Weeping Maiden Rock

By the time I realized a storm was coming in, it was already too late to make it to the shelter. It had come on fast, faster than I had ever seen, and I had lived out here over ten years. I thought I knew the weather patterns but apparently I did not. An hour ago the sky was clear, with not a cloud in sight. Now the wind whipped my hair around my head and half the dome overhead was filled with the towering shape of a massive cumulonimbus, lightning jigging and jagging within it. Pieces of plants and trees flew in the wind that buffeted me as I ran toward home and my scalp prickled with fear as I sensed a tornado behind me. I ran faster, my feet barely touching the ground as I nearly flew over it, but it wasn’t fast enough. The twister picked me up as easily as if I weighed nothing at all, holding me in its grip and flinging me around in a crazy, uncontrollable spiral. I saw the pig coming, kicking and squealing and heading right for me in the chaos of the swirling vortex, but there was no time, let alone any means to avoid him. I squeezed my eyes shut and cringed right before the solid bulk of him slammed into me and the darkness rose up and snatched me away.

         I had been out in the orchard, picking apples. We only had a few trees and I cherished the job as my own, enjoying the solitude of the upper field. Lately the accusing eyes of my husband were too much for me to bear and I had to admit I’d been finding more reasons to stay away from the house. Buying this farm had been Gavin’s idea, but I was the one who was finding myself in this land. He had hurt himself more than a year ago and as limited as he was in his wheelchair, he couldn’t follow me to the upper field. Gavin had become a different person after his accident and now he wanted to sell the farm and move back to the city to be closer to his doctors. I wasn’t sure I wanted to leave. I loved this place, it was my home. I wasn’t so sure about Gavin anymore but the land, yeah, I was sure about that.

         It’s not a huge place, only twenty five acres, but it’s sweetly situated in the foothills of the Colorado Rocky Mountains, perfectly nestled in a valley between two minor ridges. Our fields are mostly wheat and alfalfa, but back behind the house and barn, a virgin tangle of tall pines mixed with Aspen and Cottonwood march along our border almost all the way across, cradling its cluster of structures like a jewel. The barn stands just behind the house with only a breezeway between them. Before his accident, Gavin had liked that he could get there quickly if he had to check out a downed fence, missing livestock, or anything else on their acreage that needed his attention. With the barn right there he could saddle a horse and be anywhere on their property in minutes. Now he rarely leaves the house, preferring to wait for me if he needs anything. He has refused my every suggestion to hire help of any kind and relies solely on me for everything. It’s getting old. I can't take care of him and the farm. There’s just too much to do.

I woke up just in time to witness my landing. The tornado swung me by a tall cedar tree, sticking me into a nook between branches as gently as a mother setting down her newborn baby. It continued on down tornado alley without so much as a by-your-leave, leaving me staring down one hundred and fifty feet of trunk at the forest floor beneath me. My hair raising trip to the ground was a nightmare I will never forget, taking me the better part of an hour, and I blew a sigh of relief when my feet finally hit the ground. My adventure inside the whirlwind had stripped me of both my shoes and my socks, leaving me in only my shorts and tank top. It was almost dark and not knowing where I was, I decided to hunker down for the night. I would find my way home in the morning.

         After spending a sleepless night shivering, huddled beneath the branches of my cedar, I was stiff as I made my way up to higher ground to try and figure out where I was. I wrapped my arms around myself for warmth, my clothing damp with dew, as I stumbled over the uneven ground. Morning sunbeams began peeking between the trees I was walking through, and I lingered in the patches I came across, trying to warm up enough to stop the shivering. It was hurting my teeth and clenching my jaw was only making it sore. When I came to the clearing at the top of the ridge and the sun shone full in my face, bathing me with its rays, I stopped and closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation. When I opened them a few moments later, I knew exactly where I was. Directly in front of me on top of the next crest was a rock formation I recognized. I had been there before. The real estate agent had brought me and Gavin here before taking us to tour the ranch thirteen years ago. It was apparently some kind of historic spot where the Native American chiefs from the local tribes were said to have had some kind of confrontation with some of the pioneers in the early eighteen hundreds. Their agent had told them the story mysteriously, in hushed tones, like teenagers around a campfire.

