Mirror Image - 1. Chapter 1

"Sir? The film is about to start."

Kevin Bennett turned from the display. The ranger, a young woman of Cheyenne heritage, stood patiently in the hall. After a moment's hesitation, Kevin followed the ranger. He wasn't getting that much out of the museum's display, anyhow.

The ranger led Kevin to a small theater. There were only five other people in the room, some talking quietly as they waited. Kevin found a seat near the middle of the theater. Apparently there was some small problem with the projector; a couple of rangers worked on it as Kevin leaned back and let his mind drift.

Despite his best intentions, Kevin's thoughts kept returning to Paul. The two of them had been celebrating their second anniversary. Everything had been perfect: the food, the restaurant, the walk by the lake. They had gone back to the apartment and made love, slow and easy with each other.

It was only afterwards that things began to sour. Kevin had watched, lazily, as Paul rose and walked over to the sliding glass doors. Paul opened them onto the night. For a moment, he simply stood there, gazing up at the sky. Then Kevin heard him chanting.

"What were you doing?" Kevin asked, when Paul came back to bed. Paul shrugged, his eyes sliding away from his lover. "Just a wish for good health for us both."

"In other words, a spell." Kevin couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his reply.

Paul sighed deeply. "It's been a wonderful day, Kevin. Let's not fight."

Kevin's silence spoke volumes. "You know how I feel about this," he said, finally.

"Kevin, you've never professed any particularly strong religious feelings, have you?" At his lover's shrug, Paul went on: "Yet my leanings towards Wicca bother you."

Kevin looked away. "I just don't like the idea of all that casting the runes business, or whatever you call it."

"Some people call it meditation. Some call it prayer. It's really all the same, you know."

"Whatever." Kevin turned his face to the wall. After a moment, he heard Paul leave the room.

He didn't return that night.

The following morning was warm, but the atmosphere in the kitchen was chilly. Paul shoved a bowl of cereal in Kevin's direction, then dug into his own food without speaking. Finally, Kevin broke the silence.

"Isn't it time we took a vacation? There's a nice bed and breakfast not far from here. I've already called about booking a room."

Paul nodded distractedly.

"I thought maybe four days?" Kevin went on. "There are some museums in the area I'd like to explore."

"Mmmm." Paul finished his cereal and got up from the table. He turned towards Kevin. "Have fun," he said.

Paul walked away, leaving Kevin open-mouthed.

The whirr of the projector brought Kevin back to the present. The problem had apparently been fixed. He settled back and tried not to think about Paul for awhile.

The documentary began with a scene of the wintry plains country. The narrator spoke of how, one late November morning in 1868, Cheyenne Chief Black Kettle's settlement along the Washita River was attacked by the Seventh Cavalry, led by Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer. On screen, re-enactors portrayed Black Kettle's peaceful village.

Custer's regimental band played "Garry Owen", and the attack began. The largest battalion swept straight into the village. Unlike Sand Creek four years earlier (said the narrator), Custer did take prisoners: women and children. The dead were estimated anywhere between thirty to over one hundred. Almost worse, for the Cheyenne people, was the killing of their horses. Custer and his men shot almost eight hundred ponies and mules, animals which were the backbone of Cheyenne existence.

There were courageous acts on the part of the Cheyenne, the narrator continued. The story of Magpie, a young warrior, was depicted onscreen. Kevin watched as Magpie ran from a single pursuing trooper. At what was nearly the last minute before the trooper caught up, Magpie turned and shot the man off his horse. Magpie then captured the horse and escaped.

The film wrapped up with one more mention of Magpie. He had survived to fight at the Little Big Horn, then gone on to become a revered chief of the Cheyenne, ending a long, full life sometime after the turn of the twentieth century.

That's what I'd like to do, thought Kevin, as the lights came up. Just one courageous deed, to change everything. Maybe Paul would respect me then.

He filed out of the small theater and headed for his car. The actual battlefield was only a mile away. Kevin's interest had been piqued by the film, and anyway, he had no reason to return early to the bed and breakfast.

He saw the sign leading to the trails, and pulled his car into the parking lot. He got out and walked up to the stone marker outlining the basics of the Battle of the Washita; or the Lodge Pole Massacre, as it was called by the Cheyenne. From here, Kevin could see the entire valley stretched out before him. He took out the guide he'd purchased at the museum and consulted it. There were two main trails, the Upper and Lower. The booklet suggested starting with the Lower Trail, which would take him past Black Kettle's camp. Kevin stuck the pamphlet back in his pocket and struck out for the valley.

Once on the trail, the first thing Kevin noticed was the silence. Save for the chirr-chirr-chirr of a bird nearby, and the sound of his own boots in the grass, there was nothing to interrupt his thoughts. Even the slight noise of a car on the road faded quickly in the distance. As Kevin moved deeper into the valley, it seemed as if he were actually traveling back in time.

Kevin came to a bend in the trail, and consulted the booklet again. Apparently this was the exact spot (so far as historians were able to say) that Magpie had made his daring escape and shot the mounted trooper. Kevin stopped and looked around. He was totally alone in the valley, not another tourist in sight. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the dusty air...

...he heard men shouting, women screaming...cold wind whipped his hair around his face, and he shook his head impatiently. The sound of hoof beats rang on the cold stone, growing closer, closer...

Kevin's eyes snapped open. All was as it had been, silent and empty. He turned in a circle, amazed to find himself alone. It had been so real!

Nonsense, Kevin told himself. I'm starting to think like Paul now. He shook his head at his own imaginings and trudged ahead.

The sound of water running met him before he actually saw the river. Then he saw the Washita, and slowed down, suddenly tired. A bench was set beneath a tree near the river, and Kevin decided to rest a moment. He sat down with a sigh, leaned back, and let himself drift.

