Chapter 6: Avalanche

That was the fastest summer ever experienced by any human being who ever drew a breath on this planet, I think. But the first two days of it were hell on earth.

From the day I first saw William Standing, the minutes seemed to fly by; I swore I could sit and watch an hour pass and it would feel like only a few minutes, the entire time my heart thudding in my chest as if I'd been running. What was the reason for the sudden acceleration of my life?

I was in love. And not just puppy-love, or a crush, or a temporary madness. Love. Real love. After seeing him once.

Now, I know I was only fifteen, but still…I'd never been your typical child, and at fifteen I was much more mature than my years. Besides, during those times girls married at my age all the time. But it wasn't just my age. It was the suddenness, the intensity, of my feelings.

Anyone who has been young and in love knows that it is a potent thing, a thing that takes on a life of its own, overshadowing everything with its passion. You feel as if the whole world is glowing, as if your feet barely skim the ground when you walk and everything tastes good, flavored by your sudden zest for life. The nighttime hours only exist to torment you, as you're forced to lay quietly in a bed while everything inside you wants to jump up and run forever, til your lungs burst with joy.

My first love. And the love of my life.

A first love and a true, life-long love combined is a rare bird indeed—and I was lucky enough to catch that bird for my own.

After William Standing left me speechless and breathless there astride my new horse, I had to run. Well, I had to let Belle run, something I discovered she did admirably well. We flew across the Texas plains until I could no longer see the farm, miles behind us, hidden by the waving green grass. I finally commanded poor Belle to stop by a small copse of cottonwoods when her labored breathing punched through my selfish haze; I led her into the shade and loosely tied her reins around a low-hanging branch, pouring water from my canteen and giving her a drink of water from my cupped hands. Then, my horse tended to, I slid into a graceless heap at the base of the same tree and put my head into my hands and began to cry.

All around the whisperers tried to soothe me, almost unintelligible with the tumult of the number of voices and differing opinions. I scrubbed my eyes fiercely against the tears until I saw stars, my mind raging in frustration at the chaos: it was accomplishing the exact opposite of what they intended, poor things. All I wanted was silence. Finally, I couldn't take it any longer and I screamed.

"Stop! Be quiet, please, and let me think!"

Dead silence reigned.

I sighed and closed my eyes, leaning back against the scratchy bole of the tree. I looked over at Belle, who stood close by me, munching contentedly on a mouthful of the tender spring grass, her big, dark eyes regarding me calmly.

"So, what do you think, Belle? Are we in trouble or what?"

She didn't reply. But then again, I hadn't expected her to. My hearing voices ended with humansAfter all, I could only hear human voices. I think if an animal started talking to me I'd truly go mad. I closed my eyes again, trying to find a little perspective.

His face hovered behind my eyelids when I closed them, so I had to open them again. Darn.

All right, I told myself. Let's be logical here. So I have fallen for a complete stranger.

A completely unacceptable, complete stranger.

A completely perfect stranger.

Completely. Perfect.

Against my will I mentally traced the lines of him, long and tall, broad shoulders and strong arms and a muscled chest beneath his shirt, large and sensitive hands…The angle of his nose, the wide, clear expanse of forehead and cheekbone, the raven-blackness of his hair. His dark, dark eyes.

I knew what my parents thought of Indians. We'd been brought up at Papa's knee on his litany of second-hand horror stories; he wanted us to consider them nothing more than pagan savages, half-naked butchers who only wanted to scalp the white man and rape the white woman and ravage their lands. He'd never experienced it, but he'd been told so much that he believed it all.

But I knew better.

I knew Big John, who had a good portion of Indian blood in him, and I knew he was the gentlest, kindest person I had ever met. I had read the stories: how the Indians helped the poor, starving Pilgrims for the first Thanksgiving. Pocahontas and John Smith. Sacagawea and Lewis and Clark. There were many others as well. Of course, there were some that could be easily termed "savage," but I had to think that if I had been on their end of things when the Europeans had arrived in the Americas, I might feel a bit savage myself.

So what was I supposed to do with this bizarre love? This overwhelming feeling?

Ignore it. Squash it down. Make it die. That's what I had to do.

Right?

I took a deep, shuddering breath and felt as if my insides were on fire. It felt wrong. Wrong to know I needed to do that, and even more wrong to try.

