Accidental Mystic

Accidental

Mystic

a novel by

Sharon Heller

Published by

Thrivalism Press

Austin TX

Smashwords Edition

Accdental Mystic

©Sharon Heller, 2010

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Part I

Chapter 1: Stuck in a Rut

Michael was hopelessly stuck. He tried gunning the engine, rocking the Jeep back and forth until he could smell rubber burning. He cussed up and down while using every trick he’d learned from living through nineteen Colorado winters, on both the eastern and the western slopes. But nothing was working.

He stepped out on the running board, calculated how far he had to leap to get beyond the mud. Umph. He landed with both feet in a mostly successful jump, catching just the edge of the ditch and splashing mud on his pants with scattered spots on his shirt.

The Wrangler looked mottled brown, its bright red color mostly obscured a good two feet up the body, with polka dots of mud all the way to the roof. Walking around to the back, there was not a dry place behind it where he could perch and push. He stepped forward reluctantly, sinking shin deep in thick muck and felt the cold ooze embrace him as he positioned himself behind the Jeep to push, knowing full well that it was totally useless, but feeling compelled to do it anyway.

The mud was cold. The chill crept up his legs to his back and arms and then up his neck. The air temperature was shifting downward and as late as it was in the afternoon, it was only going to get colder—how cold, he didn’t know. The weather might hold, but the clouds looked full of snow. Foreboding and misery settled upon him. Not having planned a trip into the wilderness, he hadn’t brought boots, a change of clothes, a warm jacket, food, or any survival gear other than some extra water and the small tools he always kept in the Jeep.

He swore curses non-stop for another ten minutes making his voice hoarse but not making his Jeep any less stuck. He didn’t know exactly where he was, only that he had gone more than ten miles down a dirt trail headed towards the West Elk Wilderness area of the Gunnison National Forest for an assignment on the cattle industry, following the animals’ journey from ranch to market. His editor had promised him a series of at least three front-page spreads in the Lifestyle section of The Western Mountain News, the newspaper for which he had worked nearly fourteen years.

The sign that pointed to Bureau of Land Management property appeared suddenly in the corner of his eye; and without thinking, he had turned a hard, fast left up the trail, wheels squealing, spewing rocks and dust clouds, off to where he supposed he would find cowboys and cattle herds. Twenty minutes later, he still hadn’t seen another BLM sign, nor found what he was looking for; so he drove a little further. Having gone that far, he didn’t want to give up. Just a little bit more, he said aloud. Then the tires had slipped on ice and the Jeep landed off-kilter in a mud and slush-filled ditch.

He knew well enough that four-wheel drive vehicles can be deceptively tricky because they can go almost anywhere, up into the tundra, across creeks and small rivers, and plow through incredibly rough spots. Some people get a little crazy and act as if they are in an army tank, not a Jeep. He preferred to think of it as some people and not himself, even though that’s what he’d just done—behaved as though he was twelve feet tall and bullet-proof, just the way he acted when he was a pimply-faced teenager who believed he could do anything and get away with it.

Even as the terrain became rougher, full of boulders, furrows and pits, as the elevation climbed, and the snow and ice that mixed with slush was clearly visible, already causing the tires to spin and slip in places, he had pushed on, ignoring the inner voice that repeatedly urged, Michael, it’s time to turn back now. He hadn’t turned around because four-wheeling was the most fun he’d had in a very long time and it made him feel young, because he wanted a scoop, and because he was just plain stubborn. The mature inner voice would have killed the adventure and made him feel like he was becoming old, weak and, God forbid, boring.

Ugh, he thought, still standing there in the muck with nothing else to do but think. The mature man should have won the argument and not the impetuous teenager. He couldn’t see a way out of this mess. Upset with himself, he could feel the blood pressure throbbing in his head. He would have gladly kicked himself.

Each time he tried to move his feet, he seemed to sink deeper. That sinking mirrored the internal feelings of helplessness also pulling on him. He was deep in his own troubled thoughts when he sensed danger. Startled, his heart pounding, it became suddenly and painfully clear how completely vulnerable he was. He flinched. Looking up, he was at first astounded and then perplexed to see a small, older woman standing about three feet from him. The breath that he had involuntarily been holding escaped slowly and his focus softened, relieved that it was not the bear or mountain lion his imagination had swiftly supplied. If she had been a wild animal, he would have been dinner by now.

