Free Prophecy by David Seltzer

disappointed to find that it was just another pond in the forest.
    The myth of the secret lagoon had once reached the ears of some flower children from New York, and they had gone there planting marijuana seeds in the hope that they would grow to gargantuan size. They were chased off by the Indians; the sheriff’s deputies had plowed up the ground with picks and shovels to make sure the seeds didn’t blossom. Hawks wondered if a few of the seeds might have survived. If the old man was chewing cannabis while he meditated at the pond, that could well explain his visions of Katahdin.
    As they now came closer to the old man’s encampment, Hawks paused and gazed in through the trees. It was just as he had left it: in the midst of this troubled forest, an oasis of peace and beauty. Three huge, conical tents made from animal hides stood in a circle, a large fire pit, rimmed with stones, in the center. A line strung between two poles held drying animal skins and strips of jerky; an elegant, handmade archer’s bow leaned against a tree. It was a bow that Hawks himself had used when, as a child, he was tutored in archery by M’rai.
    The smell of animal fat hung in the air; another reminder of Hawk’s youth. As he stood there, he felt transported in time.
    “Noa’hgna’aught N’hak’tah,” one of the men behind him said. He was warning Hawks that no one was allowed in the old man’s encampment without invitation. The language of Hawks’s childhood was still familiar to him; he had some command of it and could make himself understood.
    “D’hana’ht Yo’ahtha,” Hawks replied as he pointed in the direction of the road. The men moved off, leaving him alone. Since he had arrived back in the forest, Hawks had refrained from asking anyone about Romona. He could not pass by without knowing if she was there.
    Stepping forward into the compound, Hawks called her name.
     
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    “A’hanspanitah Oliana… ?” After a moment, one of the tent flaps pulled back, and she appeared. She was more beautiful now than he remembered her. Her dark hair had the sheen of a forest animal’s; it draped gently against her shoulders with the contour of a graceful waterfall. Her body was lean and agile and stood straight as only an Indian woman’s could. But her eyes were vulnerable and filled with hurt.
    She stood in silence, overwhelmed to see him. “Thank God,” she whispered.
    “I’m back to stay.”
    “I’ll fight with you now, John,” she whispered. “I’ll fight beside you. We’re dying in here.”
    “Come with me now.”
    “Where?”
    “The first battle is today.”
    Without hesitation she followed, watching Hawks move in front of her through the forest as though he belonged there. He was all Indian now; she could see it in the way his feet touched the forest floor. There was much she wanted to tell him. About the stillbirths and the sickness. But he was filled with single-minded purpose now. She would wait until he was ready.
    As the small twin-engined Cessna dipped beneath the cloud cover, Rob and Maggie looked out its small window, catching their first glimpse of the forest below. Maggie’s cello was propped upright in an empty seat behind her, Rob’s doctor’s kit beside it. The symbols of the two personalities that had kept them apart for so long were riding separately behind them.
    Hours earlier, in a hurried call to the symphony conductor, Maggie had promised to continue practicing the Schumann on her two-week vacation if they would substitute for her until she returned. The conductor complained, but Maggie was firm; the assertive-62
     
    ness of the moment had acted on her like a shot of vitamins. She felt confident and proud of herself for taking a step toward solving her dilemma.
    For his part Rob, too, was grateful that she had come. In the limbo of sky-transit they were more at ease with each other than they had been in months. They had held hands all the way, recounting fond and funny memories, both