Immediately the roaring tumult of voices started again, and this time I let the force of them wash over me.

No, no, no, it's wrong! What was wrong? Loving him or not loving him?

Follow your heart, child, no matter what your head tells you.

Just let it happen. Follow your path to your destiny.

Don't worry.

We love you.

You'll be fine.

Clear as mud.

I sat there beneath that tree for a long time, watching the sun reach its zenith high above in the pale blue sky and begin its descent. I watched the shadows of the clouds flow endlessly across the prairie, driven by the warm spring wind from the east. I listened to the birdsong and the cicadas buzzing in the trees, and tried to ignore the voices again, irritated by it all.

Finally I could sit there no more. I knew that, birthday or no birthday, I would eventually be missed and that I had responsibilities. So I heaved myself up from my spot and loosed Belle's reins, climbing easily up into the saddle again, and I headed back toward the farm, much slower than I'd come.

By the time I made it home, lunch had been served and cleared away, and Mama Dina was in the kitchen peeling another mountain of potatoes for dinner. Without a word, I took my apron from its hook and tied it on then joined her at the table, knife in hand to help.

We peeled in companionable silence for a while. The rhythm of such a simple task was soothing in a way the voices hadn't been. I put all my concentration into the rotating of each potato in my hand as I carefully pared the brown skin away, trying to make it all come off in one long, thin coil like Mama Dina could every time. I felt the center of my focus narrowing, and the furor died down a bit inside me, from a raging wildfire into a banked hearthfire.

"So," Mama Dina murmured, breaking the silence after a while, "How you like that new horse?"

I looked up at her and smiled, meeting her eyes. "I love her. She's wonderful."

For a moment, we gazed at each other, me still smiling, her nodding, then something happened. Her dark brown eyes widened a bit in surprise, then narrowed in suspicion…

"What happened to you today?" she whispered sharply, still staring at me, leaning forward a bit, to study me more closely.

I frowned and wondered whether I had dirt all over my face. "Nothing?" I looked down at my dress to see if I had any noticeable stains.

Mama Dina frowned right back at me, her eyebrows knitting together until her face resembled a thundercloud. "Virginia Lucille Whitlock, what have you done?" she hissed fiercely, enunciating every word, coming around the table to take me by the shoulders. She gave me a little shake. "Tell me, or I swear, I'll take a switch t'you an' get it outta you!"

I felt my stomach plummet toward my knees and my heart started pounding like a drum in fear, a cold sweat beading up all over me. I had never seen Mama Dina look so angry in her life, and she had never, ever called me by my full name, or laid a finger on me in any way but gently. I opened my mouth to reply but I couldn't talk, my mouth was as dry as a desert, and my throat felt blocked, congested. What had I done?

Mama Dina shook me again, a bit harder that time. "Out with it, girl! Who is he?"

Then it hit me, thunderously, like a ton of bricks. My mind went in a thousand different directions as my heart took off like a galloping horse.

Oh, my God, she knows!

Oh, my God, I must look horrible!

What do I say? The truth, or lie? Why does it matter?

Should I run away?

That time, it wasn't a mess of whispers from the outside, it was my own brain shouting at me. Finally, a few agonizing seconds later, I decided the best course was dishonesty.

"I-I don't know w-what you mean!" I finally stammered, blinking furiously against the tears I felt forming behind my eyes.

Mama Dina snorted in disbelief and let me go. "Yes, you do know what I mean, girl. I see it in your face. You done met a man. You got that look."

I shook my head in fierce denial, hoping it was fierce enough.

She looked me up and down slowly, carefully, as if taking the measure of every inch of me with her sharp eyes. "I know a lie when I hear it, chil'," she finally said, her voice thick with disappointment. "I never thought I'd see the day when you would lie t'me. After all the things we done been through t'gether."

I hung my head in shame. I remembered all the years, where not a single day had passed when her capable, dark hands had not guided me when I needed direction or caught me when I fell. She had sung me to sleep as a baby, held me when I cried, had taught me so much. She didn't deserve dishonesty. She had never once given away a secret, had always respected my peculiarities and allowed me to be myself, even when she disapproved.