The beating of hooves came ever closer. The rider was nearly upon him. He patted his jacket, felt the reassuring weight of the pistol. He pulled it free, just in case, holding the weapon easy in his hand as he waited.

A bird flew past Kevin's ear, startling him back to the present. He blinked at the sight of the distinctive black and white feathers, and realized it was a magpie. If Paul were here, he'd say the bird was a sign.

Kevin snorted. Paul and his signs! Anyway, a sign of what? Kevin was tired, he was having some very imaginative waking dreams inspired by the movie he'd just watched. That was all.

He rose from the bench and walked on, shaking his head. The rest of the trek passed in a blur. Kevin was (he admitted to himself) too shook up to really notice the wildlife; all he could think about was getting back to the bed and breakfast inn. He stopped only once more, by a grove of tall trees. He closed his eyes, but heard nothing except the gentle swish of wind in the leaves far above. Kevin was relieved, and, in a strange way, disappointed.

When he got back to the inn, Kevin went straight upstairs. He'd traded the suite he'd reserved originally for the smallest room at the far end of the second floor. But even if Paul wasn't there with him, Kevin felt his presence. He frowned as he tossed his clothes in a corner and headed for the shower. Kevin couldn't believe he was spending a week in this beautiful spot all by himself. It just wasn't fair!

Kevin finished showering and padded naked to the bed. He fell on top of the covers, not even bothering to turn them back, and in moments he was fast asleep.

Kevin woke with a pounding head and a dry mouth. Too much sun, he thought. He pushed up on his elbows, feeling the light scratchiness of the bedspread on his sunburned skin. That'll teach me.

He swung his feet over the side of the bed and fumbled his way into the bathroom, blinking against the small nightlight beside the mirror. He used the toilet, then stumbled over to the sink to wash his face. Kevin grabbed blindly for a towel, looking up automatically into the glass as he did so.

At first, Kevin saw only fog in the mirror. Then the fog began to part, and he saw a face looking back at him that was not his own. Paul gazed back at him, his expression a strange mix of anger and despair. A single candle appeared to be floating in midair behind him. As Kevin watched, hypnotized, Paul began to chant.

"As this mirror reflects back the light of this candle, so shall these things be reflected back to their sender. And as the mirror neither adds or detracts from the reflection, I shall add no malice to nor subtract any from that which I send back. As it comes to me, so shall it return to them." Paul held a string up to the light. He began to tie it in three small knots, repeating with each knot: "With this string I bind this spell. As I will it, so mote it be."

Kevin backed away from the mirror. The glass began to cloud, and fog spilled into the bathroom, enshrouding Kevin and his surroundings. He tried to cry out with frozen vocal cords-

--and managed only a strangled groan. He was on his back, staring at the ceiling fan as it turned lazily in the stillness. A dream, then. Yes, he told himself, just a dream. Another morning's sun peeked through the curtains.

Kevin yawned widely. It was his last day in the bed and breakfast. He sat up carefully, but his head felt much better this morning. A quick shower should set him to rights. He couldn't help glancing nervously in the bathroom mirror, but the glass reflected only what it was supposed to. Kevin laughed at himself, to be so upset by his own overactive imagination!

Kevin finished dressing, and on impulse, he picked up the phone and dialed home. After four rings, the machine came on.

"Hi, this is Paul. I'm not home right now, but if you'll leave a message, I'll get back to you as soon as possible."

It was a standard message, nothing unusual except for the fact that it was by Paul. It took Kevin a moment to process. Originally, the message had been from them both, alternating a cheery greeting for their friends. Not this cold, singular response.

He was about to hang up when Paul spoke again. "Kevin, I wish you the best. And I hope you find exactly what you need."

The answering machine clicked off, leaving Kevin listening to a dial tone. He punched the number in again. This time the phone just rang, a hollow, distant sound. The machine never picked up. Finally, Kevin disconnected the call.

He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall, for several minutes. I hope you find exactly what you need. Kevin closed his eyes, and suddenly the images from the Washita River came back to him like a revelation. Could that be where he should go?

Kevin realized he had to take some kind of action. He had no idea if he would have a bed to sleep in tonight. But the river called him. Just one more look, he decided. What could it hurt?

He took advantage of one last breakfast downstairs before packing up the car. Then he headed northwest towards the town of Cheyenne. He passed the museum, turned onto the side road, and drove the mile or so to the massacre site. Kevin parked the car and got out, noting that he was the only tourist there. He headed down the same trail he'd taken yesterday.

When he reached the point where the trail met the Washita River, Kevin changed course. He struck out across the field until he was standing at a place where he could view the river and the trees where Black Kettle's camp had been. Kevin did a slow pivot to take in his surroundings. He was utterly alone.

Kevin closed his eyes and let the atmosphere of the place engulf him. He felt the warm sun on his skin, heard the birds and insects-and nothing else. He squeezed his eyes tighter. Take me back!

Cold bit at Kevin's skin. He shivered, keeping his eyes closed. Take me back, he thought again, as the present fell away and sent him spiraling. Let me prove myself to history.

* * * * *

He felt the reassuring weight of the pistol. He sat his mount easily, calming the horse with the pressure of his knees. He pushed his hair, recently shorn, back from his face, and peered at the approaching rider.

It was his scout, returning from the village by the river.

"Sir." The scout pulled up his horse and saluted smartly. "The village is asleep. There are no sentries."

The leader nodded. "Hide your weapons," he commanded in a low voice. "Move forward, but slowly." As his men moved to obey, he himself hung back, savoring the moment. At last, he urged his horse forward.

George Armstrong Custer rode towards the peaceful village, sure of his destiny.

THE END