         The story went that when white men initially came to this area, there were only a few of them at first. The local villages tried to incorporate the new families into their territory, tolerating them as long as they stayed to themselves and committed no major faux pas, even trading with them and treating them like guests. It was said that one brave fell in love with Rosemary Williams, the daughter of one of the settlers, carrying her away with him, as was their custom. The Williams men hunted them down and brought the couple up onto the highest ridge, calling out the chiefs of the tribe to come attend the impromptu trial. The matter could not be resolved and the two parties fell upon each other, resulting in the slaughter of all the natives and most of the colonists as well. They say Rose could not be consoled at the death of her brave and was overcome with grief. Evading her father, she flung herself from the pinnacle. When the surviving Williams’s went to retrieve her body, it could not be found. Afterwards, many people claimed to see a ghostly, hysterical woman throwing herself off of the precipice. At some point a monument had been erected naming it Weeping Maiden Rock. As such places often end up, it became a popular, if dangerous local teen hangout.

         The Rock was deserted at the moment but I was relieved to see it because it meant home was only a few hour's walk away. I started out, warm after standing in the sun, and picked my way down the hill carefully in my bare feet. By the time I got to the top of Maiden Rock, they were stinging and sore. Stopping to rest was not an option, though. I knew I had been gone long enough to make Gavin worry, and there were probably numerous police and helpful neighbors combing the hills looking for me, as well. Following a smooth vein of rock, I got too close to the edge, my weight causing it to crumble beneath me, and before I even had time to be afraid, I landed with a jolt in the scree at the bottom of the cliff. Looking up in surprise, I could barely see the top of the rock far above my head. I couldn’t understand what had just happened to me. I was completely unhurt! How was that possible? I was thinking I should be dead and wondered if I was for a few minutes before I got up and dusted myself off. I continued limping toward home, so focused on picking my way through the rocks and thorns, I only dimly noticed the impossibility of the landscape I was walking through.

With the tenderness of my feet increasing, it was late afternoon before I topped the hill above my farm. As I descended the upper field, I began noticing changes. Little things at first, then as I rounded the corner of the barn what I saw stopped me dead in my tracks. The yard was completely different! The corrals we kept our horses in had vanished and the barn and house looked brand new, each with what looked like a fresh coat of paint. I experienced a fleeting surge of hope that Gavin had people rounding up our horses, but I had no idea where we would put them when they brought them back. When I stepped around to the front of the house I stopped again as I saw the lush new lawn and flower beds in front of the house. What had Gavin done and how had he done it so quickly? Setting my jaw, I resolutely stomped toward the house to have it out with him. If he thought he was going to sell this place out from under me, he had another thing coming.

         The house was cool and dim when I opened the door and I stopped just inside to let my eyes adjust and to listen for a clue to where Gavin was. He usually spent most of his days in the den, watching TV, but I didn't hear it on. I stepped into the hallway, feeling the cool wood soothe my poor battered feet as I padded into the kitchen, stopping as the sight of neat black and white décor met my eyes instead of the bright yellows and greens I had decorated with. I backed out the doorway, my eyes wide, and turned and sprinted to my bedroom. I stopped just inside the chamber, shock rendering me breathless. All my things were gone! All of Gavin's equipment and most of the furniture was gone as well. Around the mostly empty room, hanging on the walls at eye level, were several ornate frames but I couldn't tell what they contained from the doorway where I stood. Intrigued, I moved toward the one closest to me and stared at the words shouting at me from the page. It was a yellowing newspaper article, the headline catching my interest immediately. "Unusual Tornado Activity Reported in Red Lodge." Boy, I’ll say. I was thinking that was an understatement while I stepped over to the next one which read, "The Search for Cassie Thatcher Extended," making my heart leap in my chest, and next to that, "Missing Colorado Woman Feared Dead." I went mechanically around the room to the other frames, standing before each one only a moment before moving on. The last one made my hair stand up. "Gavin Thatcher calls off search for missing wife." My scalp was tingling and I couldn't see through the spots in front of my eyes as I fought not to lose consciousness. They couldn't be talking about me, could they? I’d been gone less than twenty-four hours! These articles spoke of a timeline that was measured in months, years even. A sound behind me had me spinning in place, and as I spun I saw someone standing in the doorway. It was some old guy. He was shrunken and wrinkled and his thinning hair was snow white. I squinted at him, thinking he looked familiar, when he spoke.

