Sapphic Voices Fantasy

When Amazons Dream

Part Two Of A Three-Part Saga
Dream II: Calling The Wild

Disclaimers: `This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the Author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.'

Cautionary Note: This Story is not suitable for underage readers. If it were a movie it would likely be rated `R'--no one under eighteen admitted.'

Library of Congress Registration: Oct. 2004

DREAM II: CALLING THE WILD

Sure-footed Dawn Horse
sweeps across the ancient plain
dreaming Spring's first foal.

Chapter I

"In the first cataclysm our smoldering sphere cracked open from pole to pole. Molten lava exploded from the gaping wound into the watery chaos and formed the first shores. Restless sea creatures escaped the swirling brine and for the first time gazed up at the Milky Way." Grace handed the journal to Claire.

"In the beginning, the land was barren, but volcanic eruption, violent winds and raging rivers sculpted and re-sculpted its contours and layered it with fertile soil. Pyrotechnic storms brought forth plants on which new amphibians fed and grew into dinosaurs. For Earth's early creatures, extreme change was the only constant. The Spirit of the Wild stirred the elements into alternating dramas of creation and destruction." Claire handed the journal to Marty.

"During a time of great abundance, a diversity of mammals mutated into being and among these was the first equid, no more than thirteen inches tall at the withers. On Turtle Island, she gave birth to Earth's first foal 50 million years before primates even thought of leaving the trees of Africa. Forsaking the limitations of the cloven hoof, the offspring of the first mare became poetry in motion. They galloped for the pure joy of it; their natural curiosity made them the world's first globetrotters. In their wanderings, they crossed the land bridge to Asia, where they varied their color and form, and refined the collective wisdom of the herd." Marty handed the journal to Loren.

"The African lion took the throne as king of predatory beasts, but the horse could never abide the rigid confines of Earthbound royalty. Not quite mortal, the horse was way too restless, her head too much in the Stars to care about such things. While Paleolithic man was hunting equines on the Iberian Peninsula and in what is now France, aboriginal nomads of the steppe worshipped them. In fact, they came to believe that the creator of the Cosmos was a White Mare, a rare color for an equine back then. For these early pastoral peoples the llama was the source of all life; horses were deities incarnate and meant to be free. To kill one was unthinkable, punishable by a fate worse than death: banishment to the dark and forbidding forests of the icy north." Loren turned over the parchment to Robin.

"Somewhere in India, one group longing for wide open drier terrain, split from the main herd and migrated south into Africa to become Zebras. Their dizzying stripes, lightning-fast reflexes, and habit of standing their ground against all manner of predators, grew their numbers into dizzying millions, frustrating lions and eventually humans alike. Prone to kicking and vicious biting when they sensed confinement, Zebras had never been interested in establishing any bond whatsoever with humans. Furthermore, unlike their relatives who traipsed around the icy edges of the northern hemisphere, the Zebra took the collective mentality to extremes, which made it next to impossible for natural enemies to isolate any one Zebra from the rest of the herd. The few specimens that were captured alive by man refused to eat or drink, or were slaughtered for biting off any hand that dared try to feed them. Much to their credit, the spirit of the Serengeti equid was never broken, and those humans that foolishly claimed to have done so, found out the hard way that a captured Zebra should never be trusted." Robin chuckled and closed the journal.

"Viva la cebra!" Marty cheered with her fist in the air.

"Thanks for the translation," Robin said to Grace who took the journal and held it close.

"All we have to do now is figure out what it all means," Loren said, placing another piece of wood on the fire.

"I think we can all agree that horses are the key," Claire said. "The question is to what."

"To our mission," Grace said.

"Right," Loren said with an air of disdain.

"What mission?" Marty asked.

"I can only imagine," Grace said and withdrew from the campfire. She climbed up on a boulder and scanned the horizon.

"For starters, I'd like to know where we are," Marty said. Robin wrapped her arms around her dear companion.

"We're alive in a beautiful land and that's what counts," Robin said and took in a deep breath of the purest air she'd ever known. "Ah! It makes me dizzy!" Everyone deeply inhaled, then exhaled a chorus of sighs.

"The sky seems closer here," Claire said, gazing up at the electric blue. "She-Bear never looked brighter than last night."

"Who's that, pray tell?" Loren asked and snuggled closer. "The Big Dipper," Claire answered. "The tail points west--I would guess it's late Summer."

"It feels like December to me," Loren said with a shiver.

"It'll be plenty warm soon enough." Claire wrapped her arms tight around Loren's waist.

"I hope you're right," Robin chimed in. "I didn't get a chance to grab my parka."

"You don't even own a parka," Marty said.

"I know, but I had one all picked out at the outdoor store," Robin chuckled.

"I hope we don't have to resort to, you know, killing our furry friends," Marty said and snuggled closer to her lover.

"We could learn to weave," Claire said.

"Grass skirts, no doubt," Loren scoffed. From the corner of her eye she saw Grace re-approach the fire. She was shivering badly. "Here, hon," she said, unbuttoning her cardigan. "Put this on before you catch your death."

"Extra, Extra, read all about it! Woman survives five-hundred foot leap only to commit fatal fashion error!" Grace shouted amidst hearty laughter. "Thanks, you keep your sweater, Loren. I'll stick close to the fire."

Grace's stylish jacket and cargo pants comprised the first in several layers she and Mariana had planned to wear to the ritual that never was. She held her delicate hands over the roaring flames and looked up at a flock of birds gliding silently overhead. `Mariana, wherever you are, my love, at least we sleep under the same sky,' she thought, fighting tears.

"Hey, Claire. Tell us what you know about weaving," Marty cheerily said. Before Claire could respond, a loud snort echoed against the solid rock of the overhang.

"What the hell was that?" Loren half-whispered.

More snorts and rustling in the tall grass prompted Claire to reply, "Buffalo."

Much to her lover's distress, the Lakota Swede crawled on hands and knees in the direction of the sound. About twenty paces from camp, she watched from behind a rock as three enormous bison grazed at the edge of the river. Three others with playful calves at their side, drank from its shallow waters. `I know you,' Claire thought and slowly stood up.

The bison immediately turned their massive heads and stared. Claire was about to approach the nearest animal, when a thunderous noise scattered the trio of mammoths into the brush. She ducked back behind the rock just as a band of horses galloped over a ridge and bolted for the river. In the lead was a white mare with a black foal at her side.

The neighing and snorting ended at the riverbank, where they drank. Although she was chilled to the bone, Claire remained entranced by the primal scene. For the time being, she forgot about her friends back at camp, who at that moment were clinging to each other under the rocky overhang. Eventually, the bison emerged from the brush and grazed their way towards her. They watched unafraid when the strange biped got to her feet.

"I won't hurt you," Claire said softly as she extended her hand. One of the bison mothers snorted as her curious calf stretched his furry neck to reach Claire's fingers.

Madly wagging his tail, the newborn touched her thumb with his damp black muzzle. "What tribe are you from?" Claire asked. The calf began to frolic. Claire's laughter set off a chorus of disapproving whinnies from the haughty equines that once again scattered the timid bison into the brush.

With her ears pinned flat, the lead mare snaked towards the strange intruder. It was too late to make a run for it, so Claire froze and tried not to look into the imperious animal's obsidian eyes. When the mare's foal darted around in back of Claire, its mother pawed the ground. Just as she was set to charge, a piercing whistle yanked her elegant head around, as if a lasso had caught her by the muzzle. The mare bolted into the river with her foal, followed by the entire herd whose pounding hooves splashed a spray of watery diamonds in the garish Sunlight.

Claire ducked back behind the rock just as unmistakably female voices echoed from the top of the rise. A group of a dozen or so women walked briskly down the steep incline towards the river. As they got closer, Claire heard laughter and the clanging of what sounded like pots and pans. She got a good view of them when they stopped to fill their canteens, but they were too far away to make out what they were saying. From the lively chatter they seemed in high spirits.

After they drank and washed their faces, the cheery group began to head downstream, away from where Claire was hiding. The language they spoke sounded vaguely familiar, so she decided to show herself. The women stopped dead in their tracks, looked at each other, then broke into joyous exclamations, none of which Claire could make heads or tails of. The tallest of the group cautiously approached, her gray eyes studying the Lakota Swede. Pointing to her heart and then to Claire's, the handsome Amazon smiled and motioned for her to follow.

"I can't," Claire said. "I have friends back there." She pointed to the gully. "Who are you?" she asked, awkwardly signing and pointing to herself. "My name is Claire...Claire Raintree," she said.

"Raintree," the woman repeated with a thick accent and was mimicked by the rest of her giggling companions.

"Do you speak English?" Claire asked.

"You being Americanski?!"

"Yes!" Claire shouted and hugged the dismayed Russian, who stiffened. "Sorry. I'm so happy to know we are not alone out here. We've been here for three days and..." The Russian shook her head.

"Too much fast...please speaking..." She broke into her native language and threw her hands in the air in frustration.

"Come with me," Claire pleaded and motioned for the Russians to follow.

Claire found the camp deserted, the fire in smoking ashes. "Hey, everybody! It's me!" she shouted. "Loren?! Marty?! Come out!" Gripping a large stick of deadwood, Grace was the first to emerge from the shadows of the rocky overhang.

"We thought a stampede was heading our way," Grace breathlessly said. She dropped the stick and brushed herself off. "Who are these people?"

"Russians. I think they just saved my life," Claire replied with a smile at the foreigners, who nodded enthusiastically even though they hadn't understood a word.

"What the hell did you think you were doing out there?" Loren scolded as she stepped out in the open. She ran up to Claire, clasped her hand and kissed it. The Russians tittered at the display and began chattering among themselves.

"Just our luck. Homophobic Russkies," Loren muttered.

"Do you speak Russian?" Claire asked the ex-editor in chief.

"Nyet," Loren replied, checking out the group. "This sure ain't Kansas anymore, is it, girls?" Marty and Robin emerged from the cave and took in the surreal scene. A few Russians approached and extended their hands, which the two gladly shook.

"Are we in Russia?" Marty innocently asked and was greeted with a round of hugs from the entire delegation.

"They think you're adorable," Robin teased before extricating her lover from the clutches of the affectionate foreigners.

"Adorable," Marty muttered while brushing off her knit cap that had fallen to the ground. "What are they doing here?"

"Beats me," Robin answered. "I don't know Russian."

"I do," Grace said. All eyes were upon her. She approached the tallest Russian, who seemed to be the leader.

"This can't be Russia," Grace said in their language.

"Nyet, nyet," the Amazon replied with a hearty laugh. "Theez being Nebrashki!" she announced with a sweeping gesture.

"Oz is more like it," Loren quipped under her breath and earned a frown from Claire.

"How did you all get here?" Grace asked in Russian.

"The same way as you."

"What did she say?" Marty asked, pulling on Grace's sleeve.

"She said they got here the same way we did." Grace turned to her own group. "Now, look, everyone, if you allow me talk to our guests without interruption, I'll sum it all up for you," she said with a shiver.

Immediately, two of the Russians began gathering wood for a fire, and were soon joined by Robin and Marty. While Grace continued to converse with different guests in their native tongue, they shared dried apples and jerky with the ravenous Americans, who for three days had barely survived on berries. As it turned out, the Russians came very well prepared with an assortment of pots, pans, a couple of hatchets and, most appreciably, extra blankets.

Grace conversed until dawn with Misha, the striking Russian leader, who, among other things, was a Cossack horse whisperer. For Grace, one troubling question remained. None of the Russians, all from the modern world, had seen or heard of Mariana Morgan. This was particularly heartbreaking, especially since the group had trekked all the way from the coast of Nova Scotia, where three months earlier a powerful ritual on the eastern shore of the Black Sea had landed them. They didn't know why they were drawn to the great plains, but they all agreed it had everything to do with horses.

"Misha, do you think my friend could be on a different continent altogether?" Grace asked. The morning Sun reflecting in her eyes turned them a startling lilac blue, and the Russian saw in them a fierce longing.

"You love her," Misha said.

Caught off guard by the direct hit, Grace put her hands over her face and confessed with a sob, "Yes!"

Misha draped an arm around her and whispered, "She is safe. This I know."

Grace chose to believe the Russian's encouraging words and for the first time in three hellish nights, fell asleep. Misha carried the sleeping translator under the overhang and laid her down next to Robin and Marty. She took off her heavy cloak and draped it over all three before heading down to the river. There, she found Claire sitting on a rock staring intently into the crystal clear waters.

