According to Legend (2 page)

“Who the heck is Weekatay and who is Tak sha . . . Tak-a-”

It was then that I noticed he was not alone. A large wolf stood beside him.

“What the heck?” Taking a tentative step back, I almost stepped into the stream. My heart hammered, but the wolf merely stood patiently watching.

“Do you not remember Half-Breed?” the warrior asked, reaching down to ruffle the wolf’s ears. “He will not harm you.”

This was a wolf like one I had never seen. His gray and white coat was thick. A patch of black fur in the shape of an arrowhead graced his forehead. He was huge, much bigger than a dog, but the wolf’s most extraordinary feature was his eyes. He had one brown eye and one blue. I smiled and from somewhere deep in the recesses of a foggy memory, I recognized the wolf, and took a tentative step toward the warrior.

“Takshawee,” he said. The man in the reflection pulled the maiden into his arms. I, too, felt his strong arms wind around me, the heat of his body against mine. He leaned down and placed his full lips on hers. I felt his kiss and it took my breath away, as if the pent-up desire of centuries had been released in this one kiss. My breath quickened and my heart thundered as his passion filled me, possessed me . . .

I awoke with a start, panting for breath, my heart racing as the beautiful dream catcher slipped from my fingers.

The next day I was determined to find out more about the dream catcher. It was late in the afternoon when I decided to visit the town museum to see if there was any information about the Aloscotay Indian tribe that had populated this area hundreds of years ago.

At one time the museum had an exhibit about the tribe, but I hadn’t been there in years. I wrapped the dream catcher carefully in tissue paper and put it into my purse.
I wonder if anyone at the museum has ever seen anything like this.

The museum was housed in an old Georgian mansion built in the early 1800’s. Its founder and curator, Mrs. Warren, had updated portions of the stately house, installing a research lab, but the building’s charm remained unaltered. Mrs. Warren, old, eccentric, and one of the wealthiest women in town had been a fixture there since I was a child. Come to think of it, she had always been elderly.
Shouldn’t she have retired already?

It was rumored that she was an actual descendant of the Aloscotay people and according to the local gossip mill, her ancestor was the daughter of the tribal princess, so I suppose it was her legacy. If anyone in town were to know anything about this strange and beautiful dream catcher, it would be Mrs. Warren. She may be eccentric, but she was the anthropologist who’d discovered the site of the original Aloscotay village.

When I opened the door of the museum, the smell of lemon furniture polish, dust, and the musty smell of age, assaulted my senses. Mrs. Warren was in her usual spot, sitting behind her 5’ by 7’ highly polished desk.

She’s going to think I’ve lost my mind
, I thought as I approached her. My palms started to sweat.

She peered up at me over the top of her glasses. “Good Morning, Miss Hastings,” she said, “so good to see you here at the museum. What can I help you with today?”

“Good morning, Mrs. Warren.” I was surprised she remembered me. “I’m interested in finding some information about the Aloscotay.”

“Oh,” she replied. “Not too much call for research on that topic these days.”

“I was wondering if you would have any knowledge of tribal artifacts,” I said, smiling, as I reached into my purse to retrieve the dream catcher. “This has recently come into my possession and I wonder if you could tell me anything about it.” I placed the packet on her desk and gently drew the tissue paper open.

Mrs. Warren glanced down, a frown creasing her brow. “Why, it’s a dream catcher. Anyone can see that, my dear,” she said as she reached to pick it up. Holding it up in the light to better examine it, her eyes widened. “Oh! My!” she said. “My, my, my, what have we here?”

She rose to her feet, a bit unsteadily, then motioned for me to follow her. I followed her through a side door and down a hallway that led downstairs into the lower level of the museum. She led me into a room with a sign that said RESEARCH LAB on the door.

“If I’m correct in my thinking,” she began, “this was not always a dream catcher. See this large stone in the center?”

“Yes. What does it mean?”

“Well now,” she said, excitement beginning to build in her voice. “According to legend, long, long ago, the tribal Chief, a very strong and handsome man, mystically carved eternally binding words into a stone. Some believe they were wedding vows. The stone was then magically divided. He wore one half of the stone and his bride, the Indian Princess and true ruler of the tribe, wore the other.”

“Really?” Heart pounding against my chest, I realized I somehow knew this.

She nodded and then continued. “According to the legend, the enchantment of the stone was originally activated by the depth of their love. It is said that their love created a very powerful magic. According to legend, the power of the stone would be set in motion once more when the spirit of the Indian Princess was born again and she held the stone in her hand. Then, the spirit of the lovers would awaken and they would be reunited, even through time.” She sighed. “It is believed that only the true Tribal Princess would have the ability to seek out and find the other half of this stone and access its full enchantment.”

“Full enchantment?”

