Asheville NC, April 1999

Anxious to find out how her brother was, Carol Mattox pushed open the door of the hospital room. But the sight of him gave her a terrible shock, as though someone – or something – had reached in, grabbed her heart, and twisted it.

Dimly she registered her family’s presence. She tried to put on a smile, although she could feel it wobbling. “Phil, it’s me, your pest of a sister. I got here as soon as I could.” He’d been asking for her, and she had traveled such a long way to see him. Feeling a rare helplessness, she took his hand, and he opened his eyes.

But he began to moan, and struggled to raise himself. It was a mournful noise, and reminded Carol of things she’d heard in rituals related to her work. Automatically, the trained part of her mind tried to characterize the sound, note it for future reference.

Then, to her consternation, Phil fought to pull the oxygen line from his nose. When she tried to keep it in place, he blurted out, “I saw him!”

Puzzled, she bent closer. “Saw who?”

Phil shouted, looking past her, “That Indian! You’ll know what to do about him.”

Startled, Carol drew back.

“No, don’t!” Screaming now, Phil lunged at her, his eyes wide and staring. “You’ll kill me!” With surprising strength, he fastened trembling hands around Carol’s neck, still without registering her presence.

With an effort, she pried loose his fingers and looked at the others, frightened.

Her mother said, scarlet lips shaking, “He keeps talking about it. Says he saw an Indian open the flood gate at the dam.”

Carol’s blood ran cold. “Could that have happened?”

“Of course not. Especially not an Indian wearing buckskins, with a gold nugget on a red hat.” Marcie’s lips now twisted with scorn. But the look she gave Carol’s father was uneasy.

“He’s just raving; it’s the drugs they’re giving him,” Stanley Mattox pronounced. “Go along with it, like we do.”

Phil collapsed back onto his bed and lay unmoving, now seeming barely conscious. What had he meant by, ‘You’ll know what to do?’ Carol wondered.

As she gazed in bewilderment at her parents, her grandmother whispered, “Don’t pretend he doesn’t know what he’s saying. I’m telling you, the Mattox Curse has killed him, too!”

Carol jumped. “What are you talking about, Grandma?”

Her father replied, looking at his mother. “Hush, now. We won’t discuss something so silly as that, especially at a time like this.” He made it sound like a reprimand. Her father, still every inch the Senator, Carol thought, was still giving orders. Still telling people how to live their lives.

Her father began to pace, managing only a subdued nod at her. Her mother put a hand on her shoulder, then took it away. Well, Carol thought, as they hadn’t said much of a goodbye when she left two years ago, why would they say hello now? Grandma Harriet, thinner but dressed as elegantly as ever, sat in the recliner and snuffled into a handkerchief. Phil’s fiancee, Ellen, wore a sad smile, but seemed the only one glad to see her.

Anxiously, Carol noticed that Phil’s normally ruddy face was a sickly yellow. Always a big man, he looked shrunken. Tubes sprouted from him like roots. Why does he look so yellow? she wondered. The phone call that had summoned her had been brief, to the office of the research station. In another call she’d made hastily from the airport, her mother had sobbed so hard that talking was impossible. So Carol knew practically nothing about what had happened to Phil. Aloud, she whispered, “How is he?” to anybody listening.

Ellen glanced at the Mattoxes and, when they failed to answer, motioned Carol outside. Carol gave Phil’s hand a squeeze before following Ellen into the hallway, where Carol choked out, “What happened to him?”

Ellen’s slim hand rose, then fell again. “Nobody’s sure. He was fishing on the lake. You know how much he loves to fish.”

Carol made a fist and pressed it over her mouth, forcing herself to listen.

It was a moment before Ellen, too, could continue. “He knew the schedule, so the dam seems to have opened unscheduled. Of course, nobody will admit that, especially after your Daddy’s threats to sue them. Anyway, Phil’s boat was – was – swamped.” She faltered. “He was half-drowned when they pulled him out.” Finally her control crumbled.

“Ssh, ssh, now.” Carol stood on tip-toe to take Ellen in her arms, and held her close. They rocked back and forth a little, not speaking.

After a while Ellen pulled away. “Did you fly all the way from Phoenix today?”

“Well, I started last night; it took five hours to drive from the research station,” Carol told her, suddenly feeling that her head was too heavy for her neck.

Ellen’s arm slid around her. “You must be exhausted. Have you had anything to eat?”

Carol shook her head. “Don’t want anything.”

“You might feel better if you did. There’s a canteen down on the fifth floor. It isn’t much, but it’s quick. I need to get back to Phil. We’ll try to talk later.”

“You go ahead. I’ll be right there.”

When Ellen had gone, Carol leaned against the wall, thinking about going back into the room where Phil lay and her parents waited. A cup of strong coffee might help her face them. Everything had happened so suddenly – the midnight rousing from her hut, the desperate dash across the country – that she hadn’t had time to prepare herself for any of it; not for her disapproving parents, nor for leaving the safety of the anthropological past for the uncertainty of the living present. She was still shaking from seeing her parents again, from the violent tussle with Phil, and from the strange vision he’d described. Nothing like that ever happened to her in the remote, supposedly uncivilized, areas where she lived and worked.

Terrified through the endless night, all the way to North Carolina, she’d held on to the hope that Phil would be better by the time she got here. But he wasn’t. Finally, the tears rushed out in a flood like the one that had overcome him. She turned to the thick wall and cried against it, so that no one could see her red, wet eyes, the gaping hole of pain that was her mouth.

Suddenly a disturbingly familiar voice said, very close, “Carol?”

She whirled around and saw the man she’d loved since she was sixteen.

Thus Carol not only re-meets her old flame, but discovers that their ancestors once shared a passionate, forbidden love, too. If it sounds like destiny, that’s because it is. Here’s an excerpt from the ancestors’ story, interwoven with Carol and Winston’s in RITUAL RIVER:

The Nantahala Gorge, western North Carolina, August 1837

“Heelllppp!”

The cry was a woman’s, high-pitched, long and frantic. It so startled the rider thundering along the narrow, stony river trail that he slowed his horse.

It came again, even more urgent. “Heelllppp!” Alert now, Tallaquoyah Wolf raised his head. As if it impeded his hearing, he snatched off the dark red cloth fastened with a gold nugget that bound his head – a mark of his tribe and his high station within it – releasing long locks of dark hair that had been pinioned underneath.

That the voice was female was more surprising than its hysterical plea. This track was nearly impassable, and few women ventured into the isolated mountains of the Nantahala Gorge. Fewer still spoke English.

“Heelllp!” was now followed by a cascade of frenzied calls. “Help … oh, help me, somebody, please!” Wolf had no doubt she was in mortal danger. He brought his mount to a full stop and listened, hard, rising even taller. There was no saddle; he had no need of one.

He turned his head first in one direction, then another, trying to pinpoint the cries. At the same time he sniffed the air. Here in the dense forest it held mostly the sweet sourness of leaf mold. The scent of people was faint. But then, water lessened the power of smells. Thus the shouts for help, he reasoned, were coming from the rushing, twisting river itself. Doubtless the trouble lay around that sharp bend. He touched his horse’s flanks with soft boots that wore no spurs; they were for men who did not treat animals as equals.

Then he noticed ruts in the softer dirt near the edge of the embankment. They had been made by a wagon, for they were wider and deeper than a buggy’s. There was also the sign of many horses’ hooves. So much trampling had been done by frightened horses.

As he rounded the bend he met a sight that stopped his headlong gallop. Sprawled down the river bank was the wreckage of a wagon and team. His old friend Flapjack Foster was pinned underneath it, not moving. He might be unconscious. Or he might be dead. Wolf decided to save the living. She couldn’t be too far away.

Just then the screaming started again, diluted to a splutter from the water she was swallowing. “Ahggh! I’m drowning! Help! Help me!” Wolf’s stomach muscles contracted. It had been many moons since he’d had a woman, and he was ready.

Then he saw her. Instead of one of his own tribe, or even another tribe, he was surprised to see a white woman, small and with the palest skin he’d ever seen, and hair that curled and glinted gold even when plastered to her head by the river. Immediately his lust to possess her turned to an equally strong desire to save her. Or maybe they were the same. “Ahhgghh!” she gurgled as she went under. Finally she came up again, thrashing at the water. She was in the deepest part of the boulder-strewn river, and being carried swiftly downstream. She would either drown or be dashed against the rocks. Even if she could swim, which was doubtful, she was weighed down by all her clothes. Another reason to wear few of them, he thought, peeling off his suit and shirt, and the fine calfskin boots bought on his last trip to Washington City. Then he dived into the river.

Watching him, Isabelle Matttox choked out a mouthful of water. “God, please help me!” She had regarded the man on the bank with horror, unsure which would be worse: drowning in the icy torrent or looking at a naked man. He might not be so much her savior as her enemy. They had crossed into Cherokee country, so he might even be an Indian. At this thought she screamed again. “Oh, God! Help me!” It caused her to swallow more of the river, and she began to sink.

She feared his help came too late, anyway. In its rage the river had torn her bonnet from her head. Her shoes were heavy, her long dress and three petticoats dragged her down. Chin barely above water, she shut her eyes, unable to cope longer with the horror that had befallen her. She gulped more water and, resigned to her fate, began to sink.

But immediately his body was against hers. She felt its length, its solidity, the cords of muscles running from his shoulders down long legs. Knowing he was naked made her shiver, but no longer from fear. With great strength he lifted up her head, and kept it out of the water, cradling her in a strong arm as he swam to the river bank. Once again torn between the upsetting option of being saved or being aroused, she was both sorry and grateful to stumble against the rocks that edged the water.

Then he threw her down on the bank, heavily, on her face, smashing her nose, and slapped her roughly all over, particularly on her back. This forced the water out, a most unpleasant experience. She cried out, only to bite into the dirt. She tried to spit it out, wipe off her face, but it hurt to breathe, and moving was painful. Best to lie still for a time.