"This is when they like to jump," Misha said in Russian and startled Claire.

"What did you say?" she asked, shading her eyes from the morning Sun whose welcome warmth mitigated the chill of the constant wind. Misha took off her boots and waded into the shallow waters. Claire, who'd been picking berries and dreaming of fried trout, watched the Russian peer into the rippling surface of the water. Suddenly, she plunged both hands into the teeming shallows and pulled out a large fish. She carried the violently struggling prey to the shore, stunned it with a rock and lay it across a patch of grass.

"You try," she said in Russian and signed. Claire took off her running shoes, rolled up her jeans to her knees and eased into the frigid waters. Misha remained on shore and, chattering in Russian, encouraged her apprentice with a sign language that Claire somehow understood. After several tries, the novice snagged her first catch of the day, but in her amazement let it slip from her grasp.

Claire was a fast learner. Later that morning, she basked in a round of applause when she proudly laid out a catch of six plump trout at the edge of the campfire.
"More wood," Misha demanded with gusto and began to gut the fish with one of her impressive collection of woodworking tools.

Strengthened by their first decent meal since Hecate's Cove, the Americans were eager to explore their surroundings. Grace took out the maps that Mariana had given her and gathered everyone around.

"This is where we are now. Here's the Elkhorn river and the butte over their," Grace began, pointing into the distance. "Now, just northeast of the butte there's supposed to be a forest surrounding a lake. This is where we are to set up permanent camp." Grace then repeated everything in Russian.

"How far is it...approximately?" Loren asked.

"Since this map isn't drawn to scale, I can't answer that. But Mariana figured it was at least a good day's hike from the butte."

"Ask Misha how far it is to the butte. They came from that direction," Robin said to Grace, who referred the question in Russian. Signing for Claire's benefit, Misha estimated it to be about five miles.

"I don't know about the rest of you, but I sure would like to see some trees again. Vamos, amigas," Marty said, tightening the laces of her boots.

"Hold your horses, babe," Robin said. "I say we wait and leave at dawn tomorrow when we're fresh and have plenty of daylight."

Everyone agreed, but Marty remained restless. She broke with the circle and climbed to the top of the nearest rise. Although glad to be alive in such a pristine and wild place, she feared that the magic of the rain forest was lost to her forever. In her grief, she tried to imagine what her dear mother and father would do in her situation and concluded that they would count their blessings and make the best of it.

It was odd, she thought, that no one in the group had uttered the most important question of all: `where in time are we?' Somewhere between that terrifying moment of free fall and huddling in a cave against the fury of a cataclysmic thunderstorm, she had lost all familiar points of reference. Deductive logic was useless, intuition tenuous, and `the future' as a concept had lost meaning.

A lifelong passion for justice, however, hadn't deserted the young crusader. It remained the one beacon in the storm-tossed core of her being.

"That's it!" she shouted to a flock of birds flying low overhead. The self-appointed camp crier half-stumbled down the rocky slope to spread the news of her epiphany.

"I know why we're here!" she shouted and danced a jig like Scrooge on Xmas morning. "We're here to fight!" Marty said to her wide-eyed Robin, who feared for her lover's sanity.

"For truth, justice, and the American way, I suppose," Loren as usual cracked wise. Marty, unlike the others in the group, had until that moment been able to ignore her idol's sarcasm, which since the desperate leap from Raven's Bluff had lost most of it's entertainment value.

"Screw the American way," Claire hissed and signed for Misha.

"Da!" all the Russian women agreed. Grace, not at all amused, demanded quiet.

"It's true. We are here for a reason," she said. "Justice is part of it." She translated for the Russians.

"And the rest?" Misha asked with great interest. From the moment the horse whisperer first saw Grace, she couldn't help but hang on every word the beautiful Americanski translated.

Claire signed to her fishing partner, "We are here to save the horses."

"This is true," Grace said.

"The horses," Claire signed to Misha.

"Ain't that a hoot," Robin had to protest. "Is everyone blind? Equines are the dominant species around here." The group began to chatter at once.

"Quiet...please!" Grace yelled at the top of her lungs. "Let us never forget what brought us here. The Earth was dying, everything was chaos and women were being hunted down like dogs. Look around you. The air, the water, the land is unspoiled and teeming with life. This is a dream come true. But it's all in grave danger of becoming a nightmare."

"How do you know that?" Misha asked after Grace translated.

"A death cult is loose in paradise," Grace mysteriously responded and translated back for the Americans. Surprised by the conviction of her own words, Mariana's boon companion watched a pall dampen spirits. The stark silence was almost unbearable. Suddenly, a magnificent hawk screeched a mournful cry and circled low.

"An omen of war," Claire said, signing to Misha, who repeated it to her Russian friends. The hawk landed on a nearby rock, eyed each frightened member of the alien gathering, and finally took wing on a thermal for the butte.

Chapter II

Rhea hit the ground at a full run. As she sped across the barren steppe, the magical mare shed her scales and fins. In their place sprouted a thick winter coat of chestnut brown, a luxurious black mane and tail. Her bones grew stronger with each accelerating stride. When she reached the jagged edge of a deep canyon, she slid to a stop, nearly throwing her awestruck rider head over heels into the raging river below.

"You always were a reckless witch," Mariana gasped into the mare's furry ear. Rhea's shrill whinny reverberated a hundredfold inside the canyon walls. Mariana backed her anxious mount from the edge and slid from her back. Her legs had turned to jelly from the wild ride, so she collapsed onto a patch of coarse dead grass. The mare, hardly winded, began to prance up and down the canyon rim.

"Rhea, stand!" Mariana commanded, but to no avail. The mare paced unnervingly close to the precipice and wouldn't stop neighing. Suddenly, a chorus of equine replies echoed from down in the canyon. Fearful that the leggy jumper would lose her footing, Mariana stumbled over to her and grabbed a handful of mane. "Back, this instant!" she yelled in Rhea's ear. The excited mare snorted, reared, and narrowly missed kicking Mariana in the head before flying down the treacherous trail etched into the solid rock wall of the canyon.

More angered than frightened by the outrageous insubordination, Mariana ventured down the steep ledge in labored pursuit. After several close calls with falling rock, she reached the pebbled beach of a sapphire pool sculpted by a towering waterfall. To her amazement, a small herd of white pony mares had Rhea surrounded at the water's edge. They sniffed and snorted, nipped and squealed like mares do when at play. Mariana crouched behind some brush to watch the display, which ended when the otherwise dignified jumper rolled onto her back and flailed her long legs in the air like a contented infant in a crib.

The lead mare nuzzled Rhea's belly, then impatiently pawed the sand, until the big bay rolled over and struggled onto all fours. While the two lovingly groomed each other in what appeared to be blissful reunion, they paid no attention to Mariana, who, when she realized that she'd ridden the magnificent mare for the last time, scrambled back up the trail weeping.

When the horseless equestrian reached the canyon rim, she stumbled blindly beyond earshot of the continuing equine revelry and collapsed spread eagle on the unforgiving hardpan. A frigid wind cut through her clothing like a knife, yet she remained prone, unable, unwilling to move, never blinking as the Sun sank closer to the distant snowy peaks.

Mariana stayed like that until dusk. Sitting up was a painful ordeal and standing took all of what was left of her strength. Teetering on one trembling leg and then the other, she turned a slow revolution and took in a landscape completely devoid of vegetation. She was forced to gather rocks into a pile for the most primitive of breaks against the ferocious winds.

When light deserted, the wayward rider thought of descending once more into the relative protection of the canyon, but the pitch-blackness under an overcast sky wouldn't allow it. Mariana had no matches, even so, making a fire was out of the question, since there was no fuel. The best she could do was huddle up in a tight ball against the pile of stones and let Nature have Her way.

Since childhood, Mariana's rich dream life had served her well. But during that first fitful sleep in the loneliest place on Earth, the pagan mystic didn't merely dream, she became a great bird that soared high among the brightest Stars, only to nose dive into the thick canopy of a forbidding evergreen forest. Hidden in the center of the forest was an oval lake whose crystal clear surface perfectly mirrored the Milky Way.

The fisherman's daughter turned raptor landed atop a mammoth grandfather pine and with a turn of her magnificently feathered head, took in the panorama of her vast hunting grounds. Just before dawn, she swooped down from her perch and skimmed the glassy surface of the lake. One large trout unwisely darted from under a fallen log near the rugged shoreline and was instantly entrapped in her massive talons and carried to a towering granite ledge, where two gaping mouths of downy offspring ripped it piece by piece from their mother's razor-sharp beak.

Mariana awoke with a start. The morning Sun stung her gritty eyes. She sprung to her feet, teetered a bit, and scoured the horizon for any signs of life. She was completely alone. Despair loomed. But a familiar sound drew her attention to the pile of stones. At its summit, a large fish flopped chaotically. As hungry as she was, Mariana's first thought was for the hapless creature whose struggle marked its last moments on Earth. How the fish got there didn't even cross her mind as she scooped it up and made a beeline for the canyon rim.

Even more reckless than her beloved mare, Mariana scrambled down the steep and rocky ledge to the river. The fish had stopped struggling, nevertheless she held it under the icy waters, gently stroking its sides. To her relief, it wriggled back to life and disappeared into the swift current. Her growling stomach notwithstanding, Mariana smiled.

"You return my gift?" a raspy voice asked over her shoulder. Mariana spun around and nearly fell backwards into the rapids. A diminutive crone whose snow-white hair tossed wildly in the constant wind, folded her leathery brown arms across her beautifully woven tunic. "It's much too cold for a swim," she said with a grin. Mariana, who wasn't known for her sense of humor, could only frown. "You've come a long way," the crone continued, "and now you wonder if you are lost."

"No, I don't," Mariana curtly said, stepping away from the edge of the river bank. "This is Mongolia," she said with authority.

"I know of no such place," the crone said with a puzzled look. "You stand in Angara and this is it's lifeblood," she said and pointed a gnarly finger at the river.

"Aren't we south of Lake Baikal?" Mariana asked with a shiver.

"There is a vast lake up north, but human entry is forbidden."

"Why?"

"One does not violate the home of deities."

"Which deities?"

"Why, the Seven Sisters, of course." The crone studied Mariana's green dilated eyes.

"Oh, you mean the Big Dipper!"

"Such talk," the crone scoffed. "Come. There is food and warm garments," she said and gently tugged on the torn sleeve of Mariana's bloody riding jacket. Mariana felt a need to explain the gore, but the old woman didn't seem to notice or care as she walked at a brisk pace along the riverbank.

Her reluctant guest followed her to a lovely meadow at the edge of a birch grove. Nestled in the corner of the meadow were three stone structures and a stick-built pen containing goats and chickens. Mariana's mouth watered at the sight of an orchard heavy-laden with apples, pears and plums. Before she could ask, the crone pointed to them and said, "Join us inside when you've had your fill."

The hungry American ran immediately to the orchard, picked a pear from the nearest tree and consumed it in three bites. From there, she gleefully moved from tree to tree, sampling the sweet bounty. On her way to the cottage, she fed apple cores to a couple of goats nosing the fence. "Morning," she said to them, stroking the shaggy chin of one. "You have a beautiful coat." Soon, a menagerie, including the chickens, gathered at the fence for their share of attention.

Since she could crawl, Mariana had always delighted in the company of animals, even spiders and other `creepy crawlers' that scurried across Sadie's squeaky-clean floors. A painfully shy child, Mariana found animals so much more interesting than people, and, more importantly, never judgmental. As a consequence, by adolescence she lacked all but the most rudimentary of social graces, a flaw that sometimes hurt the feelings of those who wanted to know her and often elicited ridicule from those that had her pegged as a freak.

The crone, who'd been watching Mariana's communion with the barnyard denizens from the cottage window, was moved to announce to the others watching with her, "This blessed day has been a long time coming." Her Angaran coven clasped hands in a circle and danced to a lively tune the crone played on a mandolin-like instrument. The music drew Mariana to the window, where the sight of women dancing brought a smile to her face and tears to her eyes, for it was just yesterday that she'd danced with Grace.

The crone stopped playing and motioned for the reticent newcomer to join the celebration. Wiping her tears, Mariana parted from her animal fans and walked around to the front of the cottage. Before she could open the door, a spirited young woman did so and shouted, "Welcome!"