“Yes. This is a very old story passed down through many, many generations. It is believed that when the stones are united they form a key to ancient secrets, and treasure beyond imagination.” Her gaze fell away from the artifact and, facing me, she said, “If you don’t mind my asking, where did you get this?”

I told her the story of the gypsy woman at the fair. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about the dream or the words ‘rightful owner’ that the gypsy had uttered. I shivered as the gypsy’s words whispered through my mind . . .
Your path is wrought with danger. Be careful where you place your trust
.

“Well,” Mrs. Warren said, “that’s quite a story. Chances are it’s a fake.” She paused, clutching the catcher to her breast. “A replica, you know, of the stone. I would like to keep it here to have the opportunity to take a better look at it and do some testing.”

“I would rather not leave it,” I said, extending my hand to reclaim my prize. For some unexplained reason, I just couldn’t bear the thought of parting with the stone.
She was practically drooling over my dream catcher.

“Do you happen to remember the names of the tribal Chief and his Princess?” I asked.

Mrs. Warren reluctantly handed the dream catcher back to me. Her expression softened and became melancholy as she smiled, a sweet smile as if she were a million miles away remembering another time. “Ah,” she said. “One of my fondest childhood memories.” Her unfocused gaze stared somewhere over my left shoulder. “Chief Running Wolf, which in the Aloscotay dialect is, Moheeladeck,” she said as she closed my fingers around the artifact in my hand.

The instant my fingers closed around the catcher, its magic enticed me toward it—toward him.

Takshawee . . . come to me.
The deep timber of his voice, a whisper in my mind. My head spun and fog swirled as I felt drawn. I tightened my grip on the catcher.
It’s luring me to him
. My breathing quickened as its magic beckoned me. I attempted to deny its pull.
Try to focus on what Mrs. Warren is saying
. The old woman’s voice sounded so far away.

“His love was called Princess Loving Doe, which in Aloscotay is . . .” She stared into my amber eyes as her voice trailed off to a hoarse whisper. “Takshawee.”

Takshawee . . . I am waiting for you
. My Warrior’s whisper swirled through my mind, tugging at my very soul.

Unable to resist his call, I collapsed.

I heard Mrs. Warren’s voice saying, “Please, Mr. Harvey, hurry! Miss Hastings has fainted.”

She sounded so far away.
Why is she calling for help from the assistant curator?
Footsteps rushed toward me and suddenly I became aware that there was someone kneeling beside me. The sickening smell of overpowering cologne made me feel nauseous. Mr. Harvey’s cold, pasty hand touched my cheek.

Takshawee, do not leave me,
Moheeladeck’s voice pleaded.

The icy touch of the assistant curator was yanking me back, away from my Warrior.

“Miss Hastings,” Mr. Harvey said as he patted my cheek in an attempt to bring me around. “What’s happened here, Agnes?” he demanded.

“I’m not certain,” the old woman stammered. “We were looking into something Miss Hastings happens to be researching. We were about to leave when suddenly she fainted. Maybe it is a bit warm and stuffy down here,” she said, her voice fading off.

Why isn’t she telling Mr. Harvey about the dream catcher
? I thought as my clouded mind skirted the fringes of consciousness. I tried to focus. Although I didn’t open my eyes, I curled my fingers more tightly around the catcher and at the movement of my hand, I thought I heard Mr. Harvey gasp.
Had he noticed the artifact?

“Do you think it would help if I got her a glass of water?” Mrs. Warren asked.

“It couldn’t hurt,” Mr. Harvey snapped.

Mrs. Warren’s footsteps receded as she moved quickly to the other end of the room. “Stupid old fool,” he muttered.

Mr. Harvey leaned in closer to me. His warm, stale breath swept over my face as he spoke. “What have we here?” he whispered. He tried to pull the catcher from me, but I tightened my grasp. Mom always said I was too trusting, and she was right. Look what it had gotten me into now.

The next thing I knew, I heard him talking.
Could it have been into a cell phone?
I dared not open my eyes. His tone was low, full of loathing, and he spoke in a voice I didn’t even recognize.

“I found it. I would never have guessed that a plain girl like this would be the one, here at last to lead us to the Cave of Secrets. Yes, yes, we have been waiting a long time for this and finally now that she has arrived, I’m going to have to keep a close eye on her.”

What on earth is he talking about? Cave of Secrets?

The next thing I heard was the echo of Mrs. Warren’s hurried footsteps rushing back toward me, and Mr. Harvey grew silent.

“I found this in the cabinet. Smelling salts. It’s old, but unopened. Do you suppose it would still be any good?” she asked.

“It wouldn’t hurt to try it.”

The ammonia sting of smelling salts assaulted me and, jerking my head away from the pungent odor, I became more alert.

Mr. Harvey, speaking again in his normal ‘museum voice’ said, “Oh, there you are Miss Hastings, back with us again. You gave us quite a scare, my dear.” He patted my free hand.

