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Savage Illusions

Page 34

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She wo­uld not al­low her­self to re­mem­ber that her brot­her had be­en too co­wardly to sa­ve her.

Chapter Fourteen

Traveling in the back of the wa­gon in­s­te­ad of on the se­at be­si­de Kirk, Jole­na spre­ad her jo­ur­nals aro­und her, her fin­gers gin­gerly pin­ning first one spe­ci­men of but­terfly on­to a bo­ard, then anot­her.

She stop­ped, and with a mag­nif­ying glass stu­di­ed one of the most co­lor­ful and be­a­uti­ful but­ter­f­li­es she had ever se­en. Its wings we­re co­ve­red with over­lap­ping sca­les, tho­usands of the­se tiny sca­les gi­ving the in­sect its bril­li­ant co­lors.

Jolena was scar­cely awa­re of the thun­der that was rum­b­ling out­si­de the wa­gon, muf­fled so­mew­hat by the tre­es of the fo­rest. Only mo­ments ago, she had be­en sit­ting out­si­de be­si­de her brot­her, ad­mi­ring the bril­li­ant oran­ge flo­wers sta­ring out boldly from vi­nes on the si­des of the tre­es, the­ir scent trap­ped in the ste­ady air. She had be­en in awe of a co­lor­ful li­zard as it bas­ked on a rock in the rib­bons of sun that bro­ke thro­ugh the thick fo­li­age over­he­ad.

She was not even awa­re of the strug­gling ef­forts of tho­se who we­re le­ading the te­ams of mu­les thro­ugh the thick fo­rest in an ef­fort to enab­le ever­yo­ne to con­ti­nue tra­ve­ling along the nar­row path that had be­en cut thro­ugh the fo­rest by ear­li­er tra­ve­lers, in­s­te­ad of be­ing for­ced to tra­vel on the mu­les or on fo­ot.

Jolena bu­si­ed her fin­gers to get to­get­her the col­lec­ti­on of but­ter­f­li­es for her fat­her, whi­le her mind was busy el­sew­he­re.

"Spotted Eag­le," she whis­pe­red, thril­ling at the me­re so­und of his na­me as it bre­at­hed ac­ross her lips.

She had ne­ver tho­ught that be­ing in lo­ve co­uld ma­ke one fe­el so much mo­re ali­ve. It was as tho­ugh all of her fe­elings we­re in­ten­si­fi­ed now that she had fal­len in lo­ve. She felt as tho­ugh her very he­art was sin­ging!

A lu­rid flash of lig­h­t­ning clo­se by out­si­de

the wa­gon and an en­su­ing crash of thun­der ca­used Jole­na's fin­gers to slip so that the pin she was re­ad­ying to stick in­to the bo­ard pric­ked her fin­ger in­s­te­ad.

"Ouch!" she whis­pe­red harshly, win­cing even mo­re as blo­od be­gan tric­k­ling down her fin­ger.

Reaching for a cle­an, dry pi­ece of cot­ton, she pla­ced it over the tiny wo­und. She then jum­ped with alarm when lig­h­t­ning flas­hed aga­in, sen­ding its lu­rid light thro­ugh the can­vas of the wa­gon, fol­lo­wed by an even lo­uder crash of thun­der.

As a small child, Jole­na had al­ways co­ve­red her he­ad with a blan­ket if it stor­med in the mid­dle of the night whi­le she was alo­ne in her bed­ro­om. Now she craw­led to the front of the wa­gon and ga­zed up­ward, gas­ping. Black, bil­lo­wing clo­uds we­re vi­sib­le thro­ugh the bre­ak in the tre­es over­he­ad. She grab­bed for Kirk's arm when lig­h­t­ning flo­oded the fo­rest with anot­her se­ri­es of blue-whi­te flas­hes, thun­der bo­oming only se­conds la­ter.

Kirk ga­ve Jole­na a frown over his sho­ul­der. "We're in for one bad storm," he sho­uted over the lo­ud thras­hing of the le­aves over­he­ad as the wind sud­denly be­gan whip­ping thro­ugh the tre­es. "It's go­ing to hit us he­ad on. The­re's no way to get away from it."