The blonde tresses that spilled from under the young woman’s colorful cap made for a startling resemblance to Grace. Unable to dispel the illusion in time, Mariana swept the stranger up in her arms and kissed her on the cheek. The young woman burst out laughing, as did the rest of the coven. Seeing that the eyes looking into hers were gray not aqua, Mariana was mortified. She released her grip and was about to make a quick exit when the crone shouted after her, "We've been expecting you, Mariana!"

The modern mystic was speechless as she took in the delighted faces surrounding her. They seemed strangely familiar, perhaps from a dream. The woman she'd mistaken for Grace re-approached.

"Don't be afraid--we won't bite," she said sweetly and offered a hand. Mariana gingerly took it. While the others looked on in anticipation, the lovely stranger asked, "Would you like to sit down and have some hot cider?"

Mariana nodded and took a seat at the round rough-hewn table. The crone sat down across from her, then the others silently took their places. Their guest swallowed hard and asked the crone, "How do you know my name?"

"You told me."

"No, I didn't." Mariana's green eyes darted around the circle of radiant faces.

"The night of your father's passing you had a dream. Do you not remember?" the crone asked, her deep-set dark eyes focused like lasers on Mariana's.

"Yes," Mariana half-whispered. "There was a lake...a reflection of Stars in it...and...a face.. but.. I..." Mariana stammered. The crone's eyes grew misty.

"Sophia?" Mariana asked in dismay. She swallowed hard and mumbled, "Andrea, now what do I do?"

"You call for your shaman?" Sophia asked.

"Andrea, my best friend. She jumped weeks ago."

"Weeks ago?" Sophia looked puzzled.

"After the Fall Equinox...Full Moon...I saw it all...my dog Keeper ran...nobody believed me..," Mariana dreamily trailed off. Complete sentences were out of the question.

"She never came here," Sophia said. Her coven began to whisper among themselves, finally one addressed the confused newcomer.

"I come from Anatolia. Before I arrived here, many new and strange women came to my homeland, and one I remember well, because she was clothed in a very beautiful garment."

"Was it purple with gold trim?" Mariana asked, fighting tears.

"Yes, as the iris."

"But her coven's supposed to be with the Zebras," Mariana said.

"I'm sure she was alone. I think she sailed to the Isle of Crete."

"Crete?!" Mariana was becoming more and more agitated. "But why?" she asked Sophia.

"That is not for us to know," Sophia sternly replied.

"Well, I know for a fact that she's in Africa," Mariana gruffly asserted. "And I wasn't supposed to end up here. My friends are half way around the world and I should be with them." Mariana stood, staggered on rubbery legs over to the huge fireplace, and warmed her numb fingers.

"Everything is as it should be, child," Sophia said. She motioned to one of the women, who set out some clothes for the shivering American. "These we made for you. They will keep you plenty warm enough," Sophia said and stood. Before leaving the cottage, she patted Mariana on the back.

All but one of Sophia's coven slipped outside to resume the harvest. Mariana stared into the roaring fire, while the Anatolian cracked several large brown eggs onto a flat stone situated atop a small hive-shaped kiln. The aroma of fresh garlic eased the tension in the air. Mariana absently examined the exquisitely woven tunic, knickers, and heavy leggings all of which were beautifully accented with a pattern of chevrons, diamonds and spirals. Obviously, someone had made the garments with a particular equestrian in mind, for across the front of the tunic was the image of a prancing horse bearing an uncanny resemblance to Rhea. The handsome redhead was not vain, but the moment she saw it, she would have given anything for a mirror when she held the splendid garment across her shoulders to check for fit.

"Perfect color for you," the Anatolian commented as she set a plateful of scrambled eggs and some bread on the table.

"You think?" Mariana asked, fingering the braided red sash.

"How handsome you will look," the young woman said with a smile. Mariana could feel a blush creep up her freckled neck. She put down the tunic, pulled her bloody jacket tight around herself, and sat down to the steaming feast.

"All this is for me?"

"We have plenty," the cook said and served a piping hot cup of cider.

"Won't you share it with me?" Mariana invited.

"Thank you, but I have already eaten and there are six goats bursting with milk." She grabbed a large clay jug and prepared to leave.

"I didn't get your name," Mariana said through a mouthful of egg.

"I am Leah."

"Thanks, Leah."

"You are welcome. We are all glad you arrived safe and sound."

"I have a question for you," Mariana said after sipping some cider. "How is it that you speak English?" Leah thought for a while, as if she were trying her best to avoid saying anything that might further agitate the sensitive newcomer.

"I don't know this word. Inkalish, you say?"

"English. You speak it perfectly. How can that be?"

"I speak Sumerian."

"Do you think I don't know my own language when I hear it?" Mariana slammed down the wooden spoon and glared at poor Leah, who nervously pulled at a loose thread in her robe.

"When I came here, everyone spoke my language, even though I found out later they all come from different lands. When I hear you speak, you are Sumerian. When Ariel hears you speak, she hears her own language. I don't question how, but we all understand each other perfectly."

"Which one is Ariel?"

"A...she's the one you kissed," Leah replied. Her smile brightened her almond-shaped brown eyes.

"I see. Where's she from?" Mariana pressed, even though she could see Leah was uncomfortable.

"The land of solid water. I always forget the name."

"Greenland?"

"Oh, now I remember. Finlandia!" Leah blurted out. "Can you imagine? Water that you can walk on?!"

"You've never seen ice?"

"Not until I came here."

"What era is this?"

"I'm sorry, but I'm not a good teacher. I know the seasons of Earth, the placement of Stars, the Moon phases and the eternal voyage of the Sun and Her Planets, oh, and the Spiraling Cosmos, but I don't know what `era' could possibly be. I think Sophia can explain it all very nicely. Would you like me to fetch her?"

"How do you know about the planets?" Mariana asked with a mixture of scorn and disbelief. Leah mutely tugged at her ragged sleeve and risked a query of her own.

"Do you know how to milk a goat?"

"No," Mariana sullenly replied. She was about to burst from a million more questions.

"When you finish eating, come to the animal pen and I will teach you," Leah said and dashed out the cottage door.


Later that day, Mariana's desperate need to get her bearings eventually took a back seat to the demands of hard labor. There was a particularly abundant harvest to bring in. The garden on the riverbank produced pumpkins, squash, potatoes, beans, and a strange vegetable that to the modern mystic looked like a cross between a green pepper and a tomato. An ingenious waterwheel system provided a continuous supply of moisture throughout the short growing season, which resulted in giant-sized crops.

The Angaran Winter was just around the corner, so everyone worked nonstop until dusk, filling the two storehouses to overflowing. But the work continued well into the night, for pears and apples had to be prepared for drying. When everyone else had finally gone to bed, Mariana and Sophia sat at the table sipping red wine.

"Where's this from?" Mariana asked.

"Sardinia," Sophia replied.

"Is that your home?"

"I brought several casks from my storehouses, there," the old woman replied, draining her cup.

"I don't have my maps, but I know this is Mongolia, what you call Angara. And I figure it's before the dark times, somewhere around the tenth millennia B.C.E. Am I right?"

"The important thing is that we are now all together in the same place," Sophia responded.

"It occurs to me that everyone in your coven is from a different place...and time. Am I right?"

"You could be."

"Well, am I or not?" Mariana rudely demanded, drumming her fingers on the table.

Sophia, whose patience was wearing thin, answered truthfully, "I called two souls to this outpost--yours and Ariel's. The rest journeyed here on foot. I trust you will come to know their hearts and minds. I can assure you they all share your vision."

"Was Andrea conjured to Crete?"

"Yes, child. Because of drought, her considerable skill was needed there."

"What about my friends? They could all be in grave danger. I belong with them." Mariana was skirting a full-blown tantrum. She was certain that Sophia could send her to Nebraska in an instant, if she so chose.

"I can tell you they are safe and strongly bonded," Sophia said as she jammed the stopper in the wine jug. "Now, I must sleep. You can bed down in the loft, where it's the warmest. Get your rest, Mariana. Snow will be on the ground tomorrow and we need your help building shelters for the animals."

"One more question. Are there nomads in Angara?"

"Oh, yes. They will be coming down from the mountains very soon. They have the most beautiful camels, llamas they call them. Such charming beasts they are. Your tunic is woven from their wool."

Sophia left the table and withdrew to the corner of the room, where she wrapped herself in a coarse woven blanket. "Dream well," she said and curled up with her face to the wall.

With an aching heart, Mariana walked outside and gazed up at the Milky Way, which seemed close enough to touch.

"Tonight, my Grace, I dream only of you," she said into the bitter wind and watched a comet circle the Seven Sisters before it vanished at the North Star.

Chapter III

The earliest ancestors of Angaran ponies fled east to escape the butchery of Cro-Magnon man, who had hunted them to near extinction on the Iberian Peninsula and in what in modern times was known as France. The sturdy equines were a tough skittish breed that most often came in various shades of dusky brown with a pronounced stripe that ran along the spine. Black stripes encircled the front legs, giving them the appearance of hairy corkscrews. The rugged equines ran in vast herds at the edge of the ice sheet, foraging steep cliffs for the thorniest of shrubs and finding shelter in the myriad of canyons carved by the raging waters of the Upper Angara River. Nomadic legend attributed supernatural power to the ponies, who they believed carried the Great Mother and her seven daughters on whimsical voyages across the Milky Way. Shooting Stars were at the core of nomadic cosmology, which said they tracked the frequent night rides of restless female deities, who determined every aspect of nomadic life.

For the nomad, it was taboo to touch an Angaran pony, much less ride one. Consequently, the wild herds prospered, eventually dominating the northern steppe of the Asiatic plain. Down through the ages, shamans, both male and female, drew their magic from the mares of the herd. Special powers of divination were bestowed by the Great Mother Herself upon those who saw a rare White Mare.

All nomadic children were not only taught to honor the ponies, they were instilled with a deep reverence for the grassland and all it sustained. Based on the belief that one should leave a place as you found it and whenever possible better than you found it, aboriginal nomads developed ingenious agrarian techniques centered around barley and oat crops tolerant of the harsh climate and rocky ferrous soil.

Where the pony was the soul, the llama was the heart of daily nomadic life. The shaggy mischievous camel provided everything from clothing to transportation to very rich milk. Without the llama, Angaran culture would not have existed.

When Mariana landed in Angara, serious tears in the fabric of daily life were threatening to unravel the entire tapestry of the nomadic culture. It all began one particularly bad Winter, when the polar ice sheet started to encroach on precious grazing lands. Ponies ran out of grass and resorted to eating crops and in the process injured some llamas whose territorial instinct was just as fierce if not more so than that of the marauding equines. Actual fights broke out between stallions and llamas, most of which the stallions won. Many of the wounded llamas had to be destroyed, leaving many nomads, especially the children, in the grip of inconsolable grief.

For one young Angaran, the loss of his precious llamas was so devastating he came to despise the ponies. His name was Ramakan, who as a boy had learned to weave from his mother, and like his mother, was a magician at the loom. Forbidden to speak ill of the sacred equine, Ramakan kept his seething hatred to himself, where it festered for many seasons.

One early Summer morning while sitting at his loom, he spotted an emaciated white mare nibbling on the tender barley seedlings. He stealthily made his way down the steep slope to within twenty paces or so of the animal, who was so weak from hunger she didn't notice him until it was too late. Ramakan hurled a large stone and struck her above the right eye. She tumbled into a rocky ravine.

Her cries brought Ramakan's brother Taji running from his yurt. To his horror, he saw the sacred animal writhing in pain, wedged between two large boulders. Ramakan, who was literally foaming at the mouth from the taste of sweet revenge, spewed epithets during the mare's lingering death. Then, without a word to his stunned brother, he walked back into his yurt, sat down at his loom, and calmly resumed his weaving. From that day on, a permanent curl in his upper lip distorted his otherwise handsome face.

The news of Ramakan's sacrilege spread fast. Without the traditional council of elders, the fabulous weaver was immediately banished from the clan and forced to roam deep river basins, where he survived on fish and berries. As the ice sheet continued to encroach on the land, more crops failed and more ponies starved. Their carcasses were scavenged by desperate bands of young men trying to feed their families. To these men, who otherwise would have become peaceful shepherds, the exiled Ramakan became a hero of sorts. He, after all, was the first Angaran to challenge the teachings of the White Mare Cosmology.

Desperately lonely, Ramakan found solace in the admiration bestowed by the roving scavengers, who constantly sought him out. He knew in his heart that it was wrong, but he let himself be seduced by the strange power their adulation bestowed. And it wasn't long before he declared himself leader of a cult whose sole purpose was to subvert the dominant paradigm. As a result, what amounted to the world's first death squad was busily scouring the icy steppe for white pony mares.

