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The Man From Forever
Dawn Flindt
OUT OF THE MISTS OF TIMEWhen she first came to the sacred tribal land in the California wilderness, anthropologist Tory Kent paid little heed to the tales of a mystical warrior keeping watch there. But then a dark figure appeared through the mists before her–and suddenly the unimaginable became reality. Wherever–whenever–he had come from, the one called Loka was truly a man, and he awakened a need within Tory that could scarcely be denied. For he had returned, after a century in the shadows, to claim her–the woman destiny had promised only to him. Though entangled by undeniable passion, each walked a path seemingly impossible to weld together. For Tory was tied to the present. And Loka was bound by an age-old promise to protect his people's legacy…even at the cost of his own life.
“LOKA, I FELT SOMETHING THAT FIRST DAY.”
He shrugged, the gesture low and studied. If he’d thrown a thousand words at her, the impact couldn’t have been greater. She would never say there was a vulnerability to him, but something—maybe it was the loneliness he’d endured since his awakening—was etched on every line of his body. She was the first human being who’d touched him in six months—no, in more than a hundred years.
Thinking of nothing except putting an end to that, she slipped closer.
He watched her, his beautiful eyes seeing things in her she knew no one else ever had. I’ve been alone, too, she said with her heart.
His powerful fingers closed over her wrist and drew her close, closer, gentle despite his strength. Silence coated the air between them and yet she knew.
He wanted her.
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the wild, windblown world of the Lava Beds in Northern California, the location for The Man from Forever. More than a hundred and thirty years ago, the Modoc Indians fled a reservation and found shelter in the caves created by ancient volcanic eruption.
Although their battle is over, the area has been made into a national landmark. When I went there, I gave myself over to the quiet beauty of a stark land untouched by progress—a land where the spirits of those brave people wait to touch and be touched. I knew I had to write about a warrior capable of facing great danger as he bridges time and space and the woman who takes him from loneliness to fulfillment.
I hope you enjoy reading that warrior’s story as much as I loved writing it. I’d love to hear from you at vmunn@attglobal.net.
Sincerely,
Vella Munn
The Man from Forever
Vella Munn
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Although Loka and Tory are fictional characters,
The Land of Burned Out Fires and
the Modoc Indians are real.
Located in Northern California,
the Lava Beds National Monument stands as a testament to
the resourceful Native Americans who once made that
fascinating land their home.
I am honored to dedicate this book to the spirit,
the essence, of those people.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Prologue
The warrior’s body woke, one slow, gliding movement at a time. He became aware of sound—a distant, half-remembered whisper of wind sliding its restless way over the land. He remembered—remembered closing himself in the cave’s darkness beside his dying son, swallowing the shaman’s bitter potion, feeling strength flow out of his body, losing control of his thoughts. Losing the thoughts themselves.
How long ago had that been?
He lay on the bear pelt he’d spread on the ground for his forever sleep. The air moving almost imperceptibly over his naked body felt warm, yet not quite alive—ancient air. He was in Wa’hash, the most sacred of places.
Strength flowed into his war-honed muscles. He gave thanks to Eagle for the power in his body. Cho-ocks the shaman had been wrong. The mix of ground geese bone, bunchgrass and other things unknown hadn’t ended him after all. He couldn’t stay in the underworld with his son; something—or was it someone?—had brought him back.
Back to empty-bellied children, despairing women and men ready for battle.
The anger that had fed him and his chief and the others during that cruel-cold winter of 1873 returned in powerful waves. They were Maklaks—the Modocs—proud people living on land given to them by Kumookumts, their creator. The white skins had had no right to bring their cattle and horses and fences here. The army had had no right to force them to live on a reservation with their enemy, the Klamath. But those things had happened.
Sitting, he tried to hold on to his anger, but his body tightened into a brief, pain-filled knot. He breathed through it, kneaded his calves and thighs, then forced himself to stand. His belly felt utterly empty, his flesh unwashed, but those things didn’t matter. Soon his eyes would make the most of the sliver of light coming in through the small opening.
Another kind of hunger touched him with hot, familiar fingers. It pulled him away from urgent questions about what had brought him back to life. His manhood signaled a message that he’d learned to master during the long, cold months of hiding and fighting. Either he’d forgotten how to keep need reined in or something was—
Something or someone.
Like a wolf after a scent, he left his son’s bones and went in search of light, taking with him the knife his grandfather’s grandfather had created from the finest black rock. His legs unerringly led him down the narrow tunnel that led to the surface and, hopefully, understanding. When he reached the place where surface and tunnel met, he picked up the ladder, but the rawhide that held the wood in place was dry and brittle. Although he had never cowered from an enemy’s bullet, he shuddered now. It took many seasons for rawhide to become useless.