"His name is William Standing," I finally whispered, staring down at the floor. I couldn't bring myself to look up at her, meet those burning eyes. "He brought my horse today from Houston. I saw him by the barn as I was leaving for my ride. He said hello and told me his name, then he left. That's all. Nothing else."

The silence between us was so thick and heavy I believe I could have reached out and touched it.

Finally, I could stand it no more and I looked up at her. I had to know what she was thinking; I had to see her face.

Mama Dina was staring off into space, away from me, and she was crying. Silent tears coursed down her face unchecked, dropping off her chin to spatter the bright green calico of the bodice of her dress. I gasped in shock at seeing that, and she turned her face back to look at me.

"I knew this day would come soon, but I'd hoped not so soon as today," she whispered, her voice heavy and sad.

I was bewildered. I ran back through the day in my mind, every part of it, wondering if I'd gone stark raving mad and forgotten all about the part where I'd run away and eloped with the man. That was the only thing I could think of that could possibly elicit that kind of a response from her. That, or if I'd just gone somewhere private with him…

Never!

But…well…maybe not never.

Down, girl!

"What are you talking about, Mama? I just met him, and I…I like him, yes, I think he's handsome, but it's not as if anything happened…"

She shook her head and finally looked at me again, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her apron before reaching down to reclaim her forgotten paring knife and a potato. She began peeling again as if nothing had ever happened. I was even more confused.

"But you's in love."

Not a question. A statement. Almost an accusation.

I sighed and rolled my eyes in exasperation. What on earth had she seen in my face? Did I have "I love an Indian" blazoned across my forehead? I decided to copy her and started peeling potatoes again, hoping that the homely routine of the movements might calm me again.

"Love is a strong word, Mama. I think he's handsome. I do like him. But that's all. I just met him!"

Then it was her turn to sigh, but she didn't challenge me. We finished the potatoes in complete silence, but that time the silence wasn't friendly: it was as if something stood between us, blocking the good feelings, cutting us off from each other.

We finished making supper in that same stifling silence, and when it was ready I excused myself to my mother, telling her I didn't feel like eating, and went up to my room. Mama stared at me worriedly, wondering, I knew, whether my mood had to do with the whole school revelation, but she let me go, figuring that it was best to let me get over my fit of pique on my own, I suppose.

My room was full of shadows when I went in, flinging myself onto the bed after locking the door behind me. I lay on my side, hugging Jasper's pillow to my chest, staring out the window at the setting sun: the blood-red ball was slowly disappearing into the horizon, painting the sky with wild, flaming color.

What was wrong with me?

A lot, apparently.

I punched the pillow in frustration. "Why aren't you here, big brother? Why can't you be here to say I'm a silly girl and then tell me what I should do?" I whispered to the empty room. No one answered me, of course, not even my whisperers. Then I started crying again, quiet, hitching sobs that I smothered in that pillow, soaking the muslin with my tears, until I fell asleep.

"Wake up!"

Hands were shaking me in the dark, the voice right next to my ear. I was disoriented, confused, a bit frightened. Was I dreaming? It felt real, but at the same time, someone waking me in the dead of night was unusual.

"Baby, wake up! I needs t'talk t'you!"

The fog began to dissipate from my sleepy brain as I realized who was speaking, and that it was not a dream. Her hands were far too real on my arm.

"Mama Dina?" I mumbled, opening my eyes to the dark, but I could see her silhouette above me, darker still.

"Yes, baby. Sit up, now, all right?" She helped me get myself into a sitting position, then touched my cheek gently.

"I'm sorry t'wake you like this, but I couldn't sleep after this afternoon. Like t'drove John crazy with my tossin' and turnin' and mumblin'. Finally, he told me, 'Woman, you best get over t'that house an' talk t'that girl, or I swear, you'll sleep outside!'" She laughed quietly, shaking her head. "Poor man."

I rubbed my eyes sleepily. "What's wrong?"

She sighed and stroked my hand, which she held tightly in her lap. It took her a long moment to answer me.

"Ginny," she finally murmured, surprising me again by saying my name, "I knew that look on your face when I saw it, right away. I had t'same look when I met John, and my mama saw it jus' like I did in yours. She tried t'put me off'im. That kind'a love is always hard, always causes problems."

"What are you talking about, Mama?" I shook my head. "I don't love him! I just met him!"