Torchlight gatherings of young men at the headwaters of the Upper Angara found Ramakan standing imperious on a rock declaring into existence a new male deity he claimed was more powerful than any goddess could ever be. The world's first theocrat put forth that this new god, who dwelled in the clouds, was the true essence of the nomadic soul--vengeful, bloodthirsty and disdainful of the Earthly realm.

Ramakan further declared that black stallions were the embodiment of the almighty sky-god's power on Earth, a power that men alone must harness in order to spread the new cosmology far and wide. Using a portable loom he himself designed and constructed, the first thing he wove on it was a halter and a set of reins, which he attached to something he called a bit, which he fashioned from equine rib bone.

One misty Autumn morning, Ramakan and his inner circle drove a small herd of ponies into a narrow box canyon. They cut off escape with a pole fence made of pine they'd cut down inside the Forbidden Forest, thereby breaking yet another sacred taboo. Ramakan managed to get a rope on a black stallion, and with the help of his men, forced the terrified animal to his knees. They then pried open his mouth and jammed in the cruel bit so hard that blood poured from his lacerated tongue. Ramakan climbed aboard his screaming mount and on his order, the stallion was released.

The ride for Angara's first equestrian was a short one, for the stallion promptly threw his master head over heels into the dust. After several more failed attempts, an enraged Ramakan, who'd sustained a nasty gash over his left eye, ordered the stallion killed. At that moment, a young shepherd boy who'd been kidnapped during a recent deadly raid on his remote mountain clan, stepped forward. He asked permission to try riding the stallion. When the laughter died down, Ramakan decided he would enjoy seeing someone else fail miserably, so he ordered his men to subdue the black again.

But the boy insisted he try it on his own. He walked slowly up to the wary equine, who immediately settled down, even allowed the boy to whisper something in his ear. To everyone's amazement, he swung gracefully up onto the stallion's quivering back. And in no time at all horse and rider became one, executing figure-eights at a nice easy lope.

For the next several days, Angara's first horse trainer tamed a dozen mounts for the beginnings of the world's first army on horseback. The black steed was claimed by Ramakan. And it was on a solitary ride to the top of a bluff, that the theocrat had his first vision of the world to come. There was something about sitting atop all that raw and graceful power that inspired what had heretofore been beyond the grasp of the nomadic mind: empire.

After his solo ride, Ramakan's creative genius turned to weaponry, which transformed his growing army into a well oiled killing machine feared by every Angaran, especially those clans bravely struggling to keep the old ways alive. The traditionalists tried to bribe Ramakan and his men with gifts of their finest llamas and meager crops, but nothing satisfied his newfound lust for territory.

The alien concept of conquest only added to Ramakan's mystique; the people began to view him as immortal, a being from an unseen omniscient realm. As a result, even those deeply outraged by his lust for violence built altars of appeasement to Ramakan's frightening new god. Once peaceful shepherds got caught up in the frenzy of equine slaughter that spread like a cancer across the Angaran landscape. At the height of the craze, vast numbers of ponies were rounded up and murdered en masse by stampeding them over the treacherous cliffs of the Upper Angara River whose waters ran red with equine blood.


It was a bitterly cold day when a small band of refugees from Ramakan's scourge of madness made camp a mile upstream from Sophia's outpost. When the weary nomads caught sight of the giant Rhea and the last remaining herd of white mares grazing nearby, they lay prostrate on the frosted ground in tearful worship. Sophia, who'd been picking the last of the berries along the banks of the river, dropped her nearly full basket when she came upon the scene. Fearing the worst, she scrambled over the rocks and spooked the reclusive herd back behind the waterfall. The pounding hooves brought one young boy to his feet.

"Sophia!" he cried and ran to her. One by one, the startled group of fifty or so picked themselves up and walked towards the crone whose wrinkled face was streaked with tears of relief and joy.

"Aruk, my boy! And Shan-Tai, why look at you! You've grown into a man," the crone exclaimed and hugged the two youth, who clung like monkeys to her long robes. Soon, ten giggling children had her surrounded, lavishing her with hugs and kisses, all chattering at once.

"Children! Give the old woman breathing space!" the clan leader scolded in the common language. "Aruk, go help your sister with the llamas."

"Welcome, Taji." Sophia firmly clasped his calloused hands.

"It's been a long season, Sophia," the smiling Angaran replied. "And a long and sorry journey," he added. Sophia saw in his ebony eyes a cloud of unshakable grief and fear.

"Come. We've prepared a feast for your arrival," Sophia said, patting Taji on the shoulder of his unraveling tunic. After helping the crone recover the scattered berries, the children ran ahead downstream, teasing each other and laughing.

"Your time is soon, Kara," Sophia said to a pregnant Angaran woman as she plodded along the rocky trail to the outpost.

"It's a girl," Kara, who also spoke the common language, proudly said, clutching her large belly.

"I thought as much from the way you are carrying," Sophia said and draped her arm around Kara's shoulders.

"Winter's a hard time to be born," she sighed.

"Winter babies have the truest hearts," Sophia said.

"And strongest wills," Kara chuckled. "I'm a winter-born, you know."

"I thought as much," Sophia said with a wink.

When the entourage reached the outpost, Leah greeted Kara with a kiss on the lips and a hug, then invited her and the children over to a long table where various goodies had been set out. Most made a beeline for a large basket of hand-made toys that included tops, animal carvings, and hand puppets.

Mariana, who had been watching the arrival from her favorite perch atop the woodpile, was intrigued by the spirit of cooperation between a boy and a girl who were both taken with the same doll. Instead of fighting over it, they each declared themselves its `mother' and were happy to share in the caretaking. Except for the toddlers, the Angaran children seemed to have the most fun giving away rather than coveting a particular toy. Furthermore, all toys were returned to the basket when not in use. Mariana was amazed and heartened to see in action what had been disdained as utopian in the modern world.

"Mariana--come down! I want you to meet a friend!" Sophia shouted up to the unsociable Amazon. Taji watched in awe as the tallest woman he'd ever seen jumped catlike from her perch. "This is Taji, Chagandei leader," Sophia said. Mariana extended her hand, but Taji, not familiar with the custom, drew back, as if Mariana meant him harm. "No, no, Taji--that is her greeting," Sophia assured. Taji placed his right hand over his heart, which Mariana politely imitated. "What is your name?" he asked, his eyes riveted on what to him looked like pools of molten jade.

"Mariana Morgan," she replied, but avoided his gaze. Seeing the obvious lack of rapport between them, Sophia explained, "She came here to join our cause."

"Where is your homeland?" Taji tentatively asked.

"America," Mariana coldly replied.

"I know of no such land." Taji looked to Sophia for clarification.

"Across the Sea of Dragons, my friend," the crone said.

"The birthplace of the horse," Mariana felt compelled to inform.

"Ah! The land of giants!" Taji said, vigorously nodding his shaggy head at Mariana, who towered over him.

"The giant mare carried her here," Sophia said.

"She lets you ride?" Taji asked in amazement.

"Not anymore," Mariana replied from inside a pang of grief.

"She is happier with her own kind," Taji said to her.

"What's left of them," the testy mystic shot back.

"You know of my brother?"

"I hear he has an army on horseback."

"This is true, and it is growing. My clan is scattered. We live in fear. Our children cry because they cannot play in the open. The white mares are gone from the northern steppe."

"Your brother must not find out about the land bridge," Mariana said.

"I don't understand." Taji once more looked to Sophia.

"The crossing at the Sea of Dragons," Sophia explained. Taji shook his head.

"I am sure he doesn't know of it," he said to Mariana, whose trademark frown claimed otherwise.

"Our most immediate concern is the shrinking grasslands, the crone interjected. "It will drive Ramakan's army south into the fertile valleys where the people will be unable to defend themselves. We must stop his madness before he gets to the Altai Mountains." For the first time, Mariana saw fire in the gentle crone's eyes.

"Where is your brother's main camp?" she asked Taji.

"At the headwaters, but there's already much snow and they will come soon."

"Along the river?"

"Yes."

"When will they arrive?" Sophia asked.

"I am sad to say, ten maybe twelve Sunrises from now. They are a hundred strong and we are less than half that."

"What weapons do they have?"

"Spears, slings, clubs, and something they call a serpent's bow that shoots sticks with sharp stone points. They train stallions to charge and trample the people who get in their way, even children," Taji said in a halting voice. A tear rolled down his weathered cheek. The Amazon clenched and unclenched her fists in a rage that had been building for days.

"We will not use violence," Sophia sternly said to her.

"And let him massacre us?!" Mariana snarled. "He and thousands more just like him will not stop until they bring ruin to the entire planet. You cannot imagine the horrors I have seen, Sophia!"

"Violence begets violence!" the crone stood her ground. Mariana flashed on the biker, the look of horror on his face when the blade pierced his wicked heart. At that moment, a black cloud blotted out the Sun. "Everyone! Quick!" Sophia shouted above the howling wind. "Gather your animals and follow the guides to shelter!"

Ariel and Kara led the way into the stand of birches.

"Where are they taking them?" Taji asked.

"To the caverns. No one, not even Ramakan knows of them. They will be safe from the storm there. We keep it stocked with food and it is always warm from the hot springs," Sophia assured with a hand on her ally's shoulder.

Mariana and Leah quickly rounded up the goats and locked them inside the new Winter shelters. Catching the chickens was quite another matter, since many had already flown high in the branches of trees. By the time every animal was safe and accounted for, the first blizzard of the season had reduced visibility to near zero. Holding hands, the two snow-covered women had to feel their way the short distance back to the cottage, where they were greeted with giggles. Taji maintained his composure, even though Mariana reminded him of the shaggy mammoths of aboriginal lore.

The blizzard raged on as the coven and Taji argued strategy. Mariana's warrior streak made her a minority of one, a role with which she was quite familiar. At times, Sophia found the redhead's thirst for battle so shocking she seriously considered sending her back to Hecate's Cove. It was Taji, however, who momentarily softened the rhetoric when he poignantly spoke of his younger brother for whom he grieved without end. Taji blamed himself for what Ramakan had become, since it was he who had rushed to harsh judgment about his little brother's cruel deed. It was this betrayal, he claimed, that hardened Ramakan's heart.

"He made a terrible mistake and he should have been harshly punished, but not driven from his home and loom. None of the elders would agree to counsel him, which is Angaran law. No one talked of forgiveness, which is also our law. My clan is to blame for what is happening. And we must make it right with Rama, for if he receives mercy, I know he will come home and all the others will, too." Taji said all this to Mariana, whose game face grew ever more threatening.

"Will he meet with you, Taji?" Leah asked.

"He hates me. It must be someone he respects," Taji answered.

"What does a child slayer know of respect?" Kara bitterly said.

"I have heard that he carries a small loom wherever he goes. Perhaps that's the key to our dilemma," Ariel offered from the hearth, where she'd been stoking its glowing embers. Throughout the heated debate, Mariana stole glances at the willowy Finlandian, and whenever the latter spoke, the heartsick American hung on every word.

"Tell us more, Ariel," Mariana urged in a rare conciliatory tone.

"Weavers possess merciful souls. Am I not right, Taji?" Ariel began. Taji nodded. "Then, why should Ramakan's be any different? After all, it was for love of his llamas that he committed the atrocity. It was the act of a wounded soul, not a demon. Grief can drive the most gentle of us to violence." Ariel's gray-green eyes fell squarely on Mariana's.

"Are you volunteering to soothe the raging beast, Ari?" Leah piped up with a snicker.

"I will try, if asked," Ariel replied, still gazing at Mariana, who at that point was tongue-tied.

"Rama must still have a soft place in his heart for a beautiful woman," Taji said. Mariana tore her gaze from Ariel and stared daggers at the only man in the room.

"What the hell are you suggesting?!" the Amazon exploded in his face and stood, knocking over her chair. All but Sophia gasped at the outburst.

"Sit down!" the crone commanded, but Mariana had already scaled the ladder to the loft. Taji was visibly shaken, his bronze face had turned a pasty gray. Ariel made a move to the ladder. "Let her be," Sophia said and asked Leah to burn some sage to clear the air.

Everyone, including Taji, clasped hands around the table, while the Sardinian conjuror chanted an aboriginal verse about a solitary dove who flies above the storm clouds to bring the gift of mercy to hardened hearts.


