Wind Talker

by Kim Murphy

  She often spoke as cryptically as Phoebe. I stood. “What do I owe you, doctor?”

  “It’s only friendly advice. Nothing more.”

  I uttered my thanks and headed for the door.

  “Lee, if you need to talk, don’t be stubborn. Contact me.”

  I assured her that I would, but she was right. I needed to listen to Phoebe.

  * * *

  For a change of pace, that night I arrived home before Heather had gone to bed. Phoebe relayed a bedtime story to our daughter about how she had saved a hound when she was a girl. Her Paspahegh father had wanted to relieve the dog of his misery after he had been mauled by a bear. But she had insisted on being given a chance to save him. With the help of her own mother, Phoebe had cleaned the blood away and sewn his gashes with deer sinew. She stayed by the dog’s side until he was mended. For touching the dog’s spirit, she had passed a test and was taught in the ways of wisakon, the art of healing.

  Only when she finished did I realize she had spoken the entire story in Algonquian, and I hadn’t stopped to think the translation through. My knowledge of my native tongue had grown. “Walks Through Mist,” I said.

  Hearing her Algonquian name, she smiled. “Bedtime, Heather.”

  We kissed our daughter goodnight and tucked her in. Once outside Heather’s room, I grasped Phoebe’s hand and took in her scent. I could no longer hold back. I tasted her mouth.

  “Crow in the Woods,” she murmured.

  I let go of her hand. “Don’t call me that.”

  “ ’Tis the name you were given by your parents.”

  “It’s a child’s name.” I silently cursed myself for spoiling the intimate moment, but she had easily spotted my anxiety over the past couple of weeks. I escorted her into the living room and began telling her about the nightmares and my visit with Shae, still leaving out the part where the skeleton had looked like me.

  “I had hoped the job was what ails you. Lee, you know I will help in any way I can.”

  She didn’t suggest the dreaming as I had hoped. Instead, she waited for me to say it. Why couldn’t I? I checked my watch trying to think of some excuse to avoid it. Only a little past eight. I couldn’t even use the reason that it was getting late. I thought about an assault case at work and almost said that I needed to call Ed. I couldn’t lie to her. The case could wait until morning.

  Then, I thought of Phoebe. It would be so easy to let go—the thought of touching her bare skin and making love with her in the bedroom. Or someplace more exotic?

  “Lee?”

  I let out a slow breath and turned toward the kitchen. “Would you care for a beer?”

  She grasped my arm and drew me back. “Why do you tell me what’s wrong, then run from it?”

  “Actually, I was thinking of getting you naked. I figured a drink would help put you in the mood.”

  “You know I’m nursing Heather, and I don’t need an ale to put me ‘in the mood.’ Your kisses and touches are pleasurable enough. You’re avoiding your fear.”

  She saw right through me. She always had. Even Shae had acknowledged that, and she would have been all too familiar with my diversion as well. Of course, I couldn’t admit that fact to Phoebe. “You’re right, and I hope you’ll hold that thought for later. Phoebe, I’d like to try the dreaming again.”

  “Aye, I expected as much.” She failed to move from her spot on the sofa.

  “Well?”

  “I’ll guide you, but ’tis time you learn your own path.”

  Only twice had I attempted the dreaming without Phoebe’s guidance. Both times revealed little information, plus I had difficulty making sense of anything. “How will I interpret it?”

  “I shall be along on your journey, but you will lead the way. Don’t let it dissuade you. You’re ready for the next level, and when it’s time, you’ll discover the answers you seek.”

  She made it sound so simple. With some reluctance, I went into the kitchen and nearly made a beeline for the beer—a pattern I had followed for my entire adult life. It would have been so much easier to silence my fears with a couple of drinks. After I married Phoebe, I drank less, but when stressed, I reverted and could easily drown my tension with a six-pack. I stepped toward the refrigerator.

  “Lee, did you find the candle?”

  Phoebe’s voice had come from outside the kitchen. I quickly changed direction and opened a drawer, collecting the candle and matches. She entered the room, and I held up the candle to show her that I had found it.

