that moment, too; she knew he did, and with growing understanding, she lifted her lips for his kiss. His mouth, so sensual, so seductive, captured hers, and she remembered how it felt to have that mouth upon her throat, her breasts, her belly. Her head spun, her mind reeled, and she felt his mind trying to get in tune with hers. She had been blocking it, blocking him, but now, open to love, she let him in. As she did, she felt his love for her radiating from him in great rushing waves of emotion.
Time and space evaporated, and in the place where she was she saw and felt and knew only Tate, who was some-how naked, his kisses inflaming her desire. She tunneled her hands through his unruly hair, heard him whispering her name, discarded her clothes in movements as light as air. As she sank beneath him, felt his body enter hers, she was floating, drifting, lost on a cloud of sensation. She heard her voice, but was it hers? It sounded unfamiliar in her ears, and dulcimer music was everywhere, and silvery laughter and the beating of white wings. And when she looked up at Tate, into his eyes, she saw the essence of the man inside and knew him as the lover she had lost so long ago at the waterfall, and he had returned for her, and they were going to have their baby, and she smiled into his soul, felt it rise out of him and wrap her in love, and she entered into it without hesitation, leaping across the chasm of doubt without fear.
“Margaret!” he cried, and in that luminous moment of merging she knew that old wrongs had been righted, old sorrows laid to rest. All that was left was the future, stretching before them bright and beautiful, her soul within his, his soul within hers, a future of love forever and ever.
“I love you, Maggie,” he said.
“I love you, Tate,” she replied, wondering how she could have ever found those words difficult to say, and then the heavens opened and smiled above her.
She heard another rush of wings, felt Peg’s release and Tsani’s triumph, and before she fell asleep in Tate’s arms, she knew that she had somehow, for the space of a split second, touched eternity.
“GET MARRIED!” said Bronwyn, aghast.
“If he ever asks me,” Maggie said. It was six weeks after the day that Tate quit his job at Conso; also six weeks after the night when she and Tate had released Peg and Tsani to the Nightland by admitting their love for each other.
“I thought that after Kip, you didn’t want anything to do with men. I thought you could never trust anyone again.”
“Call it a lover’s leap,” said Maggie. “A huge leap of faith and trust and love.”
Bronwyn seemed to digest this. “Does this mean that you won’t ever come back to Atlanta?”
“Fraid so,” Maggie said, licking her ice-cream spoon. She had finally gotten around to trying ice cream and pickles to see if it was a good combination; the answer was no, if the pickles were kosher dill and the ice cream peppermint. She made a mental note to try another flavor of ice cream next time. She wrote Butter Brickle on the pad of paper by the phone; underneath, she wrote, Gherkins.
“What about your job?”
“Am I not writing scintillating ad copy every day for MMB&O? Is it not being efficiently submitted by fax? Are you not completely happy with my work?”
“Well, sure, but I suppose this means we’re going to continue working long-distance.”
“I like the arrangement, and besides, Tate can’t leave his job at the Messenger. Albie’s doing fine, but he’s only going to work mornings from now on, and Tate has to pick up the slack.”
“Is there any chance that you’re going to become a newspaper reporter, too?” From the tone of Bronwyn’s voice, you would have thought that this was a fate worse than death.
“No, not a chance. And Tate isn’t a mere reporter. He is managing editor, thank you very much. He’s making waves, too. After his in-depth coverage of the Kalmia Conservation Coalition and what is now being called the Monday Morning March on Conso, the coalition has so much support that Conso can’t ignore it any more. Jolene Ott has actually met with the company president and they’re discussing those five hundred extra mobile home sites on Breadloaf, Jolene is optimistic that she can talk the company into modifying their plans. The coalition has exposed Conso’s plans to scrap the wilderness park, the Messenger has run outraged editorials about it, and now the state legislature is getting involved. Tate is elated.”
“Ho hum,” said Bronwyn pointedly. “I can’t imagine why you think this is interesting to me.”
“I didn’t. I wanted to tell you how Tate and I are making a difference here, that’s all.” She heard the sound of Tate’s motorcycle racing up the driveway and craned her neck for a view of him. She was always happy when she saw him at the end of the day, and it seemed sometimes that she lived for the moment when he walked through the door, hair bouncing around his shoulders, and kissed her.
“I hope I don’t have to come for a visit,” Bronwyn said with a martyred air. “Please tell me you’re all right.”
“Couldn’t you come for a visit even if I’m fine? I miss you, Bronwyn.”
At that moment, Tate walked in the door, tossed a copy of the latest Scot’s Cove Messenger on the counter, and gave Maggie a big loud smack on the cheek.
“What was that?” asked Bronwyn.
“Tate kissing me,” Maggie said.
“Who is that?” Tate asked.
“Bronwyn. I’m trying to talk her into coming for a visit. When would you suggest she come?”
“How about for our wedding?” Tate poured himself some iced tea from a pitcher in the refrigerator and eyed Maggie over the top of his glass.
Maggie stared at him.