In the middle of the blustery night when everyone else slept soundly, Mariana knelt at the small window in the garret. She longed for just one glimpse of the Crescent Moon shrouded by storm clouds. Memories of her last hours at Hecate's Cove ripped through her solar plexus like tiny knives, but none was more painful than Graces's words of farewell: `Tonight we rest in our dream.'

Not since she arrived at the outpost had the irascible mystic slept deeply enough to dream. It was taking a toll on her ability to keep her emotions from running away with her the way Rhea used to do on their reckless nighttime romps in the surf. The howling winds masked her pent-up grief, which convulsed her body well past the rooster's first crowing. The pain didn't ease until a warm hand landed lightly on her shoulder. It was Ariel's.

Chapter IV

Of the many islands scattered throughout the Aegean, the jewel was Crete. For ages, it had been the primary destination for the aboriginal nomads of Africa, who carved from its rugged beauty the spiritual foundation for the most egalitarian and peaceful civilization on Earth. The island's land-based culture was the quintessence of civility. Not only did the people on Crete love their mothers, they literally worshipped the ground they walked on. Needless to say, life in Crete was good for women and for everyone, so much so, that the average life span was a hundred and ten revolutions around the Sun.

These were the circumstances in which Andrea Tedesco, renowned psychic and water witch of Hecate's Cove, found herself after a revolutionary leap of faith into thin air. What she figured for a slight miscalculation that separated her from her coven was in actuality part of a grander scheme. Signe, Crete's wise and much revered Oracle, had conjured Andrea at the last moment to help with the island's critical water shortage. And within three days, the superb dowser teased from the cracked soil no less than five artesian wells and became the toast of the whole island.

The rest of Andrea's coven ended up deep in the Serengeti plain as planned, but no matter how many times she tried, the famed dowser could not make telepathic contact with them.

"Thank your lucky Stars, nothing ever turns out exactly the way you plan it," Andrea was fond of quoting her mother's favorite adage to her students of which Mariana had been her favorite--much to the distress of Sadie, a devout catholic. A big part of Andrea's success both as a teacher and a witch was her talent for coming up with just the right down home wisdom in the face of the worst disappointment. Largely because of her charm, people grew to believe that the advice she freely dispensed was worth taking to heart, since, after all, Andrea herself was so upbeat and full of spunk. Even after a series of dry holes, many a gushing well was the reward for those who chose to give the intrepid dowser the benefit of the doubt.

Although she didn't charge much for her services, Andrea never wanted for anything. That was because her grateful customers showered her with gifts. One pillar of the coastal community whose deceased wife Andrea successfully channeled during one of her regular seances, was so grateful he built a fabulous tree-house for her high in the oldest and tallest cedar on the Hecate's Cove old growth reserve. Until the monster storm of 07, Andrea, along with a pair of falcons, enjoyed the most spectacular view on the Cascadia coast. Luckily, she was at Mariana's when the typhoon hit. For months, both women mourned the loss of the great grandmother tree and thereafter shared a deep commitment to saving what was left of Her kind.

Andrea was like an older sister to Mariana, an only child. They survived many a confrontation with the timber industry, and no one knew the forests of Cascadia better than they. As Mariana grew more proficient in the spiritual arts, she was often called upon by her militant friends to come up with incantations designed to sabotage the enemy. For a time, this practice caused a serious rift with Andrea, who was adamantly opposed to what she referred to as `dominator magic’. Since Mariana was a warrior at heart, her mentor did everything she could to instill compassion as the primary intent behind all her rituals. Andrea had every confidence that when pushed to the wall, her best pupil would honor this most sacred tenet of the Divine Feminine.

Unlike Mariana, Andrea was having a wonderful time in her new realm. Not that her thoughts and prayers weren't with her dear friend, on the contrary, the common language allowed her to share with her Cretan hosts the mystic Amazon's bravery and dedication to the monumental task for which they were born.

"As you know, disaster is brewing," Andrea said to Signe. It was an unseasonably hot day, so they sat in the shade of the Oracle's humble cottage, where the Mediterranean breezes gave some relief.

"This was predicted by my predecessor, but we will never shed blood," Signe vowed, mixing a remedy for Andrea's raging hay fever.

"I'm the last person to promote that option. But trouble is assuredly coming from the east," Andrea said, then sneezed three times in quick succession.

"The land of such gentle nomads," Signe sighed.

"Which makes it all the sadder. And now you tell me my dear Mariana is there now, but I have no way of knowing exactly how or what she is doing. Unlike you, I'm a second-rate conjuror." Andrea snorted and wheezed.

"Are you unhappy here?"

"Not in the least. This place is beyond my wildest dreams. And the people! Why, they're absolute angels!"

"You have made many friends in a short time," Signe said, handing her patient a cup of brew. "Now drink slowly."

"Mmm, delicious. What's in it?" Andrea asked between sips. Signe listed several herbs the modern witch never heard of.

"Inhale deeply three times," Signe instructed, resting her golden brown hand on Andrea's back.

"Finally, I can breathe. Are those roses I smell?"

"My hibiscus garden is in its last blooming. Come, I'll show you," Signe offered as she cleaned her mortar and pestle. The two women strolled arm and arm through the labyrinthine garden of blood-red flowers interspersed with a myriad of other flora Andrea didn't recognize. The mixture of scents was so intoxicating, she sat down on a stone sculpture of a lion with the head of a woman.

"Sorry, sphinx, ol' gal."

"She is Merciful Hathor," Signe corrected.

"From Giza?"

"I do not know of that land. Hathor's icon sits above the flood plain of the Ankh and guards the mysteries of creation."

`The riddle of the sphinx,' Andrea thought. Her heart beat fast from her growing curiosity. "Does the icon face due east?" Feeling a tad sacrilegious, the water witch stood.

"Correct. She marks the equinox of light and dark."

"Who built the monument?"

"It is a natural formation. The Ankh delta is a wondrous place. For the next harvest, I and my lovers will go there for the Equinox."

"Did you say lovers?"

"Moderns don't have lovers?" Signe asked with a pitiful expression on her regal face.

"Of course, but usually just one at a time."

"Is Mariana your lover?" Signe asked.

"Oh, no. She's my dearest friend. I love her like a sister, but we never... you know, had a physical involvement."

"I'm sorry," Signe said.

"Oh, don't be. You see, I'm not gay."

"You are sad?"

"No, no, Signe, you don't understand, gay means, you know, same-sex attraction and I..." Andrea lost her train of thought and started to chuckle.

" Why do you laugh? It is sad that your friend doesn't want to make you happy."

"Oh, she did. We had plenty of good times. We just never felt the need to express our love sexually."

"Sexually? I don't know it."

"My dear woman, how can you say that when every time I turn around here somebody's going at it."

"My modern friend is hard to understand, yet entertaining," Signe said and kissed Andrea full on the lips, which immediately turned her conjured guest's face crimson. The Oracle had to laugh. "You have become one of my hibiscus blooms."

"I haven't been kissed in awhile," Andrea nervously said and sat back down on the sphinx.

What Andrea Tedesco didn't say was that she'd never felt the desire to be kissed by a woman, not that it hadn't crossed her mind on Moonlit walks with Mariana, whom she regarded as strikingly beautiful. A descendent of Spanish gypsies, Andrea had features remarkably similar to the Oracle of Crete, except she was a good six inches taller. `Perhaps,' she mused, `the difference in our heights is turning Signe on.'

"I would never betray you!" Signe blurted out, having just misread Andrea's mind.

"Why would you think such a thing?!" Andrea recoiled.

"You fear I will turn on you," Signe tried to explain. Tears welled in her dark eyes.

"Oh, my dear--no, no!" Andrea assured, stifling a chuckle. "I keep forgetting that you read minds. I...a...I was thinking that since I'm taller than you, that maybe you were turned on by...I mean...I was wondering if maybe I reminded you of an Amazon...or...something." Andrea suffered a rare moment of incoherence.

"In your homeland to betray someone is revered?" Signe asked.

"Of course not! Unless you're a politician."

The lifelong activist couldn't resist a bit of sarcasm, which went right over the Oracle's ornate hairdo. "You see, if someone turns you on, it's a good thing. To turn on was one of the few pleasures of modern life."

"I would very much like to turn on, then. You must show me how," Signe insisted.

"No, I couldn't possibly! I mean, you're very lovely, but...if you don't mind, can we change the subject?"

At that point, Signe who was more than intrigued, stepped closer and said, "Then you will show me how to turn you on."

"I couldn't...it's just that..." Andrea again was at a loss for words, this time, from embarrassment.

"Do I not please you?"

"No--yes, you're wonderful, but...I'm not that way," Andrea feebly delivered the oldest excuse in the book and at that moment wished Mariana could conjure her to Mongolia.

"I see. This Mariana, she knows how to turn you on," Signe flatly concluded, again misinterpreting Andrea's thoughts.

"Cut that out!" Andrea snapped.

"I have not any sharp implement. Even so I would never cut you with it," Signe retorted. "I leave you to turn on yourself."

Deeply insulted, the Oracle of Crete stomped off. As soon as she was out of earshot, Andrea burst out laughing. Still giggling, she strolled down a narrow path that led to a hot springs. Gazing at her own wavy reflection in the crystal clear pool, the sassy water witch stripped naked and floated spread eagle on the bubbly surface, where she gave herself intense prolonged pleasure.


At dusk, Andrea found Signe and several lovely women outside the cottage lounging topless.

"Good evening, my turning friend," Signe said, a bit slurred. There was a large jug of wine sitting on the stone patio near the Oracle's hammock. One woman smiled flirtatiously and offered to share her hammock with the water witch. As she climbed in, Andrea tried not to think what she was thinking, but it was too late.

"Orgies are for the men--only women turn on each other," Signe teased.

Judging from the chorus of cackles, it was apparent that the modern phrase had struck a chord with Signe and her companions, so much so it colored every aspect of the conversation that evening. Andrea, who was always up for a good time, decided to join the fun.

"There's another modern expression you all might like," she offered. "It's what you say to someone you find very attractive."

"Oh, please tell us," one young woman, who was holding hands with Signe, excitedly said.

"Light my fire," Andrea obliged. She gleefully watched the wheels turning behind the seven pairs of alluring eyes gazing into her own. Suddenly, the group exploded in laughter.

"All the more reason to stoke the kiln," Signe couldn't resist and set off another rib-cracking round.

"I almost forgot," Signe's primary lover, Daria, said when things had finally died down to a few titters here and there. "I baked some sweet cakes for everyone." Daria tumbled from her hammock, crawled back to Signe and kissed her knee before standing and retreating a bit unsteady into the cottage.

"That's another term of endearment from my world," Andrea just had to share.

"Which?" a diminutive woman asked before receiving a grape from her lover, who precariously straddled her in their hammock.

"Sweetcakes," Andrea answered and basked in the uproar.

Signe's inner circle proved themselves experts at word play, something the modern witch cherished and which invariably made her the life of any party. Like a has-been comic working the crowd in a seedy nightclub, she gladly dispensed tired one-liners well into the night, until the wine finally caught up with her. Aching ribs notwithstanding, the main entertainment finally conked out under the stunning brilliance of a Mediterranean Autumn night sky.

Andrea awoke the next morning with the Sun in her eyes and a wicked hangover. The patio, strewn with empty platters, wine jugs, grape stems, and fruit peels, was deserted. When she tried to extricate herself from the hammock, it promptly dumped her onto the unforgiving terra cotta brick. Rubbing her crazy bone and half-blind, the contrite reveler wove her way to an artesian fountain and started to drink, but was distracted by a rustling sound. Shading her eyes from the intense glare, Andrea noticed a young man sweeping the patio with a bundle of reeds. He didn't seem to notice her, so the hung-over dowser started once more to quench her ferocious thirst.

"Minted water is for the guest," he startled her. Holding her throbbing head, Andrea approached the bearded sweeper, who was trying not to grin.

"Who might you be?" she asked.

"I am Moab, brother to the Oracle of Crete," he formally replied.

"Hello, I'm Andrea." Moab nodded and pointed to a large ewer sitting on a marble pedestal.

"For you," he said and resumed sweeping. Andrea poured some refreshment into an elegant ceramic goblet.

"Aaah, this sure hits the spot," she said after promptly draining its contents. She helped herself to a refill, keeping an eye on the sweeper as she gulped it down. She guessed Moab stood about five feet five at the most. He was well muscled, dark-complexion; Andrea figured his age to be about twenty-five. She finished off the last of her third round of refreshment and peeked inside the empty cottage, hoping to scrounge a crust of bread. There was none. Just as she was about to head for the orchard, Moab stopped his sweeping.