My eyes fluttered opened and I tried to sit up, but my head was spinning. I clutched the catcher tighter in an attempt to conceal it and to appear as if I weren’t frightened.

Mrs. Warren leaned closer to me, concern etched upon her face. Her stare locked with mine. “Are you all right, Miss Hastings?”

“Yes, I think so. Maybe I could use some fresh air,” I said with an embarrassed giggle.

“Splendid idea,” Mr. Harvey chimed in. “I would be happy to assist you upstairs. We can sit in the courtyard. Don’t fret, Miss Hastings, I won’t leave you.”

That’s what I’m worried about
. His pudgy fingers were still patting my free hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Harvey,” I said firmly, “but I think I’ll be fine.”

“Nonsense,” he insisted. “Why, you’ve just fainted. It would be foolish to leave you alone now.” He placed his fleshy hand firmly under my elbow as he helped me to my feet and maneuvered me toward the doorway. I tried to be inconspicuous as I shoved the dream catcher deep into the pocket of my jacket.

Mrs. Warren was immediately at my side. “Mr. Harvey,” she said. “Perhaps Miss Hastings would like to visit the ladies’ room?”

All color drained from his face.

I was quick to jump on that suggestion and said, “Yes, Mrs. Warren, as a matter of fact I would.” Our eyes locked once again, as if we were conspirators in some great plot. I would have to trust her.

“But, but . . .” Mr. Harvey stammered.

Mrs. Warren smiled her most innocent grandmotherly smile as she put her arm around my shoulders and led me away from Mr. Harvey and toward the ladies’ room.

“Thank you for your assistance. I think I can take it from here, Albert,” she said over her shoulder as we made our escape. He had no choice but to allow Mrs. Warren lead me away from him. As the ladies’ room door closed behind us, I leaned my back against the door and breathed a heavy sigh.

“We have to get you out of here,” Mrs. Warren whispered. “I believe that our Mr. Harvey may be one of THEM.”

“One of ‘THEM’?” I uttered, my voice sounding confused and dazed even to my own ears. “Mrs. Warren, what in the world are you talking about?”

“It’s not so easy to explain,” she said. “It’s the magic of the stone.”

“I must know,” I demanded. “What does all this mean?”

“Yes, child,” she said. “According to legend, Chief Running Wolf and his Princess Bride each wore one half of the magic stone. As I started to tell you earlier, when the halves are united they form a key of sorts . . . a key to the Cave of Secrets, which is rumored to contain riches, ancient powerful secrets, and the magic elixir of life. Again, legend,” she said with a laugh. “Who knows how much truth there is to it, but then again, here you are with what appears to be half of the stone.”

She shot me an appraising glance and continued. “Back in their time, rival tribes of the Aloscotay fought to gain control of the stones and to find the location of the Cave of Secrets in order to possess its treasures and powers. Chief Running Wolf guarded both with his life.” She paused. “Descendants of those tribes have remained vigilant, as have we, the rightful descendants of the Aloscotay, for the return of the spirit of the Princess Bride, although for very different reasons. You see, only the Tribal Princess is capable of finding the other half of this stone. Only she holds the knowledge of how to form the key and how to access the power of the stones. Only she has knows the location of the cave.”

At that moment as I gazed at Mrs. Warren, it seemed that the kindly old woman appeared so much younger.

Dazed, I watched her retrieve a cell phone from her pocket. “I’m calling the front desk,” she whispered to me.

“Hello, Mable,” she said into the phone in a hushed voice. “This is Agnes Warren. Yes, yes, dear, there was a slight emergency but it has been taken care of and all is well now. Would you be so kind as to page our assistant curator, Mr. Harvey? Yes, yes, dear, page him to the museum’s front desk and when he arrives, please ask him to wait there for me. Thank you, dear.”

Ending the call, she slipped the phone back into her pocket. Placing her finger up to her lips, she signaled me to be quiet.

My heart thundered as we waited together in silence, but after a few moments through the thick wooden door I heard the muffled sound of the page over the intercom system. With her ear to the door, Mrs. Warren listened for the sound of Mr. Harvey’s footsteps retreating toward the front desk in response to the page. She opened the door a crack and peeked out. Turning to me, she said, “Quickly, my dear, follow me,” then slipped out the door with the agility of a jungle cat, dragging me along in her wake.

She led me to a small door that opened out onto a side street that ran along the side of the museum. “Go, get away from here. I will contact you. Be careful, trust no one, and speak to no one of the stone.” She shoved me out the door and yanked it closed. I heard her hurried footsteps on the other side as she rushed away.

“She’s pretty swift for an old granny,” I mumbled to myself as I started toward my car. Was I paranoid or did it seem as if I were walking faster than necessary? It was getting dark, and I just wanted to get in my car and get as far away from here as I could. I needed to think, to figure out what was going on.

