Wind Talker

by Kim Murphy

  The Dreaming

  Wind Talker

  Kim Murphy

  Published by Coachlight Press

  Copyright © 2014 by Kim Murphy

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  Published by Coachlight Press October 2014

  Coachlight Press, LLC

  http://www.coachlightpress.com

  Cover design by Roberta Marley

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014951128

  ISBN: 978-1-936785-19-3

  * * *

  to the memory of Uncle Dick

  and Saber

  Also by Kim Murphy

  Non-Fiction

  I Had Rather Die: Rape in the Civil War

  Fiction

  Walks Through Mist

  Whispers from the Grave

  Whispers Through Time

  Promise & Honor

  Honor & Glory

  Glory & Promise

  * * *

  1

  Lee

  The partially buried human skeleton sent chills running up and down my spine. I had been a police detective for over a decade and viewed bodies in every state of decomposition. No flesh clung to the bones. No putrid stench lingered in the air. Why did this one bother me? The skull was partly intact, and enough teeth remained to send me a ghoulish grin.

  My stomach churned, and I was relieved when my partner waved at me. Thankful to be away from the burial site, I moved in Ed’s direction a few hundred yards from the grave and breathed in fresh air.

  “Lee,” Ed said, “the anthropologist will be here in a few minutes. Since you’ve worked with her before, I’d like for you to go over the details when she gets here.”

  “Sure.”

  “You all right? You look like you’re not feeling well.”

  “Must be coming down with something.”

  “Take it easy until the anthropologist arrives.” Ed returned to the grave.

  Whatever had affected me vanished now that I was away from the skeleton. I spoke with a couple of the uniformed officers, waiting patiently, when a mud-spattered pickup truck pulled alongside us.

  A petite woman, no taller than my wife Phoebe, got out and gave me a stern look. “Detective Crowley, I hope you haven’t called me out on a beautiful Friday evening for a dog or a deer.”

  “Give a guy a break,” I said with embarrassment, recalling all too well the previous case we had worked on together. “It’s not like the skeleton was intact. How could I have known it wasn’t a child’s?”

  “It practically woofed at you.” She cracked a grin. “It’s good seeing you again, Lee.”

  “Good seeing you, too.” We exchanged a good laugh before I explained the present situation. “This one is human, Jan. The property owners broke ground to build a new addition on their home when the skeleton was uncovered. We need to know whether it’s something for our department or Historic Resources.”

  She pulled out a bulky black gear bag from the bed of the pickup. When I offered to carry it for her, she declined. “I’m not an invalid,” she said, throwing the bag over her shoulder.

  I gestured the way to the grave site. “You sound like my wife.”

  “She sounds like a wonderful woman.”

  Thinking of Phoebe, I smiled. “She is, and you’d never believe me if I told you how far she’s traveled just so the two of us could be together.”

  “It must have been true love. Let’s see what you have for me.”

  We got closer to the burial site and met with Ed. That odd sensation overcame me again. I shivered.

  Jan donned her gloves and bent down. She inspected the protruding pelvis. “Your victim is an adult male.”

  Normally I was amazed at how little she needed in order to identify the sex of a skeleton, but nausea returned to my stomach.

  She studied the skull. “I can’t be certain without extensive measurements, but the fact that he was buried facing east and has shovel-shaped incisors, I’d be willing to bet he’s Native American.”

  Bile rose in my throat. Unable to control the sick feeling any longer, I turned away from the scene and vomited.

  Someone patted me on the back. “Must be the fact that he could be kin,” came Ed’s sympathetic voice.

  Not only did I appear foolish, but I looked like a rookie too. I hadn’t had that kind of reaction since my early years when I had worked patrol duty. The fact that it was nothing more than a skeleton made my embarrassment worse. When I was certain I wasn’t going to throw up again, I wiped my mouth with my handkerchief.

  “If he’s kin, he’s a very distant relative,” Jan said, still examining the skeleton. “Without further testing, there’s no way to determine how long he’s been buried here, but I’m guessing it’s been for at least a couple hundred years.”

  Or longer? He could have been related, for I was Paspahegh, the last of my tribe.

  * * *

  Nearly two months passed before I saw Jan Kelsey again. She called me one afternoon and said she had some findings to show me from the skeleton that had been unearthed. While the case wasn’t one for our department, I had followed up to make certain the Virginia Council on Indians had been contacted. The owners of the property had pursued a court order to have the skeleton removed to continue with their building project, and I had wanted to make certain that he received a respectful reburial.

  I hadn’t visited campus for a couple years when my former professor had solved the puzzle that Phoebe spoke Virginia Algonquian. I had a rudimentary knowledge of the language myself, and with Phoebe’s help, my comprehension gradually increased. This meeting was a little different though, and I was uncertain what to expect.