"My sister asks that you feast with her at the grotto."

"Way up on the mountain?" Andrea groaned.

"A short walk," Moab replied with a definite grin that, in spite of her condition, Andrea found quite charming.

It was indeed a mean trek up the rocky trail that led to the famed grotto, but ogling Moab's sinewy calves and broad shoulders at least helped mitigate Andrea's pain and hunger. About halfway to the summit, her handsome escort stopped at a spectacular viewpoint. Gazing southward across the turquoise expanse, she was amazed to see a sailing ship on the horizon.

"Where is it coming from?" she asked her guide, who shaded his dark eyes from the Sun.

"It is a spice trader from Tripolonia," he answered.

Andrea, momentarily enchanted by his chiseled profile, dreamily asked, "And where is that?"

"The Ankh Crescent," he replied with his eyes still riveted on the approaching vessel.

"Do you sail?" the overheated witch idly asked, just to lengthen the rest period.

"I'm too busy building ships to sail them."

"I see," she said and couldn't help staring at his long luxurious eyelashes. "Who would have thought, sailing ships in the tenth millennium B.C.E.," she said and watched Moab's brow furrow.

"We stand in Crete," he abruptly said the obvious.

"Of course we do. I'm sorry, I was referring to the measure of time. Where I come from, we worship it. We even wear timepieces on our wrists or around our necks. Archaeologists would flip to see this place. It's mind-boggling...so advanced...so..." Andrea's train of thought got lost in the endearing look of confusion on Moab's face. "You don't have a clue, do you?" she said and avoided his probing stare.

"You wish to return to your homeland," he said. When he placed his hand on Andrea's sunburned shoulder, desire shot like adrenaline through her aching limbs.

"I suppose I do," she replied without looking at Moab, whose gaze she was certain could stop her heart. "But right this moment all I can think of is food." Andrea turned back towards the trail.

"There's food just steps away," he promised and took her hand.

Any notion of time was lost as he led the sexed-up water witch along the final leg of the long climb to the summit. In spite of stomach pains and screaming calf muscles, Andrea secretly wished the morning's trek would never end. She wondered if her growing desire for Signe's brother could blind his eyes to the fact that she was more than twice his age. But if time was of no consequence on Crete, then perhaps neither was age, especially in a place where sex was so free and easy. At least, that was her hope as they made their way towards the reveling crowd gathered at the grotto.

Flute music floated on the breeze as she clung tight to Moab's hand. They lingered inside a small grove of chestnut trees, where to her delight, Moab slipped his arm lightly around her waist.

"I find pleasure in your company," he said, stopping to stroke her flushed cheek. Andrea nearly swooned when he pulled her close for a kiss. She couldn't believe her eyes when Moab immodestly lay down on the thick grass and lifted his tunic.

Since stamina not foreplay was the essence of lovemaking for the men of Crete, Andrea rode wave after wave of intensifying pleasure to a strangely bittersweet climax that made her weep.

"Are you not satisfied?" Moab whispered in her ear, while gently massaging her shoulders. Andrea lifted her face to his and kissed him tenderly.

"Never until now," she sighed. She ran her fingers through his beard down to his chest where she traced little circles in the bristling crop of tightly curled hair. "Oh, my," she sighed when she came to his quivering belly. "And what about you?" she said, breathless.

"No woman asks that of me," he moaned. When she took him into her mouth, Moab pushed her off and jumped to his feet. "It is forbidden!" he yelled.

"What did I do?!" Andrea cried.

Moab said nothing as he straightened his tunic. Stunned, Andrea watched the most virile man she'd ever known scamper like a jackrabbit into the woods. She was ready to make a quick exit back down the mountain, when Signe approached.

"Are you ill?" the Oracle asked, inspecting her conjured guest's feverish cheeks. There was no point in lying to a compulsive mind-reader, so Andrea cut to the chase.

"Your brother and I just made love, and now he's run away."

"Tell me why."

"Because I tried to please him," Andrea curtly answered. She struggled to gather her robe around her nakedness.

"You must understand that men on this end of the island are trained from birth to never spill seed in the presence of a woman." The over-sexed witch sardonically laughed.

"You've got to be kidding me!"

"I don't know of kidding, but from your tone I know you are blind to the truth," Signe retorted with her slender hands firmly set on her shapely hips.

"The truth is I just used your brother like a sex toy."

"Sex toy," Signe scornfully repeated, of course clue-less as to the meaning of the term. She threw her bejeweled hands in the air. "How you vex me!"

The Oracle sat down cross-legged next to her miserable guest, who by then was near tears and digging around in the grass with a twig. "Do you know where my brother is now?" she asked.

"In the woods," Andrea sullenly replied.

"Yes, and do you know who lives in those woods?"

"The usual assortment of wildlife, I suppose," Andrea sassed. Her grand inquisitor's patronizing air was more than the humiliated dowser could bear and she tried to stand. Signe, twice as strong, wouldn't allow it.

"The grotto brotherhood lives there," Signe continued. "Oral copulation is their sole and sacred right."

"Moab is gay?!"

Although she had no idea how gaiety once again figured in the conversation, the Oracle was too irritated to bother asking for yet another clarification of modern idiom.

"Men like Moab are not allowed pleasure from a woman," Signe continued.

"Give me a break! We screwed our brains out!" Andrea exploded and broke Signe's grip on her arm.

"You will explain yourself," the confused Oracle demanded.

"Forgive me, Signe, but I'm afraid this conversation is over." Andrea stood to leave.

"Halt!" the Oracle commanded. Andrea reeled around with a defiant look on her face.

"You know something, Signe? Right now I'd give anything to be freezing my ass off in Mongolia, or Angara, or whatever the hell you call it!" Signe stood up nose to nose with the first person ever to challenge her authority.

"You will follow me at once, or I will send you back to hell on Earth," the Oracle said, then walked in the direction of the woods.

Demoralized and reeling from hunger pains, Andrea sulked her way into the woods and followed Signe to the edge of a small lake whose glassy surface was graced by pairs of pure white swans. To her relief, there were many fruit trees growing along the shoreline. Between juicy bites of plum, she heard men's laughter echo behind her. When she turned around Signe was nowhere to be seen.

Andrea's curiosity led her to a circular stone structure that vented steam from it's red tiled roof. She ducked behind a tree trunk when two naked men emerged and strolled arm and arm to the lake. She watched them slip into the water, then decided to explore the interior of the bathhouse. Thinking that she had the steamy place all to herself, she began to disrobe, when a muffled series of moans emanated from the inner sanctum. A decidedly prurient interest drew her down to the end of a narrow passageway, where in the shadows she witnessed an old man in erotic worship at the altar of Moab's enormous manhood. Moab's release came in a series of ear-splitting cries that drove the voyeur from the men-only cathedral of delights.

She ran from the woods and collapsed at the far edge of the meadow, where a bevy of chatty little girls was busily weaving daisy chains. They offered her some bread and cheese, which she gratefully devoured and chased with a large goblet of wine. Afterwards, the sated witch surrendered to sleep.


Andrea awoke at dusk and wandered over to the grotto, where the novices sat in rapt attention as Signe explained the mysteries of parthenogenesis. Allowed to listen only from a distance, Andrea didn't catch the details, nevertheless, she came to a stunning realization: all the young children she'd seen so far on Crete were female.

Later that night, while resting comfortably in the non-erotic embrace of one of Signe's many lovers, Andrea learned that all girls born on the east end of the island were destined for the priesthood. As the human embodiment of the Divine Feminine, the priests were charged with keeping Her secrets from falling into the wrong hands. And according to the ancient prophecies of the Supreme Oracle of Ankh (The Sphinx Herself), that very danger was imminent. Not even Signe knew exactly how such a monumental disaster could be prevented, but she had no doubt that the confounding water witch from Hecate's Cove would be a key player.

Chapter V

The seven-day trek from their river camp to the lake was a grueling series of misadventures. Frequent thunderstorms made them sitting ducks for countless lightning strikes, during which lady luck was their only protector. Soaked to the bone, they were all in danger of hypothermia. Grace, already exhausted to begin with from lack of sleep, was bitten the first night out on the trail by some kind of snake, as evidenced by two vampiric marks on her neck. The Russians fashioned a hammock out of blankets, and everyone took turns in pairs carrying the delirious translator across the busiest migration route of Turtle Island. They barely escaped numerous stampedes of mammoth bison, elk, and horses. The mud was so deep in places they ended up having to trudge along barefoot for two days straight.

A more motley group of creatures was never seen by the wildlife of Santee Lake, a name that Claire chose for the crystal clear headwaters of what Mariana's map indicated was the Niobrara River. They spent the first soggy night at the lake crammed inside the burnt out crevice of an enormous oak tree. Claire and Robin were the only two of the exhausted pilgrims to venture out the next morning. On the shore of the great lake they were amply rewarded with the most spectacular Sunrise imaginable. The psychedelic rush of colors literally brought them to their knees in awe.

"I don't know about you, but I don't think I can get up," Claire gasped, struggling then falling on her backside.

"A real mind-blower, wasn't it?" Robin said and crawled on her hands and knees to a sapling and pulled herself up. Claire followed suit. They steadied each other, laughing and trembling more from joy than the chill.

"Welcome to my happy hunting ground," she joked.

"At least now I know were not dead," Robin said and took a tentative step on her own.

"Are you sure?" Claire giggled.

"If we were, we'd be sweatin' up a storm instead of freezing our butts off."

"True believer, eh?"

"Red hot and Baptist, baby."

Their laughter echoed across the lake and beyond. When the two strays finally composed themselves, there was dead silence, not even a breeze rustled the greenish-gold canopy of the dense oak forest.

"Hear that?" Claire whispered.

"Eerie, isn't it?"

"They're checking us out."

"Who?" Robin asked, warily scanning the primeval surroundings.

"The animals, the trees...everything," Claire answered.

"Hey, y'all! Can you direct us to the nearest bed and breakfast?!" Robin yelled.

"Ssh! You'll wake the dead," Claire managed between more giggles. A cacophony of animal calls quickly sobered her up.

"Holy shit." Robin held her hands over her ears. "They sound like banshees."

"The call of the wild," Claire said.

"Right, and what are they saying?" the skeptic had to ask.

"They say `get with the program,'" Claire teased and received a poke in the ribs from her giddy companion, who then made a fast getaway down to the water's edge.

"Last one in is a rotten egg!" Robin shouted.

Claire and Robin, caked from head to toe in prairie mud, stripped and ran into the bracing pristine waters. Their boisterous frolic woke up everyone except Grace, who was in the grips of a raging fever. Loren, who wouldn't leave her side, was panicked.

"Come on, honey. You can beat this," she tearfully said, dabbing the sallow cheeks with a damp handkerchief. Misha, barely able to stand, had been out gathering various flora for a brew the resident herbalist promised would break the fever. She crawled back inside the charred cave and spoke softly to Grace. Although she couldn't understand a word, Loren knew that the Russian was deeply in love with the delirious beauty. And thanks to the magic of Rhea, the ex-newshound's own erotic notions had somehow mutated into an unconditional devotion alien to the jaded womanizer.

"I think she feels a bit cooler," Misha said in Russian, looking to Loren for validation. Grace began to mumble.

"What's she saying?" Misha asked as Loren strained to hear.

"Sssh," Loren chided and placed her ear to Grace's bluish lips. Grace faintly repeated Mariana's name, then fell into what Loren feared was a coma. She bolted from the tree cave and found Marty, who was valiantly trying to spark a fire in damp moss with a chunk of flint the Russians had brought along.

"Where's Claire?!" Loren demanded.

"She's with Robin down at the lake...having a gay old time, I suppose," Marty, never more miserable, replied with a shiver.

Loren staggered down a narrow deer path to the lake and found her lover and Robin in an intimate embrace at the water's edge. A searing pang of jealousy was mercifully overridden by the emergency at hand as she charged up to them.

"Claire! Come quick! It's Gracie...she's..oh, god.." Loren barely held it together. All three raced back to camp and found everyone except Misha in a prayer circle around the smoking fire. Claire ducked inside the tree cave and checked Grace's vitals.

"Well?" Loren grabbed her lover's arm.

"She's hypothermic. Let's get her out of these wet clothes." Misha looked away as Loren and Claire stripped Grace naked. They wrapped her in the driest blanket they could find and carried her out to the fire. A hush came over the whole group while Claire examined Grace's neck. "That's odd," she said.