After freeing the sturdiest pole, he used it to shove aside the rock that covered the hole. Then he sprang upward, hooked his hands over the rocky ground and pulled himself up. Bright sunlight assaulted his eyes. The wind brought with it the sweet, endless smell of sage, and for a moment he believed that nothing had changed. Peace didn’t last long enough.
The enemy.
Cautious, he rose to a low crouch. The Land Of Burned Out Fires was as it had always been, stark and yet beautiful, home to the Maklaks, rightful place of things sacred and ancient. He could see nearly as far as he could run in a long day, the horizon a union of sky and earth. Knife gripped in fingers strong enough to build a fine tule canoe, he balanced his weight on his powerful thighs and spun in a slow circle. Shock sliced into him, almost making him bellow.
The mother lake that had always fed his people had shrunk! Shock turned into rage, then beat less fiercely as the emotion that had brought him out here reasserted itself.
The enemy.
Only, if he could believe his senses, this unknown thing wasn’t a soldier or settler. The knowledge tore at his belief in who and what he was in a way that had never happened before. The morning the army had set fire to the tribe’s winter village, he’d felt as if the energy of a thousand volcanoes had been unleashed inside him. This, too, was a volcano—heat and fire.
Sucking in air, he forced himself to seek the source of the heat. For a heartbeat he thought he’d spotted a deer or antelope, but his keen eyesight soon brought him the truth.
A woman was out there, so far away that he could tell little about her except that she was unarmed, lean and long, graceful. She walked alone, stepping carefully and yet effortlessly over lava rock and around brush sharp enough to tear flesh.
The enemy, this woman?
She stopped, head cocked and slightly uplifted. Her arms remained at her side, yet there was a tension to them that struck a familiar chord inside him. He viewed the world of his childhood and his ancestors’ childhood through untrusting eyes. She was doing the same, trying to make sense of something that kept itself hidden from her.
Let her be afraid.
He slipped around rocks and bunchgrass until he was close enough that if he had bow and arrow, he could bring her down. She was too skinny to survive a harsh winter, and yet he found something to his liking about that. He imagined her under him, arms and legs in constant motion. She would wrap herself around him, nipping, digging her fingers into his back until the volcano she’d turned him into exploded. She’d absorb his energy, share hers with him, her cries echoing in the distance.
Angry, he forced away the dangerous thought. This was no willing Maklaks maiden. The strange woman wore clothes he’d never seen, her sturdy shoes made from an unknown material. She didn’t belong here, was so stupid that she stood alone and vulnerable on land fought over by Indian and white.
Didn’t belong here? Yes, her bare arms didn’t know what it meant to be assaulted by winter cold and summer heat, and yet she looked around her with wanting and loneliness, her eyes and soft mouth telling him of the turmoil inside her, tapping a like unrest inside him. Had her emotions reached him somehow and pulled him from the place where he believed he would spend eternity?
Why?
Chapter 1
Six months later
Home.
No, not home, but understanding, maybe.
It was going to be a glorious day—hot but unbelievably clean—the kind of day that made a person glad to be alive and put life into perspective. At least it did if that person had a handle on herself. On that thought, Victoria—Tory—Kent opened her car door and stepped out. Although night shadows still covered the land, the birds were awake. Their songs filled the air and made her smile.
This land was so deceptively desolate, miles and miles of blackened rock. When she’d first seen the Lava Beds National Monument of Northern California, her impression had been that the country was a harsh joke, a massive, lifeless testament to the power of volcanic eruption and little more. But it wasn’t lifeless after all. She would have to share it with other visitors and park personnel. At least it was too early for anyone else to be at the parking lot near the site that had been named Captain Jack’s Stronghold, after the rebel Modoc chief who once lived here. For a little while, her only companions would be the deer and birds and antelope and scurrying little animals that somehow found a way to sustain themselves on the pungent brush and scraggly trees that found the lava-strewn earth, if not rich, at least capable of sustaining life.
A distant glint of light caught her attention, pulling her from the persistent and uneasy question of what she was doing here when the opportunity of a lifetime waited on the Oregon coast. Concentrating, she realized that the rising sun had lit distant Mount Shasta. Although it was June, snow still blanketed the magnificent peak. This morning, the snow had taken on a rosy cast, which stood out in stark contrast to the still-dark, still-quieted world she’d entered.
What was it she’d read? That the Modocs who once roamed this land, and who had murdered her great-great-grandfather, considered Shasta sacred. Looking at it now, she understood why.
“Are you still around, spirits?” she muttered softly, not surprised that she’d spoken aloud. Ever since her too-brief visit last winter, the isolated historic landmark had remained on her mind—although haunted might be a more appropriate term.
While at work, she’d managed to keep her reaction to herself, but no one was watching her today. In fact, even her boss, the eminent and famous anthropologist Dr. Richard Grossnickle, didn’t know what she was doing. She’d tell him once she joined him at the Alsea Indian village site, maybe.
