by P. C. Cast
It was still snowing, and the land had taken on that distinctive silence that snowfall creates, like sound had been swallowed by the whiteness. The wind had let up, so the flakes were drifting almost lazily in a straight downward path—one on top of another on top of another. The scene appeared serene and harmless.
I jumped in surprise as a branch of a tree to my right suddenly cracked under the weight of the thick snow and avalanched to the ground, effectively dispelling my placid snow fantasy.
“We need to go.” Clint’s voice was grim. “Come on, the Hummer’s under the carport on the other side of the cabin.”
A Hummer? Good Lord. Disability must be really good to him; those monsters cost a fortune. I didn’t have time to comment, though, because I was struggling through the almost knee-deep snow, trying to keep up with Clint’s much longer strides as he marched purposefully around the cabin. The moon’s waning light was muffled by the thick layer of clouds, so it was hard for me to see the vehicle that sat quietly under the snow-laden carport until we were right up on it, and then I started in surprise. It wasn’t one of the new, quasi-military SUVs that were so chic with upper-middle-class aging preppies. Instead, this thing was painted a dull gray-green, and looked like an odd mixture of a Jeep, a truck and a tank. Clint opened a rear door and shoved in the bag filled with our hastily prepared food. Then he moved to the passenger’s side and unlocked the door for me. I slid into the cold seat and peered through the darkness at the strange vehicle. Clint turned the ignition key and the thing roared immediately to life.
“What did you call this?” I asked as he slipped the stick shift into reverse and we sliced neatly through the untouched snow. “It’s a Hummer,” he said, straightening the wheel, sliding it into first and heading off to his left toward a small break in the trees. “That’s a Hum-V. And, no, it’s not one of those sissy copies that dealers sell to people with too damn much money. This is an authentic military vehicle.” He caressed it into second as we entered the forest.
“It certainly is, uh, square,” I said, snapping on my seat belt.
He laughed. “It’s not pretty, but it can go just about anywhere a tank can go. And it can get us through this snowstorm.”
Clint drove on and I stayed quiet, letting him concentrate on keeping in the middle of the snow-packed path. After we had traveled for almost half an hour, the snow seemed to be letting up. When I caught glimpses of the sky through the trees, I could see signs of dawn beginning to lighten the otherwise unremitting gray of the clouds.
“Is there really a road out there?” The last few miles the trees had almost brushed against the sides of the Hummer, and Clint had had to slow the vehicle considerably so that we didn’t slide off into the midst of them.
“There’s what you would call a real road, but it’s about thirty miles from the cabin. We’ll hook up with it soon enough.” He smiled at my shocked expression. “This is just a path that I ground out of the forest over the past five or so years.”
“You live thirty miles from a real road?” And I had thought Partholon was rustic! Epona’s ancient temple was an opulent, thriving metropolis compared to this wilderness.
“I like being near the heart of the forest,” he said cryptically. His tone implied that he didn’t want to talk about why. And, sure enough, he abruptly changed the subject.
“That centaur who came into the clearing, he’s your husband?” His words sounded clipped.
“Yes. His name is ClanFintan.”
“He and I are…” His voice trailed away uncomfortably.
“Mirrors of one another,” I finished for him.
He made a sound that was a male grunt for begrudging acknowledgment. Then he was silent. I decided to let him ponder the zillions of questions that must be running through his all-too-human brain.
“He’s half horse,” he finally said.
“Yes.”
“Then how the hell can you be married to him?”
“Easy—we had a ceremony. Exchanged vows. You know, the normal marriage stuff.” I deliberately avoided the obvious undercurrent in his questioning. If intimate details were that important to him, he’d have to ask.
He gave me an exasperated look. I blinked innocently back at him.
“Damnit, Shannon! You know what I mean. Rhiannon said she didn’t want to marry this guy, but I had no idea it was because he wasn’t human. And now here you are, doing your best to get back to that…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Animal!”