"What?" Loren dreaded the answer.

"The puncture wounds are gone."

"That's good news, isn't it?" Loren said, biting her lip to keep from crying.

"She's not in a coma," Claire announced after checking Grace's pupils. "Fever's down." Everybody breathed a sigh of relief. "Just keep her warm, that's all we can do right now," Claire added. Loren sensed that the highly skilled paramedic was holding something back and pulled her aside.

"What's the whole truth?" she whispered.

"The venom had a deeply sedative effect. Without liquids, she's going to die...and soon."

"Oh, no, not my Grace." Loren choked back a sob.

"If I could fashion some kind of stomach tube, we could force some liquids into her. Otherwise, without an IV, there's nothing I can do."

Loren fell apart in Claire's arms. Misha rushed over and signed to Claire, "She is dying?!" Claire nodded. The Russian ran to Grace, scooped her limp body up in her arms, and let out a wail, which elicited an ear-shattering call from denizen wolves and coyotes. Grace stirred in Misha's arms and briefly opened her eyes.

"She's awake!" Misha cried, but was crushed when Grace once more sank into unconsciousness.

"Let's get her up and moving!" Marty shouted and rushed up to Misha. "Come on, help me walk her around the fire," she implored the devastated Amazon. At that moment, Risa, a peasant wet nurse and midwife from Odessa, stepped forward.

"Nyet! Nyet!" she scolded. She plopped down next to the fire and motioned for Marty and Misha to ease Grace across her broad lap. Everyone gathered around in tearful desperation. Risa unbuttoned her blouse and gently opened Grace's cracked lips and placed them around the milky nipple of her left breast. With a bit of priming, the nursing reflex kicked in.

The poignancy of the scene left everyone in a state of suspended animation. In the face of slack-jawed stares, the well-endowed wet nurse impatiently gestured for privacy. The Russians snapped to and gathered around Misha at the edge of camp. Marty, Loren, Claire and Robin retreated to the other side of the roaring fire and joined hands in a tight circle.

"Grace will live," Robin said.

"Blessed Be," all four said in unison.

The Americans then re-joined the Russians and in single file silently made their way down the deer path to the lake. All but Claire and Robin stripped naked and plunged into the chilly waters for a much needed bath and frolic. At midday, while clothing dried in the fierce Nebraska Sun, the naked tribe enjoyed the abundance of fruit and berries growing near the water's edge. With full bellies they began to gather deadwood for a lean-to they decided to build on a nearby point.


In the waning daylight, Misha carried Grace to the new shelter, where she'd prepared a fresh bed of dead leaves and grass.

"Thank you," Grace said, barely above a whisper.

"You being welcome," the Amazon said in her best English. "Claire and Robin caught some crawfish for dinner. Would you like some?" she asked in her native tongue.

"Sounds awful," Grace grimaced. "I'm sorry for all the trouble I've caused," she said with a wince.

"Are you in pain?"

"Just a little woozy," the seasoned stoic lied. She gazed out at the remnants of a fiery Sunset reflecting off the lake's glassy surface. "This is a beautiful setting. It reminds me of a story my mother used to read to me when I was little." In truth, her mother was never around to read her stories. Grace would make up her own and tell them to the cat.

"Tell me," Misha said, taking Grace's hand and kissing it. Grace gently pulled her hand free of the smitten Russian's grasp.

"OK. Once upon a time there was this hermit," Grace began in Russian. "She lived on a great and beautiful lake, just like this. But she was never lonely, because all the animals adored her. One day, during a storm a fisherman washed up half-dead on shore near her cottage. Because she saved his life, he fell in love with her and decided to stay. The jealous animals, however, made life so miserable for the couple that the hermit girl had to make a terrible choice. She decided to leave her beautiful home and marry the fisherman...and..." Grace trailed off, her eyelids fell to half-mast.

"How does it end?" Misha eagerly asked, brushing a wisp of blonde from Grace's eyes.

"Well, they both drowned on the way to the fishing village when a huge wave capsized their canoe. To this day, the hermit's spirit haunts forest lakes all over the world. Sometimes she takes the shape of a condor and flies among the Stars..in search...of...her lost..love." Grace nodded off.

Misha draped her heavy cloak over the woman she'd been waiting her whole life to meet and stepped outside the lean-to, where everyone was sitting around the fire. She sat down next to Claire.

"How is she?" Claire asked and signed.

"She sleeps like an angel," the Russian said and signed back with a lovesick smile on her chapped lips.

"Is Grace all right?" Loren asked Claire.

"Grace is resting. It's Misha I'm worried about," Claire whispered in her lover's ear.

"I know. She's got it bad--poor kid," Loren whispered back.

"I don't think she's slept since we left the butte. If she keeps this up, we're going to have another critical patient on our hands," Claire whispered.

"You're going to have to talk, or sign some sense into her," Loren said, not bothering to whisper.

"Leave me out of it. Besides, when it comes to Grace, you're the expert, not me." Claire vigorously stirred the large pot of crawfish boiling over the coals.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Loren asked loud enough for everyone to take notice.

Claire didn't answer. She sampled one of the crawfish and cheerily declared, "Dinner's ready! Come and get it!"

Claire busied herself with serving the catch of the day to everybody but Loren, who was left to scrape the less than appetizing dregs from the bottom of the pot. Clean-up duty added insult to injury, so when everyone else was turning in, Loren sat alone on a rock at the water's edge nursing a foul mood. Staring blankly across the silvery surface of Santee Lake, she mused, `What I wouldn't give for a juicy T-bone and a shaker of martinis.'

In lieu of alcohol, idle reminiscing about the life she'd left behind at least momentarily took the edge off. For Loren, camping was for the birds, as was living off the land, no matter how pristine and idyllic. Sure, she was grateful to be alive, but never in her wildest dreams did she expect to have to re-invent civilization in the middle of a primeval wilderness. Unlike Claire, she wasn't one for communing with bison or any other wild beast. The urbanite's idea of paradise was simple: good booze and cuisine and the occasional romp in the hay with a lusty woman.

When it came to Grace, however, confusion reigned. Touching Rhea had turned Loren's worldview on its head. Before that fateful moment, her so-called love life had been completely devoid of commitment. Commitment: a word that conjured images of snake pits and straight jackets. Her aversion had its roots in her freshman year at college, when she fell hard for an over-sexed Mormon beauty queen who secretly fed on lesbian hearts. Never again, the nineteen-year-old freshman vowed as she stood in the pouring rain underneath the sorority house window, would she slide down the slippery slopes of romantic involvement.

It took three more disastrous affairs before Loren finally made good on her vow and swore off what she came to regard as the most depraved form of masochism known to womankind: falling in love. So, at the tender age of twenty-two, she took her degree in journalism and ran with it to various hot spots around the world. For two years, the reckless young war correspondent made a name for herself happily jumping into fox holes, which she told herself was a lot safer than jumping into bed with beautiful women.

But was it masochistic to love Grace? That was the question that spun like a dervish in her mind. Her devotion to the brainy sexpert was obvious to everyone with eyes, but did it mean that she was in love with her? After the exquisite romp at the rehab center, Loren had certainly entertained notions of more of the same. But pure lust was all they'd shared, and at the time Grace clearly was the kind of lover content to keep it that way--the perfect arrangement in Loren's old world order. Yet, Risa's immodest act of nurturing sparked an ache to do the same. The beautiful truth of the matter was that Grace had come to represent the daughter the ex-war junkie never until that moment knew she wanted.

"I'll be damned!" Loren shouted and sprang from the rock. On her way to patch things up with Claire who had gone to bed angry, Loren literally ran into Misha. "Can't sleep either, huh?" she asked the moody Russian. Misha shrugged and gazed up at the Milky Way whose Stars were so bright tears could be seen gleaming in her wolfish gray eyes. Never one for beating around the bush, Loren made a point of saying, "You should know that Grace and Mariana are in love--heart and soul."
"There is no Mariana," Misha reflexively snapped in Russian.

"Don't torture yourself, my friend," Loren warned even though more than a language barrier stood between them. She had no choice but to leave the lovesick horse whisperer to stew in the agony of unrequited desire.

Inside the lean-to Loren was relieved to see Grace wrapped in a blanket and sitting up on her own.

"Can I get you anything, honey?" she asked.

"Come sit for a while, Loren," Grace said in a raspy voice. Loren knelt down beside her.

"Did you eat anything tonight?"

"I had some weird broth...and a plum."

"Well, that's a start. You sure gave us a scare," Loren said in a motherly tone and suppressed the impulse to take Grace in her arms.

"I'm such a drag," Grace sighed.

"You can't help it if sidewinders find you irresistible," Loren teased. Grace giggled.

"You should know, my friend," she teased back and raised her perfectly arched eyebrows. "How long was I out of it?"

"Four days."

"I had the most wonderful dream. Thank you, Loren."

"Why? Was I in it?"

"Thank you for taking such good care of me--I will never forget it."

"Everyone did their part, but Misha's the one you should thank."

"She's so wonderful," Grace said wistfully and pulled her knees to her chest.

"Look, Gracie. Don't take this wrong, but for the sake of group morale, I hope you have a heart-to-heart with Misha as soon as you feel up to it. She's got her head in the clouds, if you get my drift," Loren said just as the Russian stepped inside the lean-to.

Grace squeezed Loren's hand and said, "Don't worry...mommy dearest."

Loren could feel the dagger of Misha's jealousy stab her repeatedly in the back as she gave Grace a lingering goodnight hug.

"Sleep tight, honey, and make sure you get plenty of liquids," Loren said, shaking the nearly empty canteen at Grace's bedside.

After feeling her way on her hands and knees among the sleeping clan, Loren found her Claire curled in a tight ball facing the rock wall. She lay down next to her, slipped an arm around her waist, and whispered, "I'm sorry, babe." Claire rolled over to face the one woman she couldn't stop loving even if her life depended on it.

"Me too." They kissed. As the muffled sounds of make-up sex punctuated the stark silence of the balmy night, Grace held Misha close.

"There's a demon inside you," she softly said in Russian.

"I can't help it," Misha murmured, kissing Grace's hand.

"Let's go for a swim," Grace said.

Misha sat up and scolded, "So you can die of pneumonia?"

"Please, help me up." Misha refused. Grace emerged naked from her cocoon of blankets and gathered her clothes Risa had kindly laundered for her. She struggled to her feet and started to make her way down to the shore. Misha rushed to steady her, but was rebuffed. Cut to the quick, the Russian let the nymph of her dreams slip from reach.

Grace perched her clothes atop a rock and waded into the chilly waters of the Santee with her arms raised up to the faint sliver of a Moon. When her alabaster form disappeared beneath the dark waters, only her golden-haired head could be seen bobbing like a luminescent buoy in Starlight. Misha bolted towards shore, tore off her clothes, and splashed into the water. Grace shouted, "Too late...you're already a rotten egg!"

The Russian submerged and popped up just inches from her angel's glistening face.

"Gotcha!" she cried in her native tongue, tickling Grace's ribs.

"Oh, ho! You'll be sorry!" Grace shouted and tweaked Misha's rock-hard nipples.

Under a billion Stars playful abandon teased out Misha's demon; and the innocence of two childhoods tragically lost was found again.

Chapter VI

Robin never cared for her given name. A new one came to her in a dream so disturbing that every time she came close to sharing it with Marty, the words stuck in her craw. For reasons the strict empiricist couldn't articulate, she decided that her longtime lover might not truly appreciate the dream's significance. So she began to plot ways of getting time alone with the only woman who could.

It wasn't easy. Those first days at the Santee didn't allow for much down time, mostly because building permanent shelter before Winter was all-consuming for the tribe. A growing sense of urgency often found Robin pacing along the shoreline in the dead of night.

Early on, the youngest of eight had evidenced a restless nature. In fact, baby Robin's penchant for wandering gave her mother such fits she had to resort to a harness and leash fastened to the clothesline. A nomadic yearning was at the core of Robin's specialized career choice. Fifteen years as a marine expert had taken her to every continent except the one dearest to her heart: Africa. Before disaster hit, the marine biology department at the local university had chosen Dr. Walker to head up an expedition to the Madagascar coast.

The irony of ending up instead in the plains of North America would often cause her to snicker at the oddest times. When Marty asked about it, Robin would always brush it off as a private joke. And Marty's smile belied a serious concern for the mental state of her beloved.

"Something's bugging you," Marty said one morning after breakfast. Robin skipped a flat stone across the glassy lake.