  She grasped the candle from me and returned to the living room. I resisted the urge for a beer and followed her. Phoebe lit the candle on the coffee table, and I sat across from her.

  My hands shook when I reached out to grasp hers. For some reason, the thin webbing between the third and fourth finger on her left hand caught my notice. A witch’s mark? It had never bothered me, but the seventeenth century was a superstitious time. “Phoebe, I love you.”

  “And I you. We shall make the journey together.”

  I took a deep breath. Even with her presence, I felt like a total novice.

  “Absorb the flame.”

  Her words reminded me of the first time we had shared the dreaming. Initially, I had been unable to concentrate and could only think of her. While I didn’t have that distraction now, I still couldn’t concentrate. People weren’t chattering in the hall and horns hadn’t been honking like when we had lived in the apartment, but a car sped by with the bass vibrating. In the distance, a dog barked. I shook my head. “I don’t think it’s going to work tonight.”

  “It shall.”

  As usual, she wasn’t about to let me give up. I stared into her blue-green eyes. They mesmerized me. It wasn’t the first time they had given me a hypnotic sensation, but somehow I felt this time was different. I gazed at the lighted candle and reached for it, then passed my hand through the flame. The heat should have burned my hand, but I withdrew it unharmed. The sound of flapping wings came from nearby. “The crow,” I said.

  “Follow it.”

  The black bird settled on a nearby branch and cawed.

  “It’s not moving.”

  “What is it doing?” she asked.

  “Preening.”

  The crow took flight, and I followed it and became engulfed in a thick fog. The bird cawed to let me know where it was. I moved toward the sound until the mist thinned. I stood in the middle of a clearing. Muzzle flashes and screams surrounded me. A woman held me to her body.

  “Phoebe, I can’t continue.”

  “You must.”

  Her face—I had finally caught a glimpse. Her black hair was pulled back in a single long braid, and she had bangs. “Nek.” Mother.

  Her grip on me was so tight that I could barely breathe. All around me were licking flames. Longhouses were on fire, and smoke billowed. She screamed and I fell, striking the ground with a painful thump. My shoulder hurt, and she very nearly landed on top of me. I clung to her deerskin skirt, but she lay still and unmoving. She was dead.

  At the time, I was only two and too young to understand. I touched her face. “Nek.”

  More guns fired. The sound scared me. Alone, I crawled along the ground. Smoke nearly choked me, and I coughed. Still on my hands and knees, I crept blindly. Another woman—no, a girl—pulled me to her.

  Phoebe.

  I had seen her before, but my memory refused to recall the previous occasions. She spoke softly, and I huddled in her arms until I fell asleep. When I awoke, the guns sounded less often, and I was hungry. I tried to tell Phoebe, but the only thing that came out was childish gibberish. She rocked me. Gradually I calmed, taking comfort in her arms. The next thing I knew, her arms were no longer around me. I wandered aimlessly. Unsteady on my feet, I shuffled through the darkness.

  “Crow in the Woods?”

  Phoebe’s voice had come from... where? I faced in every direction but was unable to locate her. I called out, but again, the only sounds I was capable of producing were
baby talk.

  “I’m coming, lad.”

  The crow cawed. Could it be? The bird might lead me to safety. I followed the sound.

  “Where are you, Crow in the Woods?”

  Confused, I halted. Call out to her. At the time, she hadn’t gone by Phoebe and had yet to take the name Walks Through Mist. I struggled to recall her childhood name. Unable to communicate, I cried out in frustration.

  The crow cawed from a nearby tree. Through the moonlight, I saw the bird resting on a branch. It cawed and took flight. I stumbled over a root when I tried to follow and became engulfed by mist. The mist got thicker. “Red Dog,” I cried.

  “Crow in the Woods!”

  I whirled around, but I could not find her. The clammy dampness on my skin chilled me. I was lost.

  In the distance, I heard the sound of flapping wings. The crow hadn’t left me, but I couldn’t see where I was going to follow. Then, it was above me, cawing to me. My arms and legs no longer felt small like that of a child. I stepped forward. On and on, I faltered, while the crow circled above me.