I felt the blood rush to my cheeks as my temper exploded to meet his. “I’ll have you know, Mr. Freeman, that ClanFintan is decidedly not an animal. He is more than a human man—in every way.” I spat the words at him. “More noble! More honest! More everything! And his being a centaur had nothing to do with why that bitch didn’t want to be mated with him. She didn’t want him because she got off on letting anyone and everyone crawl between her legs—as she proved by fucking you!”
“You really do love him,” he said with disbelief.
“Of course I love him! And Nuada was right about one thing. You’re nothing but a weak imitation of him!” I was sorry almost as soon as I’d said the words. Of course, Clint would be shocked at my mating with a creature who was half man, half horse. Shit, I’d been more than a little shocked in the beginning. And he had no idea ClanFintan could shapeshift into human form. I realized that my angry reaction was more than a wife standing up for her husband. I sneaked a look at Clint’s face, which had frozen into a rocklike expression as he kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the snowy path.
I cared about him. I couldn’t help it; he was simply too much like ClanFintan for me not to care. I drew in a deep breath. No, I didn’t actually love him—yet. But the desire was there, and it was a desire that had more to do with intimacy than just screwing his brains out (although, I admitted to myself, I understood that it certainly hadn’t been a hardship for Rhiannon to keep him in her bed). Being with him felt right; falling in love with him would be simple. But it didn’t change the facts. He wasn’t my husband. He wasn’t the man to whom I had promised fidelity. A world away or not, I belonged to someone else. And I would not betray that promise.
“Clint,” I said softly. He didn’t respond, but I continued. “I’m sorry I said that. It was uncalled for. I know what you’re asking, and I really don’t blame you for being…well…confused.” His face thawed a little and he glanced in my direction. “Would it make more sense if I told you that ClanFintan is a powerful High Shaman, which means he can shapeshift to human form at will?”
“That’s possible?” he asked, his surprise overcoming his anger.
“Very,” I answered firmly.
“He totally changes his physical form from centaur to human?” he asked again, incredulous.
“Absolutely.”
“You could have told me that to begin with.”
“I know. I just, well, it’s hard that you and he are so much alike,” I faltered.
“Are we?” His voice was intense.
“Yes,” I breathed the word in a rush.
His eyes met mine and his hand reached out to touch my cheek. For a moment I let my face rest against the warmth of his flesh.
Then the Hummer skidded to the side and Clint grunted as he fought to get it back to the middle of the path.
“Is that the road?” I asked, ignoring the shaking of my hand as I pointed at the charcoal-colored ribbon that glistened in our headlights.
“Yes,” he said, and downshifted so we could slow without sliding into the ditch.
“My God! Look at that!” I exclaimed.
Clint stopped the Hummer and we stared. In front of us a small blacktop road stretched to the left and right, but it wasn’t covered with snow like the surrounding land; instead, its smooth, untouched surface seemed to have captured the ethereal non-light of the fading moon. It glowed. As we watched, ghostly vapors lifted from its glinting surface like spirits escaping from blacktop graves. They rose to hover aro
und us in gossamer curtains before the snow scattered them and they dissipated into the night.
I suddenly felt incredibly lonely, like I had been abandoned or lost. Without conscious thought, my hand reached for Clint’s. He linked his fingers with mine.
“What are they?” I whispered reverently.
“The spirits of forgotten warriors,” he answered without hesitation.
“You mean American Indian warriors?”
He nodded. “There is magic and mystery in this land. Some of it was conceived in tears.”
“How do you know?”
“They tell me.” He shrugged his shoulders at my startled expression, but his attention stayed focused on the ghostly happenings in front of us. “I have an affinity for the spirit world.”
I thought about my Shaman husband, and how firmly connected to the spirit world he was—and added another item to the long list of “similarities between ClanFintan and Clint.”
“There…” He motioned back to the road. “They’re finished for tonight.”
Sure enough, the spectral show was over. As I watched, the fat flakes began covering the now-empty blacktop surface.
