Dawn Flindt - The Man From Forever

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—

With a scream that sent a bolt of fear through her, it wheeled away, disappearing in a matter of seconds. Still shaken, she waited to see if it would return, but it must have decided that a mouse or snake would taste better. After longer than she cared to admit, she dismissed the bird and its unusual behavior and went back to her history lesson.

Captain Jack, she thought with a grim smile. The Modoc chief had had an Indian name, but she couldn’t remember it. From the pictures she’d seen of him, he looked like a peaceful enough man, but something had snapped inside him and his followers, and they’d gone to war against the United States Army, although she doubted he’d known the sum of what he’d been up against. Still, in 1873, after years of coexistence with whites, the Modocs of his time hadn’t been primitive savages, nothing like the cultures she studied as an anthropologist.

What brought the eagle back to mind she couldn’t say. Maybe because on a subconscious level she’d been asking herself how far the Modocs had come from their prehistoric beliefs. Surely they’d no longer perceived eagles and other creatures as gods.

There was, she admitted, a fine line to be walked between giving primitive people’s beliefs the respect they deserved and not laughing over the notion of coyotes who told tall tales, snakes that were thought to be immortal because they shed their skins, warning children not to harm a frog for fear of causing the closest stream to dry up. Despite six years of studying and working with Dr. Grossnickle, she’d been unable to determine to her satisfaction what had given birth to such legends. Certainly she understood early people’s need to make order out of the uncertainties of their lives, but talking animals or the belief that the Modoc creator went around disguised as an old crone… Well, to each his own. She’d talk the talk; she knew she had to do that if she intended to keep her job. But beyond that…well, let’s get real.

Still, she admitted as she moved on to the next marker, there was something about standing on the actual land in question that made logic and professional dispassion a little hard to hold on to. Thinking of everything the Modocs had lost, she stared at the magnificent nothingness of land that stretched out around her. Except for the trail and occasional markings, the stronghold hadn’t changed.

That’s why she’d come out here before visitors started arriving, so she could more easily capture the essence of that earlier time. She began walking again, a slow gait that hopefully diminished the likelihood of losing her footing. Although it took some doing, she managed to read a little more from the brochure. She was surprised to learn that the naturally fortified stronghold itself was little more than a half mile in diameter. The land for as far as she could see was so awesomely vast and rugged that where the Modocs had entrenched themselves seemed larger than it really was. Back then, Tule Lake had dominated the area to the north while most of the south was barren volcanic rock. The chance of sneaking up on the Modocs—

A sound overhead caused her to again stare at the sky. She spotted what she thought must be the same eagle silhouetted against the blueing sky, but this time it was far enough away that she didn’t feel uneasy. “What do you see up there?” she asked. “Are your eyes keen enough that you can spot the Golden Gate Bridge?”

Looking as if it weighed no more than a feather, the great bird dipped one wing. Sunlight caught the tip and gave her an impression of glistening black. “Forget the Golden Gate. You don’t want to get any closer to civilization than this. And if you stay up there, the two of us are going to get along just fine.”

As if taking her suggestion to heart, the bird floated away. When she looked around, thinking to reorient herself, the stronghold seemed to have lost a little of its definition. It was, she thought, as if night had decided to return. After blinking a few times, she dispelled that possibility, but the wind had picked up and the sound it made coated her thoughts, allowed her to dismiss everything she’d experienced in her life before this moment.

Not only that, she could almost swear she was no longer alone.

There was such a thing as too much solitude, Tory told herself a half hour later. You’d think that a person who could see so far that she was aware of the earth’s curve wouldn’t be looking over her shoulder.

Only, it wasn’t just the aloneness, and she knew it, damn it. Something—someone—was watching her. It could be the eagle, a rabbit, maybe even one of the antelope she understood made their home in the park.

“Say,” she whispered because she didn’t want to disturb the lizard staring at her from a rock. “Whoever you are, I don’t suppose you brought some coffee with you, did you?”

Silence, but then she didn’t really expect any different.

According to the pamphlet, she should be approaching one of the dance rings the Modocs had used during their shamanistic rituals, but because she’d veered off the trail while seeking the best vantage point to study Captain Jack’s wide, shallow cave, it took a little while to orient herself. She’d been right; it was going to be a clean day. Clean and clear and utterly beautiful in the way of a sky unspoiled by pollution. Just the same, she couldn’t help but be a little uneasy.

Grass grew between the large rocks that had been placed in a crude circle over a hundred and twenty years ago. She tried to imagine what the spot looked and sounded like back when the shaman—Curly Headed Doctor, the pamphlet said—strung red rope around the stronghold and then sang and danced through the night to ensure that his magic remain powerful.

A red rope to hold back an army. How simplistic. She’d seen a picture of the shaman and had been surprised by how young and untested he appeared, but apparently most, if not all, of the tribe had believed in him—at least they had until the army trampled his rope.