Chapter 9

Waneeta echoed, "Thomas Stafford?"

"Yes, dear, he's the man who founded our village. What’s wrong? You're as pale as a ghost! Are you all right?"

"No, I'm not." The more she looked down at the picture, the more an icy hand clutched her heart. The wave of queasiness was slowly easing away. What was happening? What had happened? The photo, curled at its edges, shook in her hand. But still, Thomas' face leapt out at her. Waneeta could almost see the blue of his eyes piercing the sepia.

Tears swelled in her eyes. She sniffled. Thinking quickly, she added, "It's the mold on this old stuff, I guess. I must be allergic to it."

Doris hurried over to the side board and poured some tea. Waneeta gratefully accepted the cup, turning the photograph over as she did. She couldn't get her mind to concentrate. She couldn't get her hands to stop shaking.

This made no sense. There must be a logical explanation. Out there somewhere in the woods there was a cabin, in it Thomas Stafford, a living, vibrant male, maybe the man Doris had mentioned, the relative who’d wanted to clear out his parents' attic? A man who'd come up here and decided to spend a few days before returning to his home in the US.

Thomas had helped her when she was hurt, and had even proposed to her. Ghosts don't help you right your snowmobile. Ghosts don't ask you to marry them.

But they do disappear as Thomas had done.

"Excuse me for a minute. I need to use your washroom."

The flowery and feminine washroom smelled of roses and vanilla. With her back now pressed against the locked door, Waneeta steadied her nerves, and then pulled up on her shirt.

Thomas was no ghost, no figment of her imagination. The dark iodine that he'd offered for her scrape still stained her skin.

Her shaking hand released her shirt and it swept over the purplish spot.

This was just a coincidence. The grandson had the same name.

After splashing cold water on her face, Waneeta found Doris in the living room. She sat down on the sofa beside the woman and immediately took a harsh gulp of the scalding tea, forcing it to pain her back to reality. "Doris, where did this Thomas guy live? In that school house?"

"Oh, no, dear, he lived in a cabin up the mountain. If you come back this summer, we could take a walk up there. It's a bit of a hike, but quite pretty. Wait, I think my brother mentioned that you'd come that way. You didn't see the cabin?"

"No," she lied. "Is it still used?"

Doris laughed and shook her head. "Not for years. I've been here all my life and have never known it to be. Thomas' grandson wrote and told me he used to spend his summers here, in the thirties. I suppose it’s probably all broken down by now. It was ramshackle when I was a little girl."

Waneeta couldn’t offer up a comment. Thomas' grandson would be too old to be her Thomas. Yes, she would come back on the long weekend to find Thomas and demand the truth from him.

Sitting on the sofa beside her, Doris had opened the ledger book she’d found earlier. "Look, Waneeta. This isn't a ledger, at all. It's a journal!"

A journal? Thomas' journal? The one he'd mentioned. Waneeta's breath stalled within her.

Was she in it?

No! That would be insane. How could she be? Thomas was alive, out there in the woods, still writing in his own journal. She should race out of here right now and find him, beg him to tell her everything was all right, that the forest had only played tricks on her. That he was only some distant relative of this one in the photograph.

He'd tell that this was all some crazy coincidence.

Waneeta fought the urge to grab the journal from her hostess, but waited anxiously for Doris to idly set it down.

The tea cup shook in her hands, forcing Waneeta to set it down. Immediately, she reached for the journal. The moldy cover resisted opening. Waneeta stared at the first page for one long minute. Then she gingerly pressed the cover back further to read the opening line.

March 15, 1896

The only thing of interest that I did today was start this new journal.

Tears sprang into her eyes. Over a hundred and fifteen years ago.

Yet, only a few days ago.

Yesterday? Or was it? No, it couldn't be! Could it?

Did she ask that out loud?  A furtive glance told her no. "Doris," she finally squeaked out. "May I borrow this tonight? I'd love to read it."

Doris looked up with sympathy. "I imagine you're tired. I like to read in bed myself. Take it. Tell me in the morning if there's anything interesting in there. Ooh, wait until the Historical Society hears about all of this. We even have a slate and an old ink well!"

Waneeta rose. "It's all wonderful, but you're right, I am tired. It's all that work today. I should have your stamina."

Beaming at the compliment, Doris asked, "Would you like a cup of tea to take up with you?"

"No thanks. I'll hop into bed. We've already showered, so I'm ready for it. I hope I can stay awake long enough to read this."

Upstairs, Waneeta hurried through her preparations, ignoring the guilt at lying to Doris. But she’d been so anxious to read Thomas' journal that it seemed the only polite way out.

She sank into bed, and reopened the stiff book.

March 15 1896

The only thing of interest that I did today, was start a new journal. And, like most times with a fresh piece of paper, I feel excited, like something extraordinary will happen. Indeed, the feeling is so strong as I begin this new book, the words are flowing from the nib of my pen, because of it.

How eloquent he sounded, Waneeta thought. Quivering with anticipation, she read on.

The least interesting thing I did was wash the floor.

She smiled. Thomas was being facetious. But it was so good to see his handwriting, as if seeing the long script gave a sense of warmth, of connection.

Good grief, did she really think that this was her Thomas writing this journal? That would be impossible.

Still entranced, she returned to her reading.

March 18 1896,

The day started cloudy and cool. Despite the anticipation I continue to feel, I must say the weather does not appear conducive to any expectation. To ease my tension, I baked bread and split wood. If a stranger were to happen by, they'd think I was expecting company.

The pages blurred and shook before her, forcing Waneeta to set down the book and breathe deeply. She hastily wiped her eyes before picking up the book again.

I must finish what happened to me today, although several days have passed since I opened this journal. But how do I start? I've had such an extraordinary adventure that I find it hard to put on paper, except to start at the beginning of this odd tale. I did indeed have a visitor today. Just as I was preparing for bed, I heard a noise outside. I thought it was the wind, but when I heard a thud against my cabin, I went out to investigate.

I found a most peculiar woman slumped against the logs. When I brought her inside, she was unconscious and injured. I removed the most exceptional garment that I've ever seen from her body, to find she wore only a pair of leggings and a thin shirt of cotton.

The woman was beautiful. I had a hard time tearing my eyes from her. When she awoke, I treated her as best that I could without appearing to be enamored with her. She didn't appear to be bothered by her attire, although I must say I was.

The woman was an odd sort, but her loveliness quelled any suspicion I may have had. I didn't think at first, I was so entranced by her. She wasn't like any other women I've known before. And, although she claims to have lived in Pembroke all her life, she has not seen a camboose shanty before!

Her story was unusual as I was soon to discover. When I asked her what she was doing out here late at night, she told me her cousin had taken her out for a walk! All the way out here, or so I had assumed. Then she claimed to have seen a meteorite. In fact, her outfit was covered in tiny spark holes that seemed to corroborate her story. Regardless, I must admit to being skeptical, because everything about her was so unusual, but I found myself believing her. We introduced ourselves. Her name was Juanita Meadows, spelled phonetically, she claimed. Which would make it Waneeta, I suppose.

Oh, Lord! Waneeta shut her eyes. The release of tension from her body caused her to whimper, and she shook with shock. As she hastily brushed the tears across her cheeks, Waneeta realized her plight.

Thomas had not been a figment of her imagination. She had the iodine stain, the photo, this journal.

Her memories, too. And the forest wasn't out to get her. Granted, it had changed, but what did you expect in over a century? That tree must have just been freshly uprooted when she met Thomas, but a century later it was barely distinguishable. The tree with the fork in it was hardly more than a sapling when Thomas walked these woods, and now it was one of the old growth trees, too deformed to be cut down. Only to be used as a seeder tree now.

Waneeta put her hand to her mouth and bit her knuckles. The pristine snow, the cabin, Thomas himself had told her what she could never have believed. Even the way he reacted to the snowmobile; they were all clues now confirmed.

I traveled back in time!

Tears streamed down her face, and Waneeta refused to fight them. Never in her wildest dreams would she believe this could happen. But the proof was there, recorded for posterity, a century ago.

When the sobbing finally died, Waneeta glanced at her watch. She'd been in bed only half an hour.

It felt like a hundred years.

Bad choice of words. Looking again at her watch, she touched its crystal face. The last time she glanced at it was in the garage. But hadn't it broken during her spill in the woods? Or had it been affected by the change in time that was so drastic, it had overloaded its circuitry?

She stumbled into the ensuite to splash cold water on her face. How could this be true?  How could it have happened?

Waneeta returned to the bedroom, and after sitting, she lifted the book again. Brown spots dotted various leaves of well aged paper and the spine was now warped. A large, wet circle told her that one of her tears had landed there.

What had happened to Thomas? Had he married? The man who had owned all of Thomas’ things had been a grandson, Doris had said. Yes, Thomas had married, raised children-

Been with another woman.

Jolted by that, Waneeta gripped the journal more and read on.