"Is the­re an­y­t­hing I can do?" Jole­na as­ked, glan­cing aro­und her as the can­vas co­ver of the wa­gon be­gan to stra­in aga­inst the bolts that we­re ke­eping it in pla­ce.

"Go to the back and tie down the co­ver as tightly as you can," Kirk sho­uted. "Clo­se the front ope­ning al­so, or ever­y­t­hing we own might get blown away or so­aked. Then all we can do is sit tight and ri­de this one out."

Jolena nod­ded.

She craw­led to the back of the wa­gon and ti­ed the can­vas down as tightly as pos­sib­le. She went from bolt to bolt, tes­ting them, glad to find that they we­re all tight and snug.

Then she sta­red at her jo­ur­nals and the de­li­ca­te spe­ci­mens of but­ter­f­li­es spre­ad out on the wa­gon flo­or. To ma­ke su­re they we­re not har­med, she co­ve­red them with she­ets of can­vas that they had bro­ught along just for this pur­po­se.

When she felt that ever­y­t­hing was se­cu­red as well as pos­sib­le, she tur­ned and sta­red at Kirk aga­in, then at the empty se­at be­si­de him, won­de­ring if she wan­ted to ri­de out the storm at his si­de or wit­hin the can­vas walls of the wa­gon.

Fearing be­ing alo­ne du­ring the storm, she cho­se to sit out­si­de with her brot­her. She rus­hed to the se­at and sat down, then tur­ned and drew the can­vas to­get­her be­hind them and ti­ed it se­cu­rely in pla­ce.

She clung ner­vo­usly to the se­at, her eyes dar­ting aro­und, trying to find Spot­ted Eag­le. He was usu­al­ly the­re, clo­se to her wa­gon. But this ti­me he was mis­sing. He was pro­bably go­ing from wa­gon to wa­gon, chec­king to see if ever­y­t­hing was re­adi­ed for the storm.

Two Rid­ges was still the­re, ri­ding a lit­tle be­hind her wa­gon. A stran­ge col­d­ness se­emed to se­ize her when she fo­und him sta­ring at her, his eyes sha­do­wed as ever­y­t­hing be­ca­me dull and gray with the ap­pro­ach of the storm.

She co­uld not put her fin­ger on what tro­ub­led her abo­ut Two Rid­ges. It was not only that he had be­en too co­wardly to sa­ve her from the fall over the cliff. She had felt the sa­me way be­fo­re her ac­ci­dent. The­re se­emed to be so­met­hing abo­ut him that tug­ged at her so­ul, as tho­ugh per­haps she had known him in anot­her ti­me, anot­her li­fe.

It was not the sa­me fe­eling that she had abo­ut Spot­ted Eag­le. So­me­how he had ap­pe­ared in her dre­ams, be­co­ming re­al to her be­fo­re she'd met him.

She had known not­hing of Two Rid­ges un­til she first la­id eyes on him. Yet sin­ce that first eye con­tact, so­met­hing had be­en the­re, tro­ub­ling her and se­emingly ha­un­ting him as well.

Fear grip­ped her as anot­her me­na­cing bolt of lig­h­t­ning lit the tre­es with its sil­ver light, fol­lo­wed by a fast roll of thun­der. She grip­ped the se­at with her fin­gers as the me­na­cing black clo­uds ra­ced over­he­ad with enor­mo­us spe­ed, pus­hed by tre­men­do­us winds that we­re cur­ling the tree tops.

Then the ra­in be­gan fal­ling in tor­rents, the wind las­hing the ra­in aga­inst Jole­na's fa­ce. She scre­amed as the tre­es be­gan swa­ying jer­kily, thre­ate­ning to hurl down the­ir bran­c­hes.

''Get in­si­de the wa­gon!" Kirk sho­uted, wi­ping wa­ter from his fa­ce with the back of one hand, whi­le with his ot­her he tri­ed to ke­ep the wa­gon ste­ady as the mu­les re­ared and bra­yed.



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