My hands shook and I nearly dropped the keys as I went to unlock my car. Once inside, I pulled out into traffic and instinctively headed toward home. I kept glancing in my rearview mirror.
Yep, I’m paranoid all right
. That was when I first noticed the black SUV that fell into traffic two cars behind me.

Man, how did I get myself into this mess
? I wove through traffic watching the black SUV follow discreetly, the sound of my heart pounding in my ears.
Better yet
,
how am I going to get myself out of it?
I enjoy a little excitement and adventure as much as the next person, but this is nuts!
I’m a thirty-year-old advertising agent, not a CIA operative.

I continued to turn down city streets, driving aimlessly, trying to shake the car trailing me. Even though the sun had now set, I saw the SUV was still following me. My palms were sweating and my grip tightened on the steering wheel. I took a sharp right and spotted a parking lot up ahead. A quick glance in my rearview mirror confirmed that the SUV had not yet made the right turn.

“Please let me make it to that lot before the SUV turns the corner,” I said into the darkness.

I stepped on the gas and the car sprinted ahead. A rearview mirror check revealed still no SUV as I sped into the parking lot, pulled into a vacant spot in the shadows behind a dumpster, and turned off my headlights. I sat there in the dark with the motor running and my heart racing as I watched and waited. I held my breath.

The black SUV turned the corner. Not seeing me on the road, the driver accelerated, speeding past the parking lot, and then turning left at the next corner.

“That was close,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Now if I can just get home in one piece that would be great.”

Am I going mad? Since when do I talk to myself?
This was getting out of control, and fast!

I turned the headlights back on, eased out of the parking lot and headed back the way I had come.
I’m not sure what’s going on here, but I don’t think I should go home right away
.
But where else could I go?
I could go to a friend’s, but this could be dangerous and I can’t get anyone else
involved. Maybe I should go to hotel.
Yes, that’s it
.
I’ll get a hotel room
. Then I remembered that all my credit cards were at home, hidden in the fake bottom of the tinderbox by the fireplace. I had to find a place to go until I felt it would be safe to go home.
Was it ever going to be safe to go home again?

I’ve got to lay low. I turned into the parking lot of a diner, and parked in the back. I went in and took a seat at a two-person booth in a quiet, uncrowded section where I could watch the front door. I ordered a cup of coffee from a friendly waitress, but I didn’t have the energy for conversation.

I have got to get a grip, I thought as I surveyed the other patrons of the diner. My nerves were shot. Sipping the coffee, I started to wonder,
When had my life gotten so crazy
? I had always led such a predictable, boring life. My commute from northern Connecticut into the city left me very little time to make any new friends or to stay connected with any old ones.

Since I got this dream catcher, my entire world had been turned upside down. The ornate antique hummed in my pocket as if it were burning to be free.

My thoughts turned to Mrs. Warren. ‘I’ll contact you,’ she had said. ‘Trust no one.’

I flagged down the waitress, paid for the coffee, and headed out to my car. Sitting there in the darkness of the parking lot, I grabbed my cell phone and dialed directory assistance. It only took a moment to get Mrs. Warren’s home number.
Should I call her?
I had to.

“Hello,” said the sweet voice of the elderly curator.

“Hi, Mrs. Warren, this is Pam Hastings,” I said rapidly into the phone.

“Oh, my dear, what a nice surprise. I haven’t heard from you in ages!” she said as if she had not just seen me earlier that afternoon.

“Mrs. Warren, I need your help. Would it be okay if I were to stop by?”

“Oh dear,” she said and paused for what seemed longer than necessary. I thought I heard voices in the background.

“Mrs. Warren,” I rushed on. “I normally wouldn’t ask, but there really is no safe place for me to go. I’m being followed and, well, I can’t go home.”

“Oh, my dear. I’m always delighted to hear from you and so pleased that you have decided to go visit your aunt.”

Visit my aunt? What was she talking about?

Then I was sure I heard commotion and what sounded like muffled male voices in the background.

“But,” she continued, “what you are suggesting is, ah, well, impossible right now and frankly not a very wise idea.”

I heard the muffled voices again. Was it my imagination or did I hear a male voice in the background demanding to know who was calling?

“Mrs. Warren,” I said, my voice raising an octave. “Is something wrong? Are you all right?”

“Nice of you to phone, my dear,” she replied in a strained voice. “Please give your aunt my best regards and phone me next week, would you? Bye-bye now.” The phone went dead.

I sat in my car in the parking lot of the diner staring at my cell. My life was spinning out of control! Someone had to give me some answers! I curled my hands into fists and slammed them against the steering wheel. I never asked to be caught up in the middle of this madness. I didn’t want to, but I knew I had no choice but to return home.