Lies, lies, lies.

Mama Dina laughed again, a sad little chuckle. "Baby, sometimes that's all it takes: one look. That's all it took for me. One look, an' I was gone, my heart wasn't my own anymore. He had it in his back pocket, an' he always will. But I'm a lucky woman, I gots me a man who knows what he has in his pocket, an' he cares for it."

She squeezed my hand so hard it hurt. "But I worry about you. You's so young, you don't know nothin' 'bout the world, an' you're so…so different. Whatever man you love needs t'know that, an' there ain't many of 'em out there that'll understand you. I worry you're gonna get your heart broken, an' then you'll be broken, too."

I didn't have anything to say. My whisperers surged around me, tickling my ears with their proximity: they agreed with her. They wanted me to be careful. But they didn't try to change my feelings, either.

"Who is this man?" Mama Dina finally asked me, her death-grip on my hand loosening. "What's he like?"

I bit my lip and thought for a moment. What to say? Another lie? Or just spill it all? I'd made the wrong choice before and hurt her feelings, so I decided to tell the truth.

I told her about how with the first sound of his voice I'd been struck dumb, how with the first sight of his face I'd been struck blind, at least to anything but him. I described him breathlessly, glad for the darkness which hid my furious blushing from her inquisitive eyes. I told her how he'd said he wanted to see me again.

"And that's it? No promises t'meet? No arrangements made?" she asked suspiciously.

"No. None at all." I sighed. "I promise."

Mama Dina clucked a little in thought. "Well, at least there's that, he ain't tryin' t' get you alone or anythin' like that. Maybe he has a little respect," she muttered darkly. "I'm gonna ask John about 'im, if he brought that horse'a yours here Big John'll know somethin' about 'im." She patted my hand gently. "An' 'bout him bein' Indian…Well, baby, you know how I feel. I married one. But that don't mean your folks'll understand, y'know."

I nodded mutely. Yes, I knew that very well. I knew it was hopeless, foolish, reckless, stupid…all those things and more…to even entertain the slightest hope of anything more than a flirtation with him. Besides, I was to be shipped off to finishing school in a few short months, so that would be the end of it all, anyway. Someone that handsome would get snatched up before too long, I knew, regardless of whatever strange and illogical connection I felt with him.

Mama Dina stood up and dropped a kiss on my forehead, filling my nostrils with her spicy perfume for a moment, then she left me with a whispered goodnight. I lay back against the pillows and stared up at the dark ceiling, wide awake, wondering what to do.

Hopeless. Stupid. Reckless. Foolish. Illogical.

Insane!

All those words kept pounding themselves against the inside of my head, as if they were trying to batter their way out, as if they were trying to stomp out the other words.

Love. Fate. Destiny. Love. Love. Love.

I lay there until fatigue finally settled in and made my eyelids heavy once more, and the whisperers lulled me to sleep with their murmured reassurances.

I slept.

In my dream, I was running. Running so hard and so fast that the ground was a featureless plain beneath me, my feet barely touching the grass as I flew like a hawk on the wing, the wind cool as it streamed around me.

What was I running from? Or was I running toward something?

But I wasn't running alone. Someone was running beside me.

I saw a shadow keeping time with me as I went, huge and strong, four legs a blur of motion as he effortlessly kept up with me.

He?

And somehow I knew that the creature running so joyfully beside me was William Standing. And somehow I also knew that his name wasn't complete. There was something missing.

Not Standing. Standing Bear. William Standing Bear.

I stopped suddenly, struck motionless by the realization, and I turned to look at him.

And the bear smiled at me…And then the man smiled at me.

"Come away with me, Virginia Whitlock." His voice was just as I remembered it, soft as velvet. "Come away with me."

White hot, his voice kindled a flame inside me that licked at my very bones, turning them to ash. I trembled. I could almost feel his lips on mine, his body pressed against me…

I shook my head, panic rising up in me: No! I couldn't go anywhere with him! My parents, what would happen to them if I did? They'd almost killed themselves after Jasper died, what would they do when I, their only remaining child, vanished with an Indian?

He began to fade, and his face was so unutterably sad, I reached out to comfort him, my heart breaking inside me at the sight of him. My poor, sad, sweet bear.