“What did they want?” My melancholy had disappeared with the spirits, and curiosity was left in its wake.
“Acknowledgment. They wish they weren’t forgotten.”
I thought of the ceremonies I had been performing over the past six months. Many of them were dedicated to honoring fallen warriors. “I’ll remember them,” I said automatically. “Partholon’s priestesses do not forget heroes.”
“Even if they’re from another world?”
“I don’t think the world is what’s important. I think it’s the remembering.” I probably imagined it, but as I spoke I thought I glimpsed a sudden shimmer pass through the surrounding night.
Clint squeezed my hand. Putting the Hummer in gear he pulled onto the deceptively normal-looking road and turned to the left. We drove on in silence, my thoughts circling around and around Oklahoma’s magic, and the man who sat next to me. I could feel the lingering warmth of his touch cooling on my hand.
I sniffled and realized my cheeks were wet. Jeesh—hormones.
“Kleenexes are in the glove box.” His deep voice was so gentle it made my throat ache.
“Thanks,” I said, grabbing a Kleenex and giving my nose a very unromantic blow.
“Where are we?” I asked, stuffing the damp tissue into my/his sweatpants pocket.
“This blacktop doesn’t really have a name. Locals call it Nagi Road.”
“Nagi—that’s a weird nickname for a country road.”
“According to the old-timers around here it means ghost of the dead.”
I looked appreciatively at the eerie stretch of road. Sounded appropriate to me.
“Nagi Road eventually runs into old State Road 259. From there the roads get more and more modern until we hit the Muskogee Turnpike, which, as you know, will take us right into Broken Arrow.”
“How long will it take?”
“Normally, about three and a half or four hours.” He gave the sky a pointed look. “Today I would sit back and relax. I’ll be surprised if we get there within eight.”
I looked at the snow that was falling quickly and steadily. “If we get there.”
“We’ll get there, Shannon my girl,” he reassured me.
I sighed and stared out the window at the bizarre landscape. I had never been this far southeast in Oklahoma, and I was surprised by the wild look of the thickly forested land and the hilly terrain. The snow added to the surreal aspect of the landscape. As the sun rose, giving the morning a weak, pearlized glow, it was easy to believe that Clint and I had been transported to an alien winter world, and were no longer in Oklahoma at all. A thought that, in light of where I’d spent the last six months, didn’t seem too damn far-fetched. I was just starting to really worry, when we came to the outskirts of a small town, the name of which was too snow obscured to read. On the right side of the road a huge neon sign proclaimed in bright pink blinking letters that we were passing Concrete World Factory Outlet. I let my face break into a relieved smile at the snow-covered lumps of concrete geese. They probably had seasonally correct little outfits for sale separately. Yes, we were certainly in Oklahoma.
To the left of the 2-lane “highway” was Billy Bob’s B-B-Q (really, I’m not making it up). Right next door was Hillview Funeral Parlor. The B-B-Q place looked like it was in better shape than the funeral parlor. I breathed another sigh of relief. This couldn’t be anywhere but Oklahoma.
It didn’t take long to get through the mini-town, (which was, appropriately, flanked by a lovely trailer park whose peeling sign read, Camelot Villa—Units Available). I was considering cracking a you know you’re white trash when…joke, but I remembered I was an unemployed public schoolteacher with no money, and decided instead that I should probably take note of the location of the trailer parks. That thought depressed me into keeping my mouth shut.
There was no idle chatter as we drove relentlessly into the north. Clint’s attention was focused on keeping us on the road, and the changing scenery outside the window held my attention. The whitened land passed by, exchanging the forested wilderness and hills for the gentle roll of pastureland. I knew this part of Oklahoma better because it was spotted with quarter-horse ranches, which I’d visited with my father as we dropped off mares to be bred.
There was very little traffic. Snow tends to freak out the Okie populace. Little wonder they were hiding. This kind of storm was definitely an aberration for Oklahoma. As a matter of fact, the more I studied it, the more I realized that I couldn’t remember anything like this deluge of snow.