"Everything's perfect," Robin said. She picked up a flat piece of obsidian and side-armed it. It skimmed the surface like a water bug.

"If you say so," Marty said, picking up any old pebble.

"That won't work," Robin said and handed Marty another disk of obsidian. "Try this." After an abysmal attempt, Marty plopped down on a nearby log and was content to watch the expert.

"We could have used your arm on the Guardian softball team last year," Marty said and got no response.

Over the years, their relationship had its share of ups and downs, so Marty, whose mind admittedly had been preoccupied with the `big picture' as she liked to call it, simply assumed Robin was feeling neglected. She made a few more attempts at conversation, but gave up when Robin just kept skipping stones as if nothing else in the world mattered.

"I'm on k.p. duty, so lets get together and talk after supper tonight. OK?" Marty gently asked. Again, no answer. With a heavy heart she gave up and headed back to camp. On her way, she ran into Claire who, homemade fishing pole and net in hand, was on a mission to snag something tastier than crawfish.

"Going for the big one, huh?" Marty said, forcing a smile.

"That’s the plan. I know he's hiding out there somewhere in that little cove." Claire pointed to a shady spot south of camp.

"Good luck. Personally, I don't want to see another crawfish as long as I live," Marty said and walked on past. When she got back to camp, she watched Claire and Robin walk slowly down the beach together. Fortunately, Marty was one of those people who could short circuit the most painful of emotions by staying on task, which that morning resulted in a mountain of firewood.


Robin happily joined in the hunt for worms along the muddy banks of a feeder stream near the cove.

"Got one!" Robin shouted, holding up a fat specimen as it writhed and stretched for freedom. Claire stepped up and snatched the bait, which she skewered onto a wooden hook Misha had artfully carved out of a piece of deadwood. "Is that thing going to work?" Robin asked, grimacing at the worm guts sliding down Claire's finger.

"Have faith, sistah," Claire playfully admonished and climbed up on the stream bank. "Bring the net over here, will ya?"

Robin joined the novice fisherwoman at the grassy edge of the dark waters. Claire raised her finger to her lips, then motioned for Robin to come closer. "Now, just hold the pole like so," she whispered and exchanged it for the crudely woven meshwork of vines that passed for a net. Claire hoped to lure a fish close enough to the surface to snag it, a plan that depended on a keen eye and the reflexes of a grizzly.

Four blown attempts later, the two women lounged lazily on the bank. Claire had wedged the pole into a crevice with its freshly baited hook floating on the placid waters.

"This is what fishing is really about," Robin sighed, chewing on a blade of grass.

"It beats the hell out of hauling boulders," Claire said.

"We'll be lucky to be out of that lean-to by Christmas."

"No kidding."

Claire watched a gigantic bird circle ever closer. "Do you think that's the same hawk we saw at base camp?" she asked, pointing and straining to see past the glare of the Sun.

"It's way bigger. This place is teeming with raptors," Robin said. At that moment, the enormous flier landed on a rock just yards away and cocked a black orb at Robin. It was a condor-like bird with an impressive multicolored topknot.

"She's sure giving you the eye," Claire chuckled and raised herself up on her elbow.

"Getting ready to pluck mine out, I'm sure," Robin nervously said, frozen in position. "And how do you know its a she?"

"Get a load of those shapely drumsticks," Claire teased. Robin wanted to make light of the situation, but when the raptor stretched its massive wings, she was ready to make a run for it. "Don't panic, kimosabe," Claire half-whispered. "I think she likes you."

"Should I offer her a worm?"

"Talk to her," Claire said in her normal voice, which distracted the raptor's one-eyed stare away from Robin.

"You talk to her. Maybe she knows Lakota."

"I don't speak Lakota."

"Didn't you speak it in the cellar back at Hecate's Cove?"

"That wasn't me," Claire mysteriously answered. Given the circumstances, Robin wasn't about to pursue the point.

"Then, try some of that sign language you and Misha are into." Claire sat up and signed something. The hawk let out a sustained blood-curdling screech.

"What exactly did you sign?" Robin nervously asked, plugging her ears.

"Just a friendly greeting," Claire chuckled.

"Ask her what she wants."

Claire signed again. The curious flier just sat there cocking its head this way and that, then resumed staring at Robin.

"See? She's only got eyes for you."

"Don't be a fool," Robin scoffed.

At that point, the raptor's stare seemed more hypnotic than threatening, so Robin decided to venture a greeting of her own. "Hello. My name is Robin Walker. What's yours?" The bird acknowledged the introduction by flapping its massive wings and jumping from its perch. Twigs and dirt flew everywhere. "Sweet Jesus!" Robin shouted, protecting her eyes from the flying debris.

Claire, who'd ducked behind a shrub, laughed, "I don't think he can help you with this one."

"This isn't my idea of fun. Let's go back to camp," Robin said and started slowly backing away on her hands and knees. The raptor strutted towards her. "Shit. What do I do now?"

"Try standing up," Claire instructed.

"Won't that make her more upset?"

"What do you have to lose?" Claire had a point. Robin, otherwise known for her gentle ways with animals, grabbed a nearby rock and threatened to throw it at the feathered giant.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Claire yelled.

Inside a cloud of dust and debris, the hawk levitated high up in a nearby oak tree, where she continued to eye the object of her unwavering curiosity. Thinking the bird was preparing to swoop down and carry her away in those massive talons, Robin dropped the rock and ducked into a thicket just as the fishing pole bent into a hairpin. It nearly snapped in two before Claire could grab hold.

The cove became a boiling cauldron. Suddenly, a magnificent rainbow trout shot like a missile a good five feet out of the water. The crude hook tore at the corner of the fish's gaping mouth as he twisted in the air. When he dove to the bottom of the cove, the pole snapped.

"Robin! The net!" Claire shouted, holding for dear life to the fishing line the loaned her. Robin bolted from the thicket, scooped up the netting, and slid over the bank into the churning water. The fish, a good four feet long, launched itself once more into the air and fell squarely into the middle of the netting she'd managed to spread across the surface just in time.

Claire jumped in and together they wrapped the vine meshing around the angry catch of the day. On the count of three, they threw him up onto the bank where he violently flopped around until Claire couldn't stand it anymore and stunned him with a rock. The lucky duo watched in amazement as the huge fish came to, struggled mightily, and finally gave up the ghost. The dead trout's glassy stare prompted Robin to glance up into the oak tree, where the premier fisher of Santee Lake quietly roosted.

"My name is Ananza!" she announced and was strangely unembarrassed. The raptor's response resembled a rooster's crow as it flapped its wings and took off across the lake. While Claire got busy and gill-skewered the biggest trout she ever saw onto a deadwood branch, Robin tried but failed to make scientific sense out of what had just transpired. Claire, who'd clearly heard Robin's declaration, didn't say a word about it. "Let's get this baby back to camp," she said, lifting one end of the crooked branch. Robin picked up her end and gladly helped carry the grandfather rainbow back to a stunned and hungry clan.

More wood was fed to the fire and the fish was placed on a bed of hot rocks to bake under a mound of coals. After the fabulous feast, Robin joined Claire, Loren, Misha and two other Russians for an evening stroll along one of the many small streams that fed the great lake. As it turned out, Misha was eager to show Claire some prime birch trees.

"Just because I'm half Lakota doesn't mean I know how to make a canoe," Claire half-joked, signing to Misha. The Russian laughed and signed back that her two engineer friends could easily do the job.

"Now, all we need is a couple of beavers," Loren quipped, draping an arm around her lover, who refused to sign the lame joke to Misha. The clue-less engineers laughed anyway, just to be polite. They, then demonstrated how easily they could make razor-sharp cutting tools from the plentiful supply of obsidian.

"Well, then, what could be more romantic than Moonlight paddles around the lake?" Loren quipped sarcastically. Nobody laughed.

"I can see some practical advantages," Robin offered, to end the awkward silence. "For one thing, it pays to know the lay of the land. Sooner or later we're going to run out of resources on our little chunk of paradise."

"We're not going to be here that long," Loren said with authority.

"How do you know?" Robin countered.

"Call it a cynic’s intuition."

"Wishful thinking is more like it," Claire teased.

"If only we'd landed in Tanzania," Robin sighed.

After Claire signed the comment, Misha signed back, "We must never forget the horses."

"There you go again with that horse shit," Loren sneered after Claire translated. "Why do you speak in riddles?"

After Claire signed the question, the Russian signed a quick retort, "It's all written in the journal."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah...the genesis thing. Demented rambling of a sex-starved mystic," Loren shot back.

"Let me ask you, my friend. Where would us moderns be without the horse?" Misha said, folding her sinewy arms across her chest.

"Happily living in the trees?" Loren laughingly replied after translation.

"OK, that's it," Claire made the time-out sign,, a gesture no one could misinterpret. "If you two want to argue, go find Grace."

"What language is the journal written in?" Luka, one of the engineers asked Misha, who signed the question to Claire, who grudgingly translated.

"Swahili," Robin said with an air of certainty that surprised herself more than anyone else.

"Not hardly," Loren snorted. "Grace says it's Sanskrit," she added, just to be argumentative.

"Swahili is the root of all language," Robin instantly countered.

"Why, Dr. Walker, I had no idea you were a linguist on top of all your other talents," Loren said with unmistakable venom.

"There's plenty you have no idea about," Robin shot back. "And FYI, my name is Ananza." Everyone stared at the learned Dr. Walker as if she’d sprouted horns and a tail. "My ancestors are Nasai," she announced with pride and headed down the trail at a brisk walk. Claire caught up with her out of earshot from the others.

"Hold up," she said breathlessly. Robin a.k.a. Ananza did not slow her pace. "That thing with the hawk today...I can't stop thinking about it."

"So?"

"Hooking that fish was more than luck, wasn't it?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Robin snapped, picking up the pace to a jog. Claire grabbed her by the arm.

"Stop running from yourself," she gasped.

Robin heaved a big sigh and leaned against the nearest tree. Folding her dark sinewy arms across her chest, she asked, "Can you keep a secret?"

"It depends," Claire answered, trying to catch her breath.

"Forget it," Robin snapped and stomped off again.

"Dammit, Robin!" Claire chased her down and caught her by the arm again. "What I mean is we have to think of the group. Secrets can hurt us."

"I thought you were on my side--I was wrong."

"Look. You're not the only one who knows what it's like to..." Claire stopped short of the truth.

"Go ahead--say it," Robin said with a chip the size of a two-by-four on her shoulder.

"To live in a pale-faced world," the Lakota Swede uttered, fully expecting a fight or flight. To her relief, Robin plopped down on the serpentine root of a mammoth oak. "There's another group of Americans in Africa," she said.

Claire sat down beside her. "What group?"

"They jumped from Raven's Bluff just before we did."

"How do you know they're in Africa?"

Robin took a couple of deep breaths.

"This is between you and me, right?" Claire nodded, her blue eyes dilated from an odd mix of dread and delight.

"I had this dream that first night in Hecate's Cove. I dreamt about Africa, the Serengeti to be exact. Our mission depends on what happens there, and I want to be a part of it," Robin explained in a tremulous voice. "When I read that part of Mariana's journal about the Zebras I had this incredible deja vu. I didn't know exactly why, but then I slowly put it all together with the dream. I know where I need to be---and it sure as sin ain't Nebraska." Claire chuckled and took Robin's hand.

"But weren't all those women who jumped before us white?"

"Chances are, but the point is they're in the minority now. I figure they need a bridge between them and the Nasai."

"And that's you?"

"Right on."

"Who are the Nasai?"

"The aboriginal peoples of the Great African Rift."

"How do you plan on getting to Africa--on your broomstick?"

"I'll just have to sprout wings," Robin chuckled and flapped her arms. Claire felt Robin's forehead.

"Have you been eating those mushrooms Risa found the other day?"

"No, have you?"

"Hell, no."

"Someday, Claire, I'll fill you in on all the details of the dream, but right now I just need you to tell me I'm not crazy."

"After what we've been through, I think we're all certifiable."

"Say it," Robin urged, grasping Claire's arm.

"You're the sanest person I know." The two confidantes hugged. "But what about Marty?" Claire asked.

Robin bit her lip and took in another stunning Sunset.

"She'll understand--she has to. Tell me what do you know about shape-shifting?" Before Claire could respond the rest of the group rounded the bend.

Loren strode up and pulled her lover to her feet. "Everything OK here?" she asked Robin, who glared.

"A-OK?" Claire nervously replied