"You can't fight it, Virginia. Some things are just meant to be. You just have to have the strength to let yourself be happy."

His words echoed in my ears, caressing me.

And then he was gone, vanished into a swirl of mist, and I was alone, and suddenly it was so cold, so cold, and I was so weak. I crumpled to the icy ground, I couldn't stand any longer, and my tears froze as they coursed down my cheeks, he was gone, he was gone…

Gone!

No!

And I woke with a start, finding myself sitting up in the bed with my arms outstretched, and real tears were soaking my nightgown.

It took a long time for me to calm down, for my heart to stop its reckless pounding, for me to stop crying. The tears just kept coming, no matter how many times I wiped them away or blinked or took deep breaths.

The pieces of my dream floated behind my eyelids, but they were beginning to disintegrate, become like wisps of smoke blown on the wind, like he had become when he vanished.

I couldn't let it go. I had to write it down. Mama Dina had said so. The whisperers had said so.

I reached over to my nightstand where the journal Mama Dina and Big John had given to me lay, waiting for me. I snagged quill and ink out of the drawer and pulled my knees up to write on them, opened the leather cover to reveal the first empty page. I closed my eyes and concentrated. After a moment it began to come to me.

The images poured through me, and my pen struggled to keep up with the flow.

The bear. The bear becoming William. William Standing Bear. Him asking me to come away with him. Saying that some things were meant to be. That I had to find the strength to let myself be happy.

I stopped writing and shook my head at my own stupidity.

What on earth did my being happy have to do with anything? If there was anything that the last three years had taught me, it was that happiness in life isn't guaranteed, and really shouldn't be expected. The only guaranteed thing in life was the finality of death in the end, and the only things that mattered in life were what you did with the moments you had. You had to do your duty. You had to accept your place, do the right thing.

For me, the right thing was to take care of my family, to obey my parents and do what they told me to do. To be a good and faithful daughter to them in the face of their loss of their only son.

Happiness. I felt a little pang of resentment and sadness: I remembered being a child, the last time I'd been truly happy. I had taken such joy in going so completely contrary to what everyone thought I should do or be. My jokes and pranks, my wild romps with the boys, my secret pride in my strange abilities. I'd been blissfully unaware of the ugly things in life, except when they were shown to me in my dreams, and I helped make them better.

But all that was gone now. I had responsibilities. I had to be there for Mama and Papa. I had to be a good girl.

But what about me? What about what I wanted? Didn't that matter?

No, of course not. Why should it matter?

And suddenly I was angry.

Jasper had gone off to do his own thing, damn all of us to deal with the consequences.

Mama had let herself descend into madness, not caring that she had another child who was still living, who was still right there in front of her, begging for her love.

Papa had thrown his vaunted morals to the winds and become a drunk, neglecting his duties to his farm, community, and worst of all, family. It was as if I never existed to him, until Mama smashed his precious bottles.

And yet, I was expected to sacrifice everything and accept it all, do the "right thing," keep quiet, take care of everyone else, when none of them gave a moment's thought to me.

Even after Mama had gotten herself under control, she had never truly gone back to who she had been before: where before she'd been strong, now she was brittle, and she always had a faraway look in her eyes, as if she were seeing something else rather than what was before her, waiting for Heaven while still on earth. She made arbitrary decisions for my future without asking me. She expected me to obey without a word of protest. And Papa, who was still not entirely the bluff, strong man he once had been, just went along with her, never thinking to say a word in my defense, to remind her that I might have a different opinion.

And Jasper was dead, after all.

No. Not dead.

It was a new voice, one I hadn't heard often. The flavor of those thoughtsthat voice's thoughts was different, a bit foreign. My head came up in shock, as I stared about the room, illogically looking for the speaker.

Not dead?

My old suspicions welled up inside me. I had long harbored doubts about Jasper's death. I'd asked myself, if I can hear the voices of the dead, if I can speak with spirits, then why can't I talk to him? Why hadn't he come to me and told me what happened, to at least give me a bit of peace?

Not dead. Again, that new voice, hesitant. But gaining confidence at being listened to.

But like dead. Like dead, but worse. Better to be dead.

I felt my stomach knot inside me sickeningly; my hand clenched into a fist, snapping the quill, stabbing tiny splinters into my palm, but I didn't care.