“How long have you lived in Oklahoma?” I asked Clint.
He divided his attention between the snow-packed, deserted road and me. “My job took me out of state for training and travel some, but except for that, all of my life.”
“And how long would that be?”
“Forty-five years.”
Hmm—ten years older than me. I smiled smugly—after you reach your mid-thirties it’s nice to feel like you’re the younger one.
“How long have you lived here?” he asked.
“Besides college in Illinois and my six-month foray into another world—” I grinned at him “—all of my life.”
He raised his eyebrows questioningly at me.
“That would be twenty-five years.” I said mischievously. He crinkled his brow at me, but he was obviously too much of a gentleman to contradict the lapse in my math ability. I smiled and corrected myself, “Did I say twenty-five? I meant thirty-five.” He returned my smile. “My point in asking wasn’t really to find out your age. I was wondering, do you remember there ever being a storm like this before?” I pointed at the fat, Colorado-friendly flakes that continued to fall steadily.
“No. Never.”
“Me, neither.” I studied the passing scenery. “It’s not normal, Clint.”
“No, it’s not. But the land knew it was coming.”
“You said that before. What exactly do you mean?”
“I felt it in the trees. At first it was the same as every year. They gather energy and keep it for the fall and winter, but it didn’t take long for me to understand this time there was a distinct difference.” He struggled to put it into words. “It was like the forest was closing in on itself—swallowing energy and hoarding it deep within. The animals became scarce. Even the deer, which are usually so thick you can’t take a walk without seeing several, were absent. I took my cue from them. I stockpiled supplies and firewood, and thought I’d just wait out whatever ice storm was coming.”
I nodded and returned his knowing look. That’s usually what happened in Oklahoma. Lots of snow was rare. Blizzards were virtually unheard of, but ice storms, the kind that topple power lines and trees and make driving impossible, they happened about once every 2.5 years, whether we needed them or not (mostly not).
“No, I’ve never seen anything like t
his. It’ll be a total whiteout by tonight. Shannon, this is not going to be six or eight or ten inches—this snow will cover cars if it doesn’t stop.”
“Something wrong has happened,” I thought aloud.
“Nuada,” we said the name together.
“And I would bet Rhiannon isn’t totally innocent in this whole situation,” Clint said.
“Rhiannon hasn’t been totally innocent of anything since she hit puberty,” I muttered. Thinking back, I remembered Nuada saying that I had called to him—and I sure as hell knew I hadn’t done any such thing. Taking a deep breath, I said words I fervently wished I didn’t have to say. “We need to talk to Rhiannon.”
CHAPTER 6
“Unfortunately, I’ve been thinking the same thing.” He sounded resigned.
“Where is she?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. That phone call yesterday was the first I’ve heard from her in weeks.”
“Doesn’t she live in Tulsa?” I was pretty sure the Late Mr. Oil Tycoon had left her a fabulous home in which she could nest.
“As far as I know, she only comes to Tulsa periodically.” He grimaced. “Usually she contacts me to remind me I should be worshipping her. I know she bought a lakefront condo in Chicago, and she’s spent time in New York City and L.A.”
“Good God, she’s only been here six months!”
“Time is irrelevant to Rhiannon’s wishes.”
“Well, it’s not irrelevant to mine. I want to figure out how to send Nuada back to hell or wherever, and get myself back to Partholon.” Before I have a baby who belongs in another world. I don’t even know if anyone can cross over the divide with me. It had been a difficult enough experience for me—what would it do to an infant? I closed my eyes and sighed, fighting hormone-induced tears of frustration.
“You’re still feeling the effects of the crossover.” Clint’s deep voice was soothing. “Rest for a while. I’ll wake you in time for you to give me directions to your father’s house.”
I could hear the rustling of fabric as he shifted around in his seat.
“Use this as a pillow.”