  Up ahead stood a woman dressed in a long skirt and linen cap. Her back was to me, and her sides heaved as if she was crying. “Phoebe?”

  The woman faced me with tears rolling down her cheeks. She had black hair and brown skin. “Help me.”

  Phoebe’s daughter. I moved closer. “Elenor, what’s wrong?”

  “Momma said to contact her if I e’er needed her.”

  The mist swirled, and Elenor vanished.

  Once again, the crow circled overhead. The mist grew thinner, and I emerged in a forest. A man with the top half of his face painted black stood before me. He wore a loincloth, deer-hide leggings, and a bear-claw necklace. The right side of his head was shaved, and on the left side his black hair was tied in a knot and held an osprey feather.

  He looked familiar. I had that same sick feeling in my stomach as when the anthropologist had shown me the clay figure of the reconstructed skull. The warrior was me.

  I blinked back the image. The nausea in my stomach remained. I waited for the discomfort to pass and glanced around the room.

  Phoebe sat across from me. “You appear unwell.”

  The candle had burned to a nub. “What does it mean?”

  “You saw the annihilation of your tribe. You have carried the memory with you, but you buried it because you were a young lad.”

  She almost sounded like Shae. The burning town, the firing of the muskets, and my mother’s face were still fresh in my mind. Normally, I felt anger when I read the story of the Paspahegh, but with the memory’s release I could finally grieve for all that I had lost. I lowered my head. If only I knew the death songs of my people, I would sing the words to Ahone, the Great Spirit. But that life had been ripped from me, and I had grown up never really knowing who I was.

  “Lee...” Phoebe had moved next to me and placed a comforting hand on my arm.

  I collected myself before glancing over at her. “I saw your daughter, Elenor.”

  Phoebe’s brow furrowed. “Elenor?”

  “You didn’t see her?”

  “Nay.”

  For a moment I debated whether I should tell her that Elenor had been asking for help. “I only saw her briefly.” She looked at me as if she knew I was holding back. “After that I saw a warrior, and then, I was here.”

  “Did you recognize the warrior?”

  “No,” I lied. My response had come easy, and after all these years of interrogating chronic liars, I didn’t like seeing that trait in myself, especially when it concerned Phoebe. I pretended my reason was to protect her. Throughout my career, I had experienced cold, raw fear, from viewing dismembered bodies to staring at a rifle barrel aimed directly at me. That paled in comparison to what I felt now.

  * * *

  4

  Phoebe

  “You haven’t said but two words all evening.” Meg looked across at Phoebe.

  As friends, they took turns caring for the children. Phoebe watched five-year-old Tiffany after school afore Meg got home from her nursing job. Her friend reciprocated, granting Lee and Phoebe the occasional “date.” Recently, Meg usually stayed the night when Lee was late getting home. During this week, he was absent more times than not because he was consulting with another county’s police department on a case.

  She often felt isolated in the twenty-first century, so Phoebe enjoyed Meg’s company. Because it was Friday eve, they had no worry about Meg needing to leave early for work the following morn. When living with the Paspahegh and Arrohateck, Phoebe had been surrounded by other women and their children. Even when she had lived amongst the English, her servant Bess had always been nearby. Meg’s skin was a light nut brown compared to Bess’s deep ebony, but she reminded Phoebe so much of her faithful servant.

  Since her arrival, they had been friends. Both had lived at Colwell House, transitional housing for women, at the time. Whilst Meg had fought drug addiction and struggled to raise a child on her own, Phoebe had learned the nuances of a new century. The first lesson Meg had taught her was that Africans were commonly born on this side of the Atlantic.

  “Shouldn’t we put the lasses to bed?” Phoebe asked.

  “Sure.”

  Tiffany slept on a cot in the same room as Heather. Afore tucking them in, Phoebe told her story of crossing the Atlantic in a wooden sailing ship. For Tiffany’s benefit, she spoke in English. The lasses giggled when she made the rocking and rolling motion of the ship. They were too young to hear about the severity of the hardships she and her momma had faced upon landfall, the months of hunger after surviving the trip. “Next time, I shall tell you about our first meeting the Paspahegh.”