         "Cassie?!" His pinched mouth was drawn down in deep lines around a permanent frown. "How?" he asked, his eyes dominating his face. I wasn't listening. I was staring at him, my face drained of color.

         "Gavin?" My voice came out in a hoarse whisper. "What’s happened to you?"

         "Me?! What happened to you?!" He demanded, gesturing to the walls around me. But my blood was roaring in my ears and I couldn't hear him. I covered them with my hands and pushing past him, I ran, not noticing where I was going. I needed to think. My head was still spinning, making it hard for any firing neurons to land anywhere productive. I thought this probably had something to do with my tumble off Maiden Rock, earlier. That was decidedly strange and I was starting to feel like a character in a twilight zone episode. I skirted the house and barn and headed back the way I had come, my feet complaining every time they hit the ground, but I didn’t stop. I was afraid if I did, I would turn around to see Gavin encased in some kind of exoskeleton, jerking along back there trying to catch up. The idea took shape behind me, giving me the incentive I needed to put a comfortable distance between me and the one place on earth where I felt at home.

I ran on while the day faded around me, ignoring my pain and fatigue and reached the escarpment just as the last of the sun’s light gave way to stars. I stood at the bottom and looked up. Was there a slight disturbance up there? I did see an area where my view of the stars was obscured, but from here and in the dark, I couldn’t tell how high up it was or any other details about it. It was there, though, I was sure of that and the knowledge comforted me. I would figure it out. But as shattered as I was, I still understood I would have to get help. If it was even possible, I knew getting back up through that thing wasn’t going to be easy. Exhausted, I eased myself down with my back against the warmth of the rock and examined my soles with cautious fingers. They were a mass of cuts, thankfully none were serious, but I must have pulled out a hundred stickers before my eyes closed of their own accord and my chin dropped to my chest as I fell headlong into the gaping maw of slumber, supported by the embrace of the outcropping I leaned against.

I woke to someone stroking my forehead with a tender hand. Startled, I sat up quickly, my heart hammering away inside my chest. Gavin lowered his hand and watched me without speaking while I gathered my bearings. I was in an unfamiliar bed but I recognized our guest room. Gavin sat in a chair beside the bed, a book upside down in his lap. He smiled and standing up slowly, grabbed a cane from the back of the chair and made his way to the door.

“I’ll have Rose make you something to eat if you want to get dressed and come to the kitchen.” He nodded his head at a neatly folded stack of clothing on a nearby bureau and went out, closing the door behind him. I hoped I hadn’t offended him but I couldn’t help staring at him. He had to be at least ninety years old. The implications were staggering. I pinched myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming. It would explain the changes in the property, though. I took my time getting dressed, noticing that someone had cleaned and dressed my feet while I was sleeping. I froze, seeing my shoes beneath the dresser the clothes had been sitting on and picked them up to get a closer look. Where had he found them? They really did look like I had taken them off yesterday. My hands were shaking so much I couldn’t tie them. After several tries, I gave up and tucked the laces in instead, then taking a deep breath, I opened the door.

Gavin explained, while I wolfed a delicious omelet made for me by a melancholy young woman he called Rose, that he had come after me in his TF-X, whatever that was, and unable to wake me, had trapped me with his Bessel Beams, whatever those were, and brought me back here. I looked up from my plate to see him smiling his cat that caught the canary smile and narrowed my eyes at him. Same old Gavin.

“Spill,” I told him. Instead he turned to Rose, who was washing dishes in the sink despite the very obvious space age machine next to her emblazoned with the words, Bosch DishMaster.

“Rose, honey, will you tell Cassie what year you were born?” Without stopping or turning around, she answered in a clear voice.

“1803.” Goosebumps began chasing each other up and down my spine. Then she did turn around to look at me, her hands dripping suds on the floor at her feet. Her face spoke volumes about how this had previously been received. I could almost feel the heat of the lightbulb over my head as it dawned on me who she was. Rosemary Williams.

The Weeping Maiden of the Rock has just made me breakfast.

I don’t think I’m going to get home.