Divine by Choice (34 page)

“D
ress in layers,” Clint said, handing me his favorite sweatshirt. He watched with a possessive smile as I pulled it on over the shirt I already wore.

“Got an extra pair of socks?” I asked.

He nodded and retrieved another pair for both of us. We dressed methodically in silence. I glanced under my lashes at him. Is this how he looked when he used to put on his flight suit and head out to enter the cockpit of his fighter jet? Had he fought in Desert Storm? His face looked stern but serene, like nothing could bother him. Like he was used to going into battle. There were so many things about him I didn't know—so many things I'd like to discover.

“I want you to wear one of my coats.” He pulled two thick, down ski-type jackets from the coat closet. “You'll need to have plenty of room to move.”

He handed me one of the coats, then reached back into the dark recesses of a high shelf in the closet. He grabbed something black and heavy, pulling it out with a metallic thump. I heard a click as he shoved a clip into the gun's handle.

He felt my eyes on him and turned slowly to face me.

“Promise me you won't do it,” I said stonily.

He hesitated, searching my eyes.

“I couldn't bear it if you killed her.” Just thinking about it made my heart feel like it might beat out of my chest.

“I swear to you that I will draw none of her blood.” His voice took on a singsong quality, as if he has intoning a spell. The air around us shimmered, and for a moment I felt a presence like the beating of hummingbird wings.

“Thank you, Clint,” I said solemnly.

“Dress yourself and let's get going.” The gun fit in a black nylon holster, which was attached to a belt. Clint slung it around his hips with a brisk movement that said this was not the first time he had carried a gun.

I zipped my coat and pulled on my gloves and hat. “Ready,” I said. My voice sounded too loud.

“Remember, I'll always love you, Shannon my girl. Wherever you are.”

His kiss was hard. Then he opened the door and we stepped into the deadly quiet of the morning.

The deep snow was like walking through water. The fat, cotton-like flakes had morphed into the steady stinging beads that were snow mixed with ice. There was no wind and the icy crystals quickly covered our hats and shoulders with a slick film. I was relieved when we entered the heart of the forest. There the enormous limbs of the intermeshing trees, though naked in their winter hibernation, served as a canopy to shield us from the worst of the storm.

And I was gratified when the ethereal echo of the welcoming whispers began.

We greet you, Beloved of the Goddess!

Hail, Epona!

Welcome, Chosen One!

The path widened and I was able to walk next to Clint. I wrapped my arm through his.

“Are the trees talking to you again?” He smiled down at me.

“Can you hear them, too?”

“No.” He held a branch back so it didn't smack me in the face. I let my fingers trail over it, loving the surge of warmth that melted through my gloves. “The forest doesn't speak to me like it does to you.”

We had a long walk ahead of us and curiosity was gnawing at me. “Clint, you told me that you had always liked the forest and camping and stuff like that.” Yuck, I thought. “But you didn't tell me exactly how you came to be so in tune with the forest. How did you discover you could draw energy from the trees if they don't talk to you?”

Clint took a deep breath. He suddenly seemed stiff and withdrawn. I untangled my arm from his so I could squeeze his hand and tug imploringly at him. “Please tell me. I need to understand.”

He took another deep breath and finally squeezed my hand back. “Well, Shannon my girl, it's not something I like to talk about, but maybe you should know.”

I raised my eyebrows at him, afraid if I said too much he'd have second thoughts about talking.

“After my accident I was in the hospital for about six months. Then rehab seemed to go on forever. Friends who had at first come to visit regularly quit coming by, or when they did they acted jittery, like they felt guilty for not wanting to be there.” He barked a self-effacing laugh. “Hell, I didn't blame them. Who wants to hang out with an invalid in the hospital? After a while I was alone.”

“What about your family, your mom and dad, brothers and sisters?”

“They live in Florida.”

“No girlfriend?” I tried not to grind my teeth.

“I had one, but it became unmistakably clear that Ginger had only been interested in dating a fighter pilot, not a broken-down ex-flyboy.”

I looked at him and almost laughed out loud. He was strong and handsome, the antithesis of a broken-down anything. But, then again, what can you expect from a woman named Ginger? Please.

“No ex-wife who came sniffing back around?” I sounded like a prying bitch, even to me.

“Sure, she brought my son by the hospital for a little while.” He smiled sadly. “I thought she was being kind, but pretty soon it was obvious that she liked the publicity and the attention. When my fifteen minutes of fame ran out, so did she.”

“You still loved her?” I hated that I felt so damn jealous.

“No, we married way too young and as we grew up we grew apart. The divorce was mutual and amiable.” He shrugged. “But I could have used a real friend when I was in the hospital, and it would have been nice if there had been at least that much left between us.”

The resignation in his voice made my heart hurt, and something he'd said surfaced through all the unspoken questions that were whirling around in my mind, impatiently waiting for me to ask him. He had a son.

“What about your son?” It made me feel odd to think about Clint having a child. Part of me wanted to be glad he had someone, and another part of me felt very jealous. Again.

He blew a long breath through his mouth. “Not much to say about Eddy. We don't get along. I've never understood it, but it always seemed the harder I tried to find something in common with him, or to figure out ways to get close to him, the more he withdrew from me. I used to blame his mom, but that's not fair. The boy and I just don't speak the same language.”

I didn't know what to say. I found it hard to believe any boy wouldn't be thrilled that his father was a fighter pilot, and wouldn't rush to emulate him.