"What do you mean, like dead, but worse?" I growled to the empty air. I dared them to not tell me. There was a pause, as if they were considering. "Tell me!"

Watch.

And the whisperer swept me away for a moment, filling my mind with images, pictures that felt odd, didn't quite fit: they weren't my own images, they were the memories of him, seen through his eyes.

A city, overshadowed by a mountain, the landscape dusty and strange, the houses whitewashed adobe. Mexico.

A campfire, flickering valiantly against the dark night. Sheep scattered everywhere around, sleeping in wooly piles.

Jasper!

But…was it?

It looked like Jasper…but not. I'd never seen a man so lovely in my life, and I never would again: he was perfect, his skin glowing in an unnatural way in the firelight as he fought with another man, another being who also looked so strange, so perfect, while my whisperer had watched…

Their eyes!

The eyes set in that perfectly planed and glittering face were red, red like blood, red like flames, and they were the eyes of a predator, long used to the ways of killing, cold and detached. I watched as my brother battled the other, watched as he ripped the man to shreds and cast the pieces into the campfire, sending up a billow of dense purple smoke which I could smell so intensely that I could almost taste it, like heavy perfume on my tongue…

And then, the red-eyed perfect monster that had been Jasper turned on me, on the man whose eyes I was peering out of, and suddenly, Jasper was there, gleaming teeth bared to the firelight, lunging, and then the sudden slash of white-hot pain—

"No!" I cried, throwing my hands up to cover my eyes, trying to make the sight go away: blood, my blood, his blood, the blood of the man who was showing me his last memories, everywhere, on my brother's face, he was drinking it, and the sounds, the growling! "Stop!"

And it did. The whisperer released me, his memories fading, but they had become mine, as well, and I could never forget them. I wished I could.

"What has happened to him?" I whispered, struggling not to let the tears break through again. I was tired of crying. I hadn't cried so much in years, at least not while awake. "What is he?"

Immortal. Undying. Undead. Cold One. Vampire.

Vampire.

Never one for horror stories, I had still heard of those before. That was before Bram Stoker's "Dracula" had been written, before vampires became fashionable again, but I'd heard of them. That they actually existed wasn't so much of a surprise to me as it should have been—but after all, I was the girl who heard the dead.

"Vampire?"

The rush of whispers was almost overwhelming as they told me what they knew. After a few moments I'd had enough, my brain was hurting, and my heart felt sick within me. Should I be happy that he wasn't dead? Or would it have been better if he had actually died, rather than being turned into…that?

I wondered how it had happened, whether he'd had a choice, whether it had hurt him to be changed, whether he found joy in his new life. Did he still think of our family? Of me?

I thought about that last letter I'd sent him, so self-righteous and full of venom, and how those words were the last ones he'd ever had from me. I'd been so mortified by the idea that my brother had gone into eternity with those things I had said echoing in his mind. I'd been wanting, desperately, hopelessly, to be able to apologize to him, to tell him I loved him one more time.

Did I have that chance now? Could I find him? Should I?

A chorus of horrified voices screamed at me, "NO!"

I wrinkled my nose, "But he's my brother. Surely he wouldn't hurt me? Even…now?"

Still, they told me in unison, it wasn't safe. He wasn't safe.

I lay back against the pillows again and sighed. My whole body ached, my mind was spinning. So much in two days. Too much. To fall in hopelessly in love and to find out that my brother was alive—well, a kind of alive--and hopelessly unreachable in such a short period of time was too much.

What was I supposed to do?

I closed my eyes and felt the pressure of tears threatening again. Dammit! I had to be strong; I had to make the right decision.

But the right decision for who? For everyone else…or for me?

It was all so silly that I suddenly had to laugh. What was I fretting about? There was no guarantee that I would ever see William Standing Bear ever again. Just because I had had prophetic dreams in the past didn't mean that every dream I had was prophetic. And so my brother was a vampire. I couldn't change it. I was beating myself up over things I had no control over.

I had to let go. I had to let things happen the way they would happen. I couldn't control everything. I didn't have to be the good girl all the time who was always thinking about everyone and everything except herself.

So I was in love with a man I'd met once, and he was someone my parents would drop dead in shock over. So my brother was a vampire, a blood-drinking, sparkling immortal.

So what?