Confusion replaced fear. This was a wild place, an unlikely place for meeting anyone, especially a short, gray-haired, wrinkled woman. She stood on a dry patch of ground, staring silently and intently at him. He hadn’t seen her approach. He had heard her steps only when she was practically on top of him. She had approached so quietly, she could have been an apparition. It was hard to believe any living person—other than a fool like him, he thought dejectedly—would be out here, now. But there she was with her walking-stick in hand. A large Samoyed stood placidly by her side, his paws colored an unnatural grayish-brown against his naturally all-white fur.

Out of the blue and somewhat under her breath, she muttered with a tinge of irritation, Humanoid. It was loud enough that he heard it, but all she said directly to him was, Problem?

I’m stuck, he blurted.

I can see that, she replied tersely.

Can you help me? He heard the words coming out of his own mouth. He couldn’t believe he’d put himself in a position that required him to ask for the help of this little old woman who had appeared out of nowhere, was probably twenty-five to thirty years his senior and at least a head shorter. What was she going to do for him?

He thought at first that she had whispered an answer to his unasked question, but looking up at her, she was stone-faced and silent. It would only be much later that he would acknowledge that even then he knew the inner whisper was real and that he was unable to listen to it yet. He was nowhere near being ready or able to acknowledge the truth that this woman (whom he would come to know simply as Rose) was going to change his entire life.

Right then, she was still just an old woman, an odd stranger; and he didn’t know what she could possibly do for him. Would he ask her to walk through the mud and get into the Jeep and steer while he pushed? She certainly wasn’t going to push while he steered. His request for help, he knew, was as impulsive and useless as his decision to drive up the trail. What had gotten into him today? He couldn’t think of any way she could really help, so why was he asking?

Meanwhile, she answered him in a matter–of–fact and surprisingly respectful tone, given her earlier humanoid crack, exacerbated by what he considered to be his own dumb-as- a-rock comments. Nope…. don’t have a truck…. Even if I did, it’s too tricky with this road to try to get you out of that ditch….. don’t have a phone either….don’t even have electricity. It’s between eleven and twelve miles back down the trail and there’s nothing but National Forest and wilderness up ahead. You can start walking back towards town now, but it’ll be slow going. On a good day in good shoes it would probably take you two and a half hours, if you’re fast; maybe three hours, if you’re not. Watch out for the muddy spots. Step in one of those and they can pull those new shoes of yours right off your feet while you’re struggling to get out. But you already know that, don’t you?

Was she deliberately taunting him? He hadn’t yet registered her reference to the new shoes that she could not have seen. She raised the varnished, golden-colored, carved, wooden walking stick and held it out horizontally. He grabbed the end and she held tight as he pulled against the draw of the mud that with the increasing cold was rapidly thickening into a cement-like substance. It made sucking noises as he attempted to extract his feet. Damn, he said aloud. His feet slipping out of his shoes, he had to sink back into the mud three times in order not to lose the inappropriate and expensive dress shoes. By the fourth attempt he finally figured out that by gripping them with his toes they would stay on his feet. He clenched so tightly that his feet cramped, but he successfully freed them one at a time and side-stepped the mud hole.

Jeesh! It was part out-breath, part exclamation.

She looked down at what had been shiny shoes only a few minutes earlier. They were fine leather, made-for-the-city shoes now covered in thick mud. Then shifting her perspective and looking up to the sun, she said, It’s already late in the afternoon. You’d better get going. The sun goes behind the mountains early and it gets mighty cold out here. She paused, adding, It’s not going to be comfortable walking in those shoes. Right after she said that she let out a puff of air that sounded like a shortened laugh. Then she quipped, I sure wouldn’t want to walk a mile in those shoes….let alone eleven.

Then without a good-bye or a parting gesture, she started to walk away. He hadn’t a second to gather his thoughts. She gave him no opportunity to reply, though no reply had come to him anyway. He froze in place. Doubts about what it would be like walking back to town in the approaching darkness and cold held him there. Prone to upper respiratory infections his whole life, memories of vaporizers and doctors ran through his mind. Facing three, maybe even more hours of walking in pants and shoes made heavy with mud, through the cold, wet night, with only the light-weight windbreaker he had on would probably land him in bed for days, if not weeks, with rounds of antibiotics.