  Meg and Phoebe kissed the lasses goodnight.

  Heather laid back and Phoebe resisted picking her up. On the nights when Lee was late, she was always tempted to take her daughter to bed with her as she had done when she had lived with the Arrohateck. Instead, she turned from the room and poured a glass of wine for Meg and water for herself.

  Meg, who was nearly ten years younger than Phoebe, sat cross-legged on the sofa. “Now are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?”

  Phoebe sipped from her glass. “You haven’t said how Tiffany is doing in kindergarten.”

  Distracted by the question, Meg beamed with pride. “She’s learning to read and write. Drew a beautiful picture of a flower this week.”

  Even though she had learned the distinctions when she lived with the English, sometimes Phoebe still wondered why everything should be sorted into neat categories. To her a flower was a poppy or a daylily, and a bird was a thrush or a jay. Even Lee was referred to as an Indian, not by his tribe. Didn’t such classifying individuals into such large groups make them seem less important?

  “Phoebe, now that we’re through chitchatting are you going to finally tell me what’s wrong?”

  “ ’Tis Lee,” she admitted. “I fear I will lose him.”

  Meg narrowed her brows. “You’re crazy. He loves you and always has.” She took a gulp of wine. “Phoebe, you’re not trying to tell me there’s another woman?”

  To that question, Phoebe laughed. “Nay. E’en though warriors like him oft take other wives, he seems content with me.”

  “And you would put up with him if he decided to take another wife?”

  “Would I have a choice?”

  “Hell, yeah. In this day and age, women don’t have to tolerate that kind of crap from philandering men.” Meg eyed her suspiciously. “And you’ve conveniently changed the subject. Is it because of Lee’s job that you think you’ll lose him?”

  “E’er since a skeleton was uncovered, he’s been distracted. He thought it was a sign of his own death.”

  “I’m not sure I follow. Why would a skeleton signify his own death?”

  “ ’Twas a Native who had been buried for several hundred years. I told him it was more likely a sign that he needed to make peace with his own past.”

  “And he didn�
�t believe you?”

  “I think he fears the past.”

  “You’re probably onto something. Tough guys like him don’t want to admit such things.”

  Phoebe debated how much to share with her friend. ’Twas time to tell the truth. “Lee is also from my time.”

  Meg’s mouth dropped open, then she closed it again. “Phoebe, ever since we’ve met, I’ve listened to your seventeenth-century stories. At Colwell House we were supposed to pretend we believed they were true, so that you could remember your past and get better.”

  Her heart sank. All this time Meg had only feigned belief. “Aye, and I did remember. I hail from the seventeenth century.”

  “I shared your tears,” Meg continued, taking a deep breath, “when I discovered that you had lost a son and your first husband. I honestly thought that when you married Lee you would truly heal, but don’t you think it’s time to admit that the seventeenth-century world was only a way to help you through your grief? And now you want me to believe that Lee’s from the seventeenth century too? He doesn’t even have the same accent as you.”

  “ ’Tis because he arrived when he was two. He nearly forgot his first language. He is Paspahegh. He came through the mist long afore I did, but because of his age, he didn’t recall where he had hailed from.”

  Meg waved her hand. “Please stop. I can’t deal with any more tonight.”

  “Meg, I can prove to you that I speak the truth.”

  Her friend shook her head. “Maybe later, but not now. I think it’s time for bed.”

  As Meg headed toward the guest room, Phoebe thought of the time when she had recalled the loss of her son Dark Moon. For ten days, she had been unable to rise from her bed. Only Meg had taken the initiative to draw her from the dark depths of her mind—and now, she was walking away. Phoebe reached out to call her back, but no words came.

  Instead she retired to her own room, tossing and turning for hours. She continued to ponder Meg’s disbelief and anger. All this time her friend had only pretended to believe. Why had she not shown Meg the dreaming? Once again she thought about bringing Heather to bed with her. By the time she began to doze, Heather cried. Half asleep, she shuffled to her daughter’s room when a man met her at the door with Heather in his arms.