The Talisman - Crisscross

by Shaunna Gonzales

Trish experienced momentary blindness as she moved from the bright sunlight to the darkness of the livery. She stopped just inside the doorframe a moment while listening for some indication of Albert's whereabouts. The split log walls of the livery had wooden pegs wedged between the logs to hold all manner of tools, wheel rims, and pieces of metal. The lean-to outside the east doors provided shade while Albert worked the huge wood and leather bellows for the fire to heat the iron. A breeze aired the livery, lifting the stench of horse manure and sweat.

  A horse nickered. She moved to the animal, letting it sniff her hand before rubbing his nose. "Here all by yourself, I see. Well, I didn't come to see you, so you're gonna be alone again. I have to figure out what I'm going to do, and you can't help me with that."

  She lifted Yedi's bridle from a hook and, locating a brush went to get her horse. Yedi came when she whistled, trotting across the paddock to her. She brushed him, put the bridle on and led him out of the enclosure. Not wanting to return to the livery, she balanced the brush on the fence and used an old Indian technique her uncle had taught her as a youth to mount the horse. She grabbed a handful of mane at the withers, stepped back toward the horse's head, and let fly with her right leg. Jumping off the left, she got her right leg over the horse's back and hooked her heel into Yedi's hipbone. She used her arms to pull herself upright. It wasn't easy with a long skirt, but she managed it.

  The sun felt good on her shoulders, helping her to relax. She rode Yedi away from the saloon, letting her mind wander as she followed the river upstream.

  The simplest solution to her compromised situation was to use the talisman to return home. She reined Yedi to a halt and withdrew the talisman from under her blouse. The trinket sparkled and shined in the sunlight but seemed to lack its former dancing quality. She dangled it as she had before. Watching it made remembering her Grammys words easier.

  If you want to return to the former space in time, hold it upside down like this. Trish mimicked Grammy's actions. And flick it with your finger, just as you did before. Trish flicked the talisman's inner spindle and waited for her setting to change. She visually explored her surroundings. It all looked the same. Her posture sagged. The talisman spins on a seven-day cycle, not six, not eight. Remember, if you want to return to where you were, you must act on that cycle. Be careful after you cross day seven. After seven days, the talisman wants to travel. If you spin it without careful consideration of where you are and where you want to go, you might end up unable to ever return. It is not a toy. It cannot be governed. You can only act on the guiding principles given. Choose your course through time wisely. From there, Grammy had launched into a series of unfortunate shifts in time. The adventure had become ever dangerous and that is why Trish's grammy, born in 1940, had died in 2011, appearing to be in her early forties. She'd spent her suspended years trying to return to a specific space in time, never able to do so. Finally, she settled for acting the part of a distant relative to her daughter, a daughter raised by strangers in time.

  Trish grasped the talisman, tucking it safely under her shirt. Today was not the day. She dismounted, and with a stick, drew a calendar in the dirt. Sunday, plus seven days was Sunday, but if Sunday were day one, that would make Saturday day seven. The talisman wouldn't dance until day seven so if Saturday were not the day to travel, nothing would happen and everything would be a go to return home the following day. Saturday was the day to try to return, the earliest day. Three days, what could happen in three days? Figuring her travel calendar out still left her with at least a handful of people thinking she was a trick-turning whore.

  She scraped the dirt calendar with the stick in frustration. She could just tell Pierre and Zelda, and refuse to turn tricks but how would she pay for her room? She had to at least appear to be planning to pay for her room. Rob a bank? A stage? Get a job, but doing what? Even with failing to pass the bar for the third time, she probably had better credentials than most judges in this wild frontier, but would anyone hire a woman? Probably not.

  She remounted Yedi. She always thought more clearly with the wind streaming through her hair. Trish nudged Yedi to a rolling canter. Forced to keep her mind on the branches, bushes, and obstacles in their path, she quickly forgot her present cares. Yedi's strides soon cleared the trees. A small ranch house came into view nestled among corrals and smaller outbuildings. She slowed Yedi and approached. Trish dismounted.

  She found Quinn working a colt in the lodge pole pine arena. He had apparently been working for some time. His shirt was open at the neck and although a light breeze lifted it ever so slightly, it stuck to his heated skin, damp from his perspiration. He stood in the center of the small arena, facing the young horse. Trish strained to hear his gentle words as he reassured the animal. She couldn't make out the words, only the pleasant tenor of his voice. His movements remained deliberate, gentle and assuring. She watched Quinn, the damp, white fabric accenting the muscles of his broad back with the fluid motion of his hands and body. His stance, that of a dancer, ready to move as the need arose. She smiled, likening the movements of man and horse to a delicate ballet, one of balance between raw power, individual wills, and trust. His breath came slow and comfortably smooth, and as she watched, her own breathing matched his.

  Yedi snorted and distracted the youngster. Trish flinched, ejected from her trance. Hearing Quinn swear under his breath, Trish led Yedi away, putting the house between them and the arena.

  "That wasn't very nice, Yedi. That youngster is in school. Didn't Vance teach you not to talk to other horses while they are learning? Especially distracting him with your alpha male stud hood?" She smiled at the horse, proud of the fact that with all his testosterone she could control him and call him her own. She personally had not seen a better example of horseflesh. His muzzle was small as Arabians often are. His eyes set wide on his head that spoke of intelligence, not "knot-headed-ness." He stood tall for an Arabian, adding to his speed and endurance. His coloring was common for Arabians, white with an undercoat of black skin, especially noticeable around his face. The thing she loved most about him remained his gentleness under her hand. Oh, to find his equal in a man…

  Her mind circled back to her present dilemma. She had to face the fact that this wasn't home, not as she knew it. The mountains and valley appeared the same except for the generous sprinkling of trees across the valley floor. History recorded the late 1800's and early 1900's as a wild time, even here in this valley. Rustlers preyed on the cattle drives across the lava flats to Oregon. Robbers often held up the stages running from Eagle Rock to Root Hog and on across the lava flats, especially when stages started running from the mining communities to the north of Root Hog. The opportunities sounded vague for a woman, except for prostitution.

  Trish mounted again, thinking it time to leave but instead leaned forward, laying on Yedi's neck, allowing her tears of frustration and faltering courage to flow. Her skirt draped barely to her knees as she sat astride her one link with home. What could she offer to such a rugged time? She didn't sing or dance -- or did she? She didn't have to do it well. This wasn't Broadway, it was the rugged frontier. If she could just talk Pierre into getting a piano and a piano player…Would he let her dance? Okay, shake her twenty-first century, scrawny in the nineteen century, figure in his saloon? Were the cowboys that picky? She'd have to write, or plagiarize a few songs, the ones, or bits and pieces of the ones, she could remember. She could even fake doing some can-can dance steps, if Pierre would go for it.

  She lay draped across her horse and sang Grammy's version of "You are my Sunshine" knowing she was flat almost as much as she was on key. She didn't hear Quinn come around the corner of the house. Yedi's ears pricked at the approaching footsteps but he stood still waiting for a cue to move. Quinn cleared his throat. Trish sat up quickly, her song cut short.

  "Sorry to interrupt. Yer memory comin' back with that song?" His voice warmed her.

  "Maybe a little." She wanted to kick herself. She hadn't considered how her
actions or decision to sing might be perceived. He clearly expected her to remember more. She'd have to stick to "You are my Sunshine," and not vary in her plans. How much of it had he heard?

  A wry smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and she felt a surge of embarrassment threaten to turn her cheeks red. It was true, she had dreamt of holding him in her arms or rather him holding her in his arms. If he had heard, how would he perceive the words of the song?

  Surely it wouldn't prove welcome. Her flirting might lead to more. No, it wouldn't do to have a relationship here now, should she return home. The thought of a long distance romance across the fabric of time caused her to smirk where the embarrassment had not.

  "Ya ridin' without a saddle?"

  "Is that so strange?"

  "Depends."

  "Depends on what?"

  "What ya come for."

  "Nothing really. I was just out for a ride. I didn't know this is where you live. This is your place, isn't it?"

  "Here, let me help ya off." He moved close to her, but instead of lifting her down, he placed his hand gently on her bare leg. His touch sent shivers all over her. She longed for his embrace. "Tell me, if it ain't too forward of me. How is it that ya have this tan on yer legs and neck?"

  Her hand went to her neck, pulling the blouse closed. "How do you know I'm not brown all over?" She forced her voice to a confident tone.

  "Yer face is pale, not like the paint Zelda wears. Except when ya blush," Quinn answered. "Ya know, I didn't take ya for a whore on the trail. But ya was pretty busy last evenin'."

  Trish cleared her throat, trying to think her way out of this one. "I wasn't busy last evening. I had a headache. I'm not a whore, Quinn. Not for Old Curly, not for you, not for any man." She reveled at the touch of his hand on her leg. Her mind danced to lascivious thoughts. If only he would hold her, caress her, love her, make her worries go away. Trish closed her eyes briefly, biting her tongue, knowing she couldn't verbalize her thoughts. She exhaled slowly, pushing her delusion of intimacy away.

 

  Chapter 17