He watched as the small woman slowly inched further and further away and his reporter’s curiosity kicked in. Where the hell was she going anyway? He called out to her, What are you doing out here in the wilderness by yourself?

She turned slightly. I’m not by myself, she replied in a quiet and reasonable voice that he could hear despite the thirty-or-so feet she had already put between them. I’m with my dog, Buddy.

How are you getting out?

I’m not going anywhere. I live here.

He looked all around, turning left and right, rotating not quite a full 360 degrees without moving from the spot. He peered into the distance. He didn’t see any homes, no buildings at all, no sign of human habitation, just mountains, mud, snow, dirt, rock, bare trees, evergreens, dried grasses and cloudy sky. It was all he had time to take in. She was still walking away.

Where? he demanded. The question sounded stupid in own ears and the tone revealed to him and, therefore, undoubtedly to her as well, that he was annoyed. He immediately covered himself by asking, Aren’t you afraid of wild animals? It was a knee-jerk question and he blushed, turning his slightly wind-burnt skin even redder. He thought to himself, I’m a reporter for god’s sake! Can’t I ask a damn decent question?

No. She answered simply, answering his question about her being afraid of animals, ignoring his question about her dwelling place. It confused him for a moment because he’d already moved a question beyond in his own mind. He was back on track after she hesitated briefly and added, People scare me sometimes.

Do you see many people out here? He realized that he was now interviewing her; and the idea leaped at him that maybe he’d get a story out of this mess and it wouldn’t be a total waste after all.

No, I don’t usually see anybody. You’re the first I’ve seen since…. Looking up as if to access a memory, her voice drifted off, leaving that sentence incomplete and finishing it instead with, ….humanoid sightings are rare in these parts…. Except for the Forest Ranger, I haven’t seen a soul for months.

She turned, walking away again, picking up her pace. He had to trot quickly—not an easy thing to do in his heavily mud-soaked shoes—to get close enough behind her to hear her say, Another four-wheeler got stuck just like you almost in the same place about the same time last year, during the early spring thaw. It took two trucks, a winch and three guys to get him out of there. That is a particularly nasty turn in the road, between those two dipping curves. It’s like a bog during the thaw season and stays like that until late spring, sometimes even into summer, because not much sunlight can get down in here. If I remember right, they didn’t tow him out until….. She paused for thought and then added, ….don’t exactly remember, but it was a good while. Don’t suppose anyone’s going to come up here any time soon to get you out either. What are you doing up here anyway?

Michael had already asked himself that question several times before she arrived on the scene. He shouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t have been here in this mess if he’d given it any thought at all. Right now he could be comfortably at home with Ellen. She would be cooking something, maybe his favorite dinner, rainbow trout in lemon, garlic and butter, with string beans amandine and garlic mashed potatoes. His mouth watered thinking about it. Ellen would probably be happily humming off-key to some tune she was listening to on the radio—he looked down at his watch to see that it was just after 4 p.m.—she’d be listening to her favorite show of country music. Garth Brooks, Shania Twain, Reba, Vince Gill, Trisha Yearwood—the list could go on. She loved them all. He didn’t get that kind of music. He could tolerate it. But, with Ellen at times, when she heard a particular favorite song, her blue eyes would grow serene and distant, as if it carried her to someplace special. He supposed it was into her childhood memories on the ranch.

He would have been reading or writing, most likely working on the laptop computer while sitting in his usual spot in his blue leather recliner, by the south window. It was still light enough that he wouldn’t have had to turn on the lamp. He’d be sipping a cup of tea and listening with half an ear to the sounds of dinner preparation.

A great cook, the smells of Ellen’s meals took over the whole house, so that his appetite followed him into every room. They ate early on weekends. Today was Saturday and he should have been home already. On Saturdays they would normally sit down to dinner together by 5 p.m., have a little wine which they didn’t do on weekdays. He’d tell her about his work. She would tell him about her co-workers or what happened to the neighbor’s ill-behaved children. Maybe they’d discuss politics or talk about the movie they would watch together that night.

He’d blown this Saturday night to hell. He would not be able to get hold of Ellen to tell her what had delayed him. His assignments sometimes took him away overnight or even for a couple of nights; but he knew she would be worried this time because he had neither called nor left her a note ahead of time. He was disgusted with himself.