  Woods surrounded the red-brick buildings. I was walking along the dogwood-lined sidewalk, when several crows cawed furiously. With a loud racket, the birds dive-bombed a hawk flying overhead. Was it a sign from the spirits? I was too new to such things to sense any significance, but I had the feeling it could not be a good sign.

  The confrontation in the sky held my attention until the hawk retreated, with the crows following in hot pursuit. Convinced there must be some hidden meaning, I entered the hall that housed the anthropology department and went up a flight of stairs to locate Jan’s office.

  She greeted me with a tight-lipped smile.

  “What’s wrong, Jan?”

  “I think it would be easier to show you.” She grabbed a manila folder and led the way down the hall to the lab. “A couple of the tribes have claimed the skeleton to oversee his reburial. They were gracious enough to let us study him beforehand as long as we did so with reverence, but I’m sure you’re aware of the protocol.”

  Amazed that people presumed I knew proper conduct simply because I was an Indian, I let the comment slide. Normally I would have had some sort of comeback, but I was curious about what she had discovered.

  Jan opened the manila folder and spread several papers across the table. “Pelvic and skull measurements verified that our skeleton was a Native American male. Resorting to a number or calling him John Doe seemed inappropriate. We called him Crow Spirit.”

  The same sick feeling I’d had while standing over the grave hit me in the gut again.

  “Lee, are you all right?”

  “It’s nothing.” I waved my hand. “My Algonquian name translates to Crow in th
e Woods.”

  She stared at me. Though I hadn’t been raised in the Paspahegh way, where direct eye contact was considered rude, it made me uneasy all the same. What the hell was wrong with me? In my line of work I frequently used such techniques to intimidate others, but Jan’s gaze indicated disbelief.

  “Interesting,” she said, swallowing before she continued. “We weren’t allowed to do a carbon dating to confirm when Crow Spirit had been buried because a sample would need to have been collected, which is destroyed in the dating process.”

  Jan didn’t elaborate, but I was aware that most tribes equated such destruction to a loss of spirit. What did I believe? Caught between cultures, I remained unsure.

  “You had a question?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “In my professional opinion, Crow Spirit had been buried for over two hundred years. No fabric remained to give us a clue as to what he wore, so there’s no way to verify whether he had been buried pre-European contact or after. No weapons were found, which is highly unusual. Men were often buried with them because they believed they would be needed in the afterlife.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Sorry, I’m lecturing, but I wanted to give you a full report.”

  “I’m still confused why you called me.”

  She motioned for me to be patient. “I’m getting to that. Crow Spirit’s cranial sutures were completely fused. There was some joint decay in the rest of his body, meaning that he had some arthritis. I’d estimate he was around forty or fifty, but not elderly. He had no cavities, which is a little unusual. Contrary to what many believe, the Eastern Woodland indigenous populations had their fair share of dental cavities even before the Europeans arrived, due to their starchy diet.

  “The long bones, namely the femur and tibia, are measured to determine height. He was over six feet tall. While that’s not out of the realm for this group of people, a man’s average height was around five feet eight. John Smith had a habit of painting the Powhatan people as giants, but actual skeletal measurements reveal otherwise. He had a fracture of the left femur, completely healed, which means the injury took place long before his death. What puzzles me is how they managed to set the bone. I really wish I could have studied the femur further, but it was skillfully set for the time period. I couldn’t determine a cause of death. There were no noticeable traumatic injuries, but I didn’t really have the time I needed to make an in-depth analysis.”

  “If you’re asking me to go to the Council, I have no authority—”

  “No, that’s not why I called you here.”

  “Then why? This is all very interesting, but I don’t see what it has to do with me.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what tribe do you belong to?”

  No one would believe that I was Paspahegh; the tribe had been annihilated in the seventeenth century. “I was raised by a white couple. I never really knew my birth parents.” The statement was true and allowed me to evade the question.

  “I see.” Another nervous swallow. “I think your partner may have been right. We may have uncovered one of your ancestors.”

  “My...?” No wonder I had felt uneasy from the beginning. “Why do you think he’s my ancestor?”

  “One of my students does facial reconstructions. I had read an article in Archaeology several years back about a similar collaboration, and assure you we got permission before proceeding with such an undertaking. We treated the skull with complete respect. First my student made a plaster cast, then used markers to identify the depths of tissue. Sorry, I’m lecturing again. Let me show you.”

  She led me to the opposite end of the lab where a clay facial reconstruction sat on a table. Jan’s student had used a black wig fashioned in the old style where warriors had shaved the right side of their heads to keep their hair from getting caught in their bowstrings. The prominent cheekbones and shape of the nose and mouth had an uncanny resemblance to me. It was almost like looking in a mirror.

  “Well?” she asked.

  Hadn’t she stated that Crow Spirit’s broken leg looked like it had been set skillfully for the time period? I licked my lips. “You said that he had broken his left femur?”

  “I did.”