After making sure she had her keys with her, she locked her car and started up the narrow paved path that would take her through the stronghold, one of the high points of the monument and where some one hundred and fifty Modoc men, women and children had spent the winter of 1873. She’d taken no more than a half-dozen steps before turning to look back at her car for reassurance. It was the only vehicle in the parking lot, the only hunk of metal and plastic and rubber amid miles and miles of nothing. Behind the car lay a surprisingly smooth grassland and beyond that the faint haze that was Tule Lake. The grasses, she knew, existed because years ago much of the lake had been drained to create farmland out of the rich lake bottom.
Ahead of her—
The land tumbled over on itself, a jumble of hardened lava, hardy sagebrush, surprisingly fragrant bitterbrush, ice-gray rabbitbrush. The plants’ ability to find enough soil for rooting here made her shake her head in wonder. She knew they provided shelter for all kinds of small animals and hoped her presence wouldn’t disturb the creatures.
It probably would. After all, this time of day—fragile dawn—belonged to those who lived and died here, not to intruders like herself. Intruder? If your ancestor had fought and died here, his blood soaking into the earth, did that give you some kind of claim to the land?
Was that why she hadn’t been able to shake it from her mind and had to come back? Because she had some kind of genetic tie to this place?
After a short climb, she found herself at the end of the paved area. Day was emerging in degrees, as if one layer after another was being lifted to reveal more and more detail. From the relative distance of the parking lot, the stronghold had looked like nothing more than a brush-covered rise, but she’d reached the top and was fast learning that depth and distance here obeyed different rules. One minute she was walking on level ground with nothing except weeds to obscure her view. Then, after no more than a dozen or so steps, she’d dropped into a lava-defined gully. The rocky sides trapped her, held her apart from all signs and thoughts of civilization.
There’d been a box filled with pamphlets at the beginning of the trail, and after depositing her twenty-five cents, she’d taken one of them. A wooden post with a white number 1 on it corresponded to a paragraph in the pamphlet. She was standing at the site of what had been a Modoc defense outpost. From strategic places like this one, the Indians had been able to keep an eye on the army. As a result, a fighting force of no more than sixty warriors had held off close to a thousand armed soldiers for five months.
A stronghold. It was aptly named.
As the day’s first warmth reached her, she stopped walking and concentrated so she could experience everything. In her mind, it was that fateful winter. Settlers had been living in the area for years, slowly, irrevocably encroaching on land that had always belonged to the Indians.
A fort had been built some miles away and the Modocs and Klamaths had been forced onto an uneasily shared reservation. Some of the Modocs under the leadership of Captain Jack had fled and taken up residence on the other side of Tule Lake. When the army, charged with recapturing the rebels, attacked one frozen dawn, the Modocs had scrambled into their canoes and paddled across the lake to take refuge here in what they’d called The Land Of Burned Out Fires.
Peace talks had been tried, and tried. Thanks to indecision on the part of the government and opposition from the Modocs, it had taken months to decide who would try to wrangle out some kind of settlement. Her great-great-grandfather, a distinguished veteran of the Civil War and commander of the troops stationed here, had been a member of that commission. On April 11, 1873, General Canby had been killed a few miles away, the only true general to die during the struggle.
Such a simple scenario. Wrongs committed on both sides. Forceful, clashing egos. An impenetrable hiding place. A hellish winter for everyone. Her ancestor’s blood spilled on nearly useless land.
The birds hadn’t stopped their gentle songs. Occasionally, they were interrupted by a crow’s strident call that made her smile. The wind had barely been moving when she arrived, but it was increasing, an uneven push of air that sent the brush and grasses to murmuring. She wondered what it had been like to be surrounded by little more than crows and other birds and wind for five months, to constantly listen for the sounds of the enemy. Thanks to the correspondence between Alfred Canby and Washington officials, she had a fair idea of what that winter had been like for the army troops, and looking at the land now she could understand why so many had deserted.
It hadn’t been that easy for the Modocs. They couldn’t leave.
Something in the sky distracted her. Looking up, she spotted an eagle floating in great, free circles over her. Not for the first time, she thought that birds had an ideal life. If it wasn’t for mealtime, she wouldn’t mind being an eagle. To spend one’s days playing with the wind, drifting high above the earth like a free-spirited, tireless hang glider, unconcerned about taxes, an aging car, job politics… Her contemplation of the eagle became more intense when she realized it was slowly but steadily coming closer. She could now make out the details of its proud white head, imagine its sharp eyes were focused on her. Were there such things as rabid eagles? Surely the creature hadn’t mistaken her for breakfast, had it?
Its circles became tighter, more focused until she had absolutely no doubt that she was what held its attention. Those talons would make short work of her cotton shirt and the flesh beneath. Her car keys were no match against its killing weapons. To be attacked by a bird of prey—