He moved his shoulders restlessly. “It used to eat at me, and after the divorce I tried to force him to spend time with me. He had just turned thirteen when I had the accident. I was in bad shape for so long I didn't see him for months, damn close to a year. When I finally left the hospital he acted like being around me scared him. I couldn't figure out why. I still can't figure it out. So I stepped away.”

Clint paused and seemed to collect himself. When he started speaking again instead of his voice being tinged with guilt, he sounded like he'd come to peace with himself. “He's eighteen now. A young man. Last I heard he joined a rock band. His mom called me not long ago. She's worried about him, seems he's into drugs. I tried to talk to him and he shut me out. Again. Basically, he knows where I am, and he knows my door is always open to him if he's willing to get help. Maybe one day the part of me that's inside him will wake up. I'd like that, and I think that no matter how tough he pretends to be, he would, too.”

“One thing I learned from ten years of teaching is that sometimes even good people have messed-up kids,” I said quietly.

Clint squeezed my hand again and continued, “So, about two years ago I found myself alone. I couldn't fly fighters anymore. The friends I'd known for most of my life were uncomfortable around me. I didn't know what to do with myself.” He paused to help me over a drift that was blocking our way. “I was on a fishing trip, staying at a lodge not far from here. Fish weren't biting, of course, so I pulled the boat to the shore and decided to hike up the side of a cliff and do some deep thinking.”

Clint's voice died and we walked on in silence.

“And that's when you found out you had an affinity with the trees?” I prompted.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “But only after I tried to kill myself.”

“What!” I stopped walking.

He wouldn't look at me, but tugged at my hand so I had to keep walking to keep up with him.

“The deep thinking I did led me to the conclusion that I had no damn reason whatsoever to live. So I pulled out my rifle and leaned against the trunk of a huge oak, trying to find some way to blow my head off.” His voice roughened as he remembered. “And the tree spoke to me. I haven't heard one that clearly since. I thought I was going nuts at first, but with its voice came such a—” he hesitated, searching for the right words “—a feeling of acceptance that I had to believe.”

I understood exactly what he meant. “What did it say to you?” I asked quietly.

“It called me Shaman and told me to awake.”

Clint was blushing adorably as he hurried to finish his story.

“So I pulled all my money out of the bank, cashed in some CDs and bought this place. And made new friends.” This time his laugh was free of sarcasm. “Mostly old Indians. There're a lot of Choctaw who still live in this area. They try to keep the old ways alive. I'm learning how to help them, which usually means driving them to the doctor, or to the store for supplies, but sometimes it means just sitting and listening.”

“You have people to take care of, too,” I said to him.

“I guess that's something we have in common.”

I didn't respond because it wasn't myself I had been comparing him to—it was the other High Shaman in my life.

“So you don't actually hear the trees speak anymore?”

“I just feel them. Sometimes they put ideas into my mind, or warn me of a storm. Once in a while I'll stumble onto an especially ancient tree, like the ones in the grove, and I can
hear it whisper the word
Shaman
.” His face radiated the joy of that single word.

The word that had saved his life.

“Anything else you want to know, my Lady?” He bowed me past another low-hanging branch.

“Yes—I want to know what it's like to fly an F-16.”

His face took on a faraway expression. “Shannon my girl, the power…it's unbelievable. And it's all at your fingertips. It becomes a part of you. The cockpit is a glass bubble. You can see all around you. No sides, no boundaries. Imagine that the visibility is like you're flying on the end of a broomstick.” He laughed. It was a joyous sound.

“Is that some kind of crack about me being a witch? I'll have you know I'm a Goddess Incarnate, and we don't use broomsticks to fly.” Please. How gauche.

He continued speaking, pointedly ignoring my quip. “The view is like you're hanging out there in the air, and the jet becomes an extension of your body. You become pure power.”

I blinked in surprise. “Like when I channeled the energy of the trees through my body?”

“Yeah, probably something a lot like that. It's bigger than you. You're just along for the ride.”

“And what a ride!” We smiled at each other like gleeful children and once again linked arms, moving ever closer to the heart of the forest.

Soon the path took an abrupt right turn, climbed steeply and narrowed. Looking around, I realized I recognized this distinctive area. We couldn't be far from the grove. I let Clint go ahead of me, and as he turned to give me a hand up, his foot slid off the side of a snow-crusted rock.

“Damn!” he cursed, catching his balance by twisting his weight around, arms flailing. I saw a flash of pain cross his face.

Scrambling up after him, I said breathlessly, “Hey, I thought
I'd healed you from that back pain last night.” Hadn't I? That's what it had seemed like to me.

Regaining his balance he grabbed my hand and pulled me up next to him.

“Shannon my girl, it wasn't my back that you healed.” Then he turned and started quickly down the narrow path.

I hurried after him. I hadn't healed his back? I was sure that I had felt pain beneath my fingertips. I remembered focusing the energy within me through my hands and into him, and he had responded—I was sure of it.

He needs you, My Chosen One.

Epona's words came back clearly to my searching memory. I stomped after Clint, my mind whirring. What was happening to me? What was I becoming? I hugged myself, feeling suddenly insecure and frightened.

A Goddess speaks to me. And, more than that (as if I needed more), it was apparent she was using me to impact people's lives, not just in an ancient world where they were used to that kind of thing, but here in the good old US of A.

But I'm not a spiritual leader or valiant modern-day Joan of Arc. I'm just a misplaced English teacher who is in love with one too many men/horses/whatever.