He remembered that the old woman had asked him a question he hadn’t yet answered. He had been offended by her attitude; though at the present moment, she walked in complete silence just a fraction ahead of him heading towards wherever it was she was going.

For no apparent reason, she provoked strong and mystifying feelings in him and his reaction to her puzzled him. He wanted to ask her why she used humanoid but instead finally answered her question. It wasn’t the truth. He suspected that for the time being it was better if she didn’t know he was a reporter. He affected a tone of nonchalance and neutrality, imagining that he was Matt Lauer, and said, I just happened upon the trail and wanted to see where it goes.

A person can get into trouble doing that, she rejoined instantly. She looked amused. Grinning broadly, she added, But I suppose you know that already.

He was certain she was taunting him again. He shot back, Well, what are you doing here?

I told you. I live here.

Where here? he demanded belligerently, already losing any semblance of nonchalance or neutrality. He was annoyed with himself that he was so annoyed with her. Mother issues, he wondered; although she was certainly nothing like his mother. That was for sure.

In my tipi. You can’t see it from here.

No. She was nothing like his mother he repeated to himself. Okay, so she had him—a fairly seasoned reporter (even if it was for a small-town newspaper)—frustrated by his own poor questions and her skimpy answers. He searched his brain for a starting place with her and though he’d done countless interviews and with people far more imposing than she, he couldn’t find it. He grabbed the first question that came to mind, How did you get here? It was the kind of an opening a straight man might give a comic, he knew. He practically ducked, anticipating what was coming.

Her eyes glistened. She smiled mischievously, and replied, I happened upon a trail a long time ago and I followed it. She laughed a little. He resented that she had not bothered to pretend that it wasn’t at him.

He ignored her obvious pleasure at his expense. This trail? he asked.

No. That trail started in a very different place.

Where? he asked, thinking he was going in circles with her.

It’s a long, complicated story. If you want to hear it, we’ll go up to my tipi. I need to settle in for the evening. It’s probably too late for you to go into town now anyway, she added, looking up at the sky. You can stay the night. I’ll fix us some coffee, or…. she said, eyeing him with an oddly distant yet penetrating look, ….you look like a tea drinker. You can have that, if you prefer and some dinner. I need to get a fire going soon. You didn’t happen to pack any firewood or food? My winter provisions are getting a little low. I should have asked you that when we were back at the Jeep. By the way she looked at him, he knew she didn’t expect an affirmative response. He shook his head. She had already turned away and couldn’t have seen him do that behind her, but she didn’t repeat the question.

He didn’t like her. She was abrupt, brusque and condescending. He didn’t like that her guess about his tea preference was correct. Her practiced gazes and inferences suggested that she was a habitual observer of human nature. He figured she was probably a teacher—the kind of teacher, he added mentally, that the students didn’t like. He didn’t particularly want to hear her story but he still thought he could write some sort of story of his own about an eccentric old woman living in the middle of the wilderness.

What a former schoolteacher was doing out here in the middle of nowhere was another matter altogether. Her offer of shelter seemed legitimate enough; and, since he was not savvy about this area, he was in no position to doubt her knowledge about the time and travel conditions. Beggars can’t be choosers, he told himself.

Chapter 2: Lodge of the Libra Moon

When they arrived at the ridge of the mountain and he saw the tipi, he couldn’t imagine how she’d gotten it there. It was off the trail, across a meadow and up a small road that in the bare spots showed where tire tracks had worn down all vegetation. There was no vehicle anywhere in sight and she’d already said that she didn’t have a phone. He couldn’t find any sign of electric lines. Even in his good physical shape, he was breathing heavily after taking the trail that had climbed steadily and steeply, curving only once, but sharply. The walking had been difficult. It had required his full focus and attention to find the solid spots, either those that were still frozen and therefore quite slippery, or the occasional dry firm spots. They hadn’t spoken for the past quarter of an hour or more because, as they climbed, conversation wasn’t easy. An exchange of more than a word or two wasn’t possible until they stopped at the tipi.

As they had scaled the path up to the tipi, Michael’s head had been full of his own thoughts about Ellen and about how he was going to get himself and his Jeep out of here. He now wondered about the woman beside him who seemed to take the climb so easily. Her pace had not slowed the entire way. In fact, she picked up speed as they climbed. Her strides were short compared to his, so she took more of them. They were brisk and strong. The climb had not winded her. Her voice was normal,