In the Shadow of the Moon

"The law of humanity ought to be composed of the past, the present, and the future, that we bear within us; whoever possesses but one of these terms, has but a fragment of the law of the moral world."

  —Edgar Quinet

Prologue

The house stood strong and silent, bidding me to come nearer as if it were an old friend needing companionship. The windows stared at me with familiarity, and the feeling of having been there before hit me with a force so strong I had to stop. I grabbed my husband's hand and pulled him back across the brick sidewalk.

"I want this house."

Jack turned to me as if to say something but remained silent. He was very well acquainted with my particular brand of stubbornness.

Weeds as high as my pregnant swell grew behind the dilapidated picket fence, and the roof over the porch sagged desperately. Shattered panes looked out of the two dormer windows, and the entire place needed painting. A large fan window crowned the massive front door while white rocking chairs perched invitingly on the porch. It was a remarkable house, but there was something else about it that caused me to pause before it--some sort of unexplainable connection. Four stately columns stood sentry at the front, and I could picture in my mind's eye beautiful belles and gallant gentlemen from a time gone by, sweeping down the still graceful steps.

"I hate to disappoint you, Laura, but I don't think it's for sale. I don't see a realtor's sign."

I was already pushing open the front gate, its rusty hinges squeaking in protest.

"We'll never know unless we ask." I waddled up the front steps to the porch, grasping tightly to the chipped and peeling wood banister.

Due to the imminent expansion of our family, our Atlanta apartment was no longer large enough. We needed a house. Not just brick, mortar, and roof shingles but a home to love and call our own and raise our family in. An older house with creaky wood floors and impossible to heat rooms with high ceilings. This was my house.

In the absence of a doorbell, I grabbed the dull brass knocker and banged a little too loudly. Jack had his back to the door and was surveying the wreckage of the front yard and porch. I didn't need to see his face to know what expression he was wearing.

I stood for several minutes, ignoring my urge to tap my foot. I was about to knock again when the sound of a latch being drawn from inside rattled the heavy wood door.

The woman opening the door was tall like me, but her shoulders were slightly stooped. The intensity of her blue eyes seemed to add height and strength to her willowy figure. A halo of white hair framed an oval-shaped face with smooth, supple skin. She could have been anywhere from sixty to eighty years old. I made a mental note to ask her what she used for her skin.

Her smile revealed a row of white, evenly spaced teeth. "Oh, my! You're finally here," she said as she opened the door wider.

I looked at her in confusion. "Have we met?"

She opened the door wider, and I caught a whiff of mothballs and furniture polish. I inadvertently wrinkled my nose and stifled a cough. My sense of smell had become acutely sensitive since my pregnancy, and even the slightest odor could overwhelm me. I must have staggered a bit because the old lady grabbed my forearm in a surprisingly firm grasp and brought me inside through the receiving hall to a sofa in the front parlor.

"My dear, you must be careful of this heat in your condition." She motioned Jack to take a seat opposite me in a fiddleback chair. Her voice was rich with the warm accents reminiscent of the Deep South.

I should have been embarrassed by the situation. Jack obviously was, as he kept trying to stand and offer apologies to our impromptu hostess, but strangely, I felt very much at ease in this lady's presence and in her house.

The old woman disregarded Jack's sputtering and excused herself to get us all some iced tea and refreshments. Jack was raised up north in Connecticut where I figured people didn't just drop in on strangers to have tea with them. I'd never done it before, either, but for some reason, it didn't seem as if the owner thought we were imposing on her. There was something in the way she looked at me, as if we had met before.

Situated against one wall was an upright piano, its polished surface markedly different from the dusty, worn pieces of furniture in the room. The ivory veneer was missing on the G key above middle C, as if something heavy had dropped on it and chipped it off.

"Laura, what are we doing here?" Jack busily eyed the cracked wall plaster and water stain on the ceiling. "You can't possibly be thinking of buying this house."

I walked to stand behind him, and put my arms around his shoulders. Kissing him on his cheek, I followed his gaze toward a mess of wires hanging from the ceiling. "Jack, you've got to look beneath the surface to see the real beauty here. Look at those dentil moldings on the ceiling, and the wood floors. I bet these walls are a foot thick." I moved over to one and tapped it lightly to make my point. I didn't really care. The emotions I was feeling had nothing to do with plumbing and insulation. The sense of home surrounded me, emanating from the walls. The roof could have been falling in and I would still have wanted to buy this house.

I sat down just as our hostess came back bearing a large silver tray and tall iced tea glasses. A china plate in the center was laden with an assortment of cookies and cakes.

She smiled as she handed me a plate and placed a frosted glass in my hands. "I hope you don't mind me serving you leftovers from yesterday's ladies bridge meeting. They are just so delicious and my maid and I could never eat them all before they spoiled."

I realized I was starving, but my manners finally interceded. I struggled to sit up. "We really hate to intrude. We're Laura and Jack Truitt and we were merely inquiring about the…."

"House," she completed for me. "I knew you were coming. Someone told me to expect you. I just didn't know when. I've been wanting to sell this house for years now, but knew I needed to wait for you." She smiled serenely and settled back against a once elegant but now faded sofa. "When you've got your strength back, I'll be happy to give you the grand tour."

I glanced over at Jack who had edged himself to the front of his seat as if preparing to make his escape. I, too, was feeling a bit strange, but not in the least bit wary.