“We’d better get married, don’t you think? Before the kiddo thinks he doesn’t have a dad?” Tate’s eyes were sparkling.
“I think,” Maggie said into the phone, “that I’ve just received a proposal of marriage.”
Tate took the phone away from her. “She did. Will you come, Bronwyn?”
“When is it?” Maggie could hear the words from two feet away.
Tate studied Maggie, taking in her openmouthed astonishment, her blond hair caught up into a haphazard ponytail, the loose white dress shirt, formerly his, that she wore over light blue leggings to accommodate the kiddo.
“Saturday,” he said.
“We’re getting married on Saturday?” Maggie shrieked.
“At four in the afternoon. Right here on Flat Top Mountain,” he informed her.
“You’d better let me talk to Maggie,” Bronwyn said.
“I don’t think she’s capable of speech right now,” Tate replied.
“I…I—” Maggie stammered. She jumped up and down, threw her arms around Tate, and kissed him on the mouth.
“What was that?” Bronwyn asked.
“Maggie kissing me.”
“Do you two always kiss on the phone?”
“Usually we kiss on the lips. Maggie, don’t. Maggie, stop. Maggie, don’t stop,” said Tate.
Maggie relieved Tate of the receiver. “I think we’d better hang
up now,” she said hastily to Bronwyn. “We obviously have a lot to talk about.”
“Wait a minute! Aren’t you interested in an RSVP?”
“Will you be here?”
“Will I! Nothing less than your wedding could ever get me to Scot’s Cove again, Maggie. It had better be good. What should I wear?”
Maggie covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “Bronwyn wants to know what she should wear.”
“Anything,” Tate said.
“Anything,” Maggie repeated into the phone.
“What are you going to wear? What’s he going to wear? No, don’t tell me. If he’s going to be wearing a loincloth, I really don’t want to know.”
Maggie giggled. “I’ll probably be wearing something in maternity wear. The kiddo is getting bigger every day.”
“Great,” Bronwyn said without any discernible enthusiasm. “What would you like for a wedding gift?”
“We have everything we need for the house. How about a present for the baby? A crib, a high chair—”
“I’ll give you a silver teething ring from Tiffany’s,” Bronwyn said. “Monogrammed.”
Inwardly, Maggie groaned. Leave it to Bronwyn to suggest something totally impractical.
“I think it’s about time you hang up and tell me whether you accept my proposal,” suggested Tate.
“I have to hang up now, Bronwyn,” Maggie said, and she did.
She and Tate gazed at each other, their faces wreathed in smiles.
“I take it you’ve accepted,” he said, folding her into his arms.
“Yes, a thousand times yes,” she replied.
He rested his chin on the top of her head. “I started thinking about Peg and Tsani going off to the Nightland together, and I thought that they shouldn’t be the only ones who live happily ever after. Besides, I want the kiddo to have my name. I want to be a good daddy, the best daddy in the world, and the way to prove my good intentions is to marry the kiddo’s mommy.”
“I love you, Tate. It seems like I always loved you, even when I didn’t know you.”
“But you did know me. A long time ago. When I was Tsani and you were Peg.”
“This time, the legend has a happy ending,” she said, gazing deep into his dark eyes.
“And we are going to have a happy beginning,” he declared before kissing her.
When they pulled apart, Maggie looked down at her stomach. “I think we also have a happy middle,” she exclaimed in surprise. “I think the baby just moved.”
He placed his hands on her abdomen. “I can’t feel a thing,” he said.
“Kiss me again,” she commanded. “That’s what started him kicking before.”
He kissed her, but nothing happened. “Come on, kiddo,” he coaxed against her lips. He kissed her again, and again, nothing.
“The only thing I’m feeling is a mad consuming passion for you,” he said, and she laughed delightedly.
He swung her up in his arms and bore her away to the bedroom, kissing her all the way to the bed, and soon the only sound was of a clock’s ticking. But that wasn’t all that Maggie heard. From somewhere floated a bit of silvery laughter, and behind it, she could barely discern a chord played on a mountain dulcimer.
Epilogue
Maggie decreed that their child would not make his worldly debut in a hospital; instead, the long-awaited kiddo would enter the world via natural childbirth in the cabin on Flat Top Mountain where scores of Macintyres had been born before.
And so it happened that a small nervous group gathered in the living room of the ancestral home to lend their support to Tate and Maggie as Maggie labored to bring forth their child behind the closed door of the bedroom. Above the old double bed hung the finished quilt, which was serving as a wall hanging until Maggie donated it to the museum. The quilt’s final square had been added only a month ago; it showed Peg and Tsani together against a dark background sprinkled with stars, which was Maggie’s idea of what the Nightland must look like.
“Push, Maggie,” Tate said, his arms encircling her as he held her up in the bed, and Maggie gathered every ounce of energy within her and pushed. “Push, push, push,” Tate repeated until she collapsed against him, beads of perspiration standing out on her forehead. It didn’t seem fair that the thrill of childbirth wore off after about ten minutes of hard labor.
“Don’t you have some Cherokee magic that will help?” Maggie implored the nurse-midwife, Judy Bearkiller, who was Charlie Bearkiller’s sister-in-law.
Judy smoothed Maggie’s damp brow. “You want me to try the old way?”
“Old way, new way, I don’t care as long as it works,” Maggie said.
Judy took a yellowish liquid from her bag and poured it into a cup.
“Wait a minute, what’s that?” Tate said.
“We call it yellow root,” she said.
“Do I have to drink it?” Maggie eyed the stuff balefully; it seemed to her that too much was being required of her. Push, breathe, push, breathe. She’d had enough. She wanted her baby, and she wanted it now.
“Not yet. I will show you.”
Judy stood behind Maggie and blew some of the liquid onto the top of Maggie’s head, singing in the Cherokee language. Then she blew more of the liquid onto Maggie’s breast and sang another verse. Finally she handed Maggie the rest of the liquid in the cup. “Now you drink it,” she said. “It is supposed to make your baby jump down.”
“Jump down?” said Tate, thinking that there had already been more than enough leaping in this family to last several lifetimes.
“Be born,” explained Judy.
Maggie drank uncomplainingly and in a matter of moments was seized with a huge contraction and then another. Tate cradled her close, crooning encouragement into her ear.
“The baby is coming,” Judy announced dramatically.
A few more contractions, and Maggie felt the baby’s head. Another contraction, and the body was born. Another, and the midwife uttered a jubilant cry.
“A boy,” she said. “A fine healthy boy.”
Tate kissed Maggie’s cheek. Her eyes sought his. “I love you, Maggie,” he said softly, and thankfully she clutched his hand. She knew she could never have done this without him. Finally she closed her eyes, wanting nothing so much as to sink into a state of peaceful exhaustion.
Tate held his son in his arms, admiring the downy yellow fluff on the baby’s head, which was pure Maggie, and the dimpled cheeks, and the chubby face. Finally, although he was still marveling, the impatient midwife reclaimed the baby and shooed Tate out of the room so that she could attend to Maggie and the baby in peace.
A jubilant Tate emerged into a living room full of people, all sitting on the edge of their chairs as this episode of high drama required.
“Is it a bow or a meal sifter?” demanded Charlie Bearkiller.
Tate was nonplussed. “It’s a—a kiddo,” he finished lamely.
“A boy is a bow, a girl is a meal sifter. So, which is it?”
“A bow. A boy. A fine, healthy boy.
“Is Maggie okay?” Bronwyn asked.
“Maggie is wonderful.” He couldn’t begin to tell them how wonderful she had been, how her strength had impressed him, how her bravery had inspired him.
“She must be so happy,” said Jolene.
“I am so happy,” Tate assured her.
“I hope this doesn’t mean that the paper is going to be out late tomorrow,” said Albie in a gruff tone.
“No, but I’m thinking of putting my son’s birth announcement in the front page headline,” Tate said with a straight face.
“What is his name?”
“Mac. Short for Macintyre.”
“I like it,” said Bronwyn, surprising him. Bronwyn hardly ever liked anything.
A series of anxious questions about mother and son followed, and before long Judy Bearkiller opened the bedroom door and beckoned.
Maggie, propped up on pillows, her son nestled in her arms, looked euphoric. She held o
ut one hand to Tate, who clasped it between his immediately. They smiled at each other, exchanging a glance of intimate congratulation. Then they both smiled at their friends.
“This is our son, Macintyre Jennings,” Maggie said, and everyone clapped spontaneously.
Before long, their friends trooped into the living room, leaving Maggie and Tate alone with their wide-eyed and alert baby. As Tate settled close to Maggie on the bed, they heard the popping of a champagne cork on the other side of the door, and their son yawned.
“I think he’s bored,” said Maggie. “Things aren’t lively enough around here for him.”
“Wait until the Tsagasi start chasing him.”
“That doesn’t worry me somehow. The Tsagasi were good for you, weren’t they?”
“Everything is good for me. For the first time in my life, I have a real home, a family and a job I love. I’ve never been so happy, Maggie.”
“The only way I could be happier is if I had a couple more kiddos just like this one,” Maggie said.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Tate said. After her hard labor, he couldn’t believe that Maggie would be willing to go through the whole process again.
“Not kidding. Kiddo-ing,” she said solemnly. “Wait until I’m well, and I’ll prove how much I want another baby. A girl this time. Maybe we’ll call her Peg. Or Meg. I’ll have to think about it. Tate, get down the family Bible. We have an entry to make.”
Tate took the tattered book from its shelf in the wardrobe and opened it to the page listing births.
“You write it, Tate,” Maggie said, and so he wrote in his firm strong hand, “To Margaret Macintyre Jennings and Tate Jennings, a son, Macintyre Jennings.” Underneath, he inscribed the date.
Maggie read what Tate had written and smiled her approval. “I think Tsani and Peg would be pleased,” she said.
Tate closed the Bible and set it aside. Then he kissed the top of his son’s head.
“You know what I was thinking while I was in labor?” Maggie asked dreamily.
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