  Nearly two years before, I had broken my left leg from a gunshot wound. I clenched my fist to keep from crying out. Crow Spirit wasn’t an ancestor of mine. He was me.

  * * *

  2

  Phoebe

  Phoebe had gotten the baby to sleep round ten. Cranky and running a fever, Heather was teething. Though Lee’s job often kept him late, he usually called. Barely able to keep her eyes open, she readied for bed. Too tired to fight sleep any longer, she slipped under the covers and drifted. The bed creaked, and the warmth of someone moved next to her. “Lee?” she murmured, still half asleep.

  His lips met hers. “Phoebe...”

  He trembled, but his hands touched and explored her body. Many times his job distressed him. Sensing his need and intensity, she wouldn’t question him until he was ready to talk about it. ’Til then, she gave in the way she could. He raised her nightgown and clung to her, almost desperately.

  Their fingers intertwined, and he was inside her. Vexed about what had happened, she comforted him. Had he investigated a heinous murder? Or the death of a child? Even afore Heather’s birth, any child’s death nearly sent him over the edge. She ran her hands from the firm muscles of his shoulders down along his bare back. Moving in synchrony, she breathed his name aloud. Like riding an ocean wave, she drifted against him—faster and higher.

  The surf crashed ashore, and he held and kissed her as if ne’er wanting to let her go. “Thank you,” he whispered afore moving to her side.

  She held him, and he trembled once more. Patiently she waited, hoping he would speak about what ailed him, but he remained silent. Phoebe ran her fingertips through his hair. She imagined seeing him in the light of day. His hair was black, much shorter than his ancestors, and he had dark brown eyes and brown skin. They had known each other since childhood, but then they had been separated—by time itself—only to be reunited years later.

  “I think I’ve seen my death.”

  His words had been so matter of fact that she shivered.

  “Phoebe, I’m not afraid. I’ve seen too much death to be afraid.”

  His voice had been distant, almost monotone. Needing to see his face, she reached aside the bed and switched on a light. His brow was vexed and his eyes thoughtful. “Tell me what has happened.”

  “I can’t.”

  Dead. At the mere thought of losing him, her heart pounded. “Lee—”

  “What good would it do to tell you about something that I don’t understand myself?”

  She gripped his hand. “Mayhap we can figure it out together. Lee, we have been through too much for you to remain silent now.”

  His gaze grew fixed, and he let out a slow breath. “I’m sorry, Phoebe. I shouldn’t have frightened you the way I did.” He kissed her on the lips and settled back. “A human skeleton was uncovered a couple of months back. It turned out to be Native, and I thought it was a sign.”

  “The dreaming might lend you some answers,” she suggested.

  “The dreaming.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “What if it tells me that I have witnessed my own death?”

  The thought that she could lose him tore at her heart, but mayhap the sign was not the one he feared. Instead, hope could have been behind the meaning. “Then we shall deal with it—together.” She grasped his hand.

  “All right,” he finally agreed.

  “I shall prepare.” As Phoebe rose, she wrapped a robe about herself. In the kitchen, she collected a candle and matches from the drawer and took them into the living room. She lit the candle on a coffee table.

  Attired in gym pants and a T-shirt, Lee joined her. He sat aside her. “I’d like for you to lead the way.”

  “Aye.” They joined hands, and she focused on the candle’s fl
ame. Like her momma, who hailed from Dorset in the seventeenth century, she was experienced in the ways of the dreaming. When they had gone to live with the Paspahegh, Momma admitted she was a cunning woman who traveled through realms. ’Twas something she could have never spoken aloud in James Towne. Such a confession would have exposed her as a witch, but the Paspahegh believed such visions were a form of passage betwixt worlds.

  Phoebe’s initial dreaming journey had been during her first moon time, and now, she moved quickly through the realms. She found herself engulfed by mist. A long-legged white hound appeared afore her. She latched onto Lee’s hand and the spirit hound’s collar. Together, they traveled through the fog. As they walked, Phoebe felt a contraction in her abdomen. She paced the floor as Lee coached her through the pain. This was a different century than the one she had grown up in. She had dispelled her superstition that men in the birthing room were bad luck and was grateful for his presence. Even so, she had circled the room and said a prayer in each corner to ward off vengeful spirits.

  She lay on her side, and the midwife massaged her legs. The contractions became more frequent, and she returned to her feet. Water rushed betwixt her legs. The baby would soon arrive. The contractions came closer together, and the pain intensified. She refused to shame herself by crying out and grasped Lee’s hand.

  “You’re doing great, Phoebe.”

  “ ’Tis time to push.” In Paspahegh fashion, she knelt.

  The midwife spread a layer of absorbent pads on the floor.

  She clenched Lee’s hand. More pain. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but she resisted the temptation to complain. Her babe would soon be here. Blood ran down her legs, turning the white pads red. The pain gave way to waves of fire.

  Lee urged her on.