"I don't understand." I shifted in my seat and knocked a cookie off my lap and onto the threadbare needlepoint carpet.

As sprightly as a teenager, the white-haired lady leapt up and retrieved the cookie.

"I bet that sounded odd, didn't it?" she asked. "Perhaps I should introduce myself. I'm Margaret-Ann Cudahy." She paused to let it sink in or to wait for a reaction from us. Neither was forthcoming as the name meant absolutely nothing to me or, I was sure, to Jack.

"Do you know my mother, Mrs. Cudahy?" I asked, trying to find a common thread. "Her name is Nancy Chrisler."

She shook her head. "No, I don't believe so. The person who told me you were coming was my great-grandmother, and she passed on many years ago. She didn't explain it to me fully, since it didn't really concern me, but she said you would understand it all eventually."

Unease brushed the back of my neck, but I was unwilling to leave. The overwhelming feeling of being home surrounded me and this woman and her house intrigued me.

"How long has your great-grandmother been dead, Mrs. Cudahy?" I asked, trying to figure out how her relative could have known me.

"Oh, since 1935. I remember it well. It was the middle of the Great Depression, and I was thirteen years old. She died three days after her hundredth birthday."

"But I wasn't born until 1965! This isn't making any sense to me at all!" I looked at Jack as he sprang from his chair and walked quickly over to me.

"I think we need to be going, Laura." Jack grasped both of my hands and tried to haul me off of the sofa.

I held tightly to his hands, but gave a quick shake of my head. I was not through with this conversation or this house.

"No, Jack. Not yet." His eyes searched my face, and then he let go. He kept his hand resting on my shoulder. I reached for him, my fingers brushing his gold wedding band.

I turned my attention to Mrs. Cudahy. "If you don't mind, could we see the house now?"

"Of course, dear." And with that she helped me off of the sofa and slipped her arm through mine. Jack followed closely behind.

The house had four rooms on the first floor and four on the upper floor. A later addition had added a fifth smaller bedroom upstairs, making for interesting architecture at the back of the house. The rooms had lofty twelve-foot ceilings and were all interconnected within the house. The one exception was the preacher's room, with a single entrance from the rear porch. The huge receiving hall ran the entire depth of the house, with large doors in the front and back that could be left open to create a breezeway. A staircase rose from the floor at each end of the hallway, the one in the back less elaborate than the other, presumably for the use of servants.

"Legend has it that some of General Sherman's troops garrisoned here in Roswell rode their horses right through this front hall, slashing at everything with their sabers." Mrs. Cudahy's arm waved back and forth, slicing the air, illustrating her story. "Most of the other houses in the area were heavily looted, but not this one. No one knows for sure but, somehow, the family living here was forewarned and had hidden just about everything of value. Bulloch Hall, down the road, was saved from being torched because both the owner and the Union commander were Masons. However, local historians aren't sure why this house was left intact." Mrs. Cudahy paused to run her hands gently over the fine, peeling wallpaper. "They did destroy most of the outbuildings and crops, and confiscated the remaining livestock and slaves. There's a reason why Sherman's name isn't brought up in polite company even today," she said with a smile.

"I hear Sherman was one for the pretty ladies," she continued, giggling like a schoolgirl. "It wouldn't surprise me at all if many of the great houses in Georgia survived Sherman because of the southern women who personally convinced him to spare their property." Mrs. Cudahy gave me such a cheeky glance that I giggled too. I wondered at her story. I had read biographies of Sherman for a college history paper, and I didn't recall any wartime dalliances. But that was merely the written record. Word-of-mouth stories would have doubtlessly been more subjective.

Jack and I held hands as she led us through the back door onto the porch. It was deceptively cool out there in the shade with a soft warm wind caressing our faces. "The house was built around 1840. As you can see, it is situated on a high point to take advantage of the Chattahoochee River breezes." She caressed the smooth wood of the balustrade, her hands surprisingly unmarred by time.

"Before the War of Northern Aggression, the property had almost three hundred acres, all planted with cotton, and thirty slaves to work the fields and tend to the house. But that's all gone now, except for the spring house and chicken house out back." Mrs. Cudahy looked at me with a wide grin. "Don't suppose you'll be raising chickens, though!" Then, as perfect strangers are wont to do, she patted my swollen belly.

"Looks like y'all have been busy! This house sure misses the sound of babies. It's been a long time since the pitter-patter of little feet went up and down these floors." Her voice trailed away as she led us to the master bedroom. I imagined the sound of children's voices echoing through the rooms and I thought, yes, this is home.

She preceded us through the doorway and I stood, paralyzed, at the threshold. I knew this room, as if I had awakened in it many times. A magnificent mahogany half-tester bed with an elaborately carved pediment hung with heavy draperies dominated one side of the room. A marble topped dressing table with graceful cabriole legs stood between the two floor-to-ceiling windows. Fancy fretwork topped the mirror above the dressing table. A splendid armoire towered toward the ceiling at one end of the room. I must have seen this room before in a magazine. I felt completely at ease and could imagine myself at the dresser, brushing my hair.

"This furniture has been in my family for 150 years. All of it was made by Mr. Mallard himself in his shop in New Orleans for this very room. It's never been moved. Probably too big and heavy to go anywhere else," Mrs. Cudahy explained as she walked over to the bed and smoothed down the faded yellow bedspread. She looked up at Jack and gave him a wide smile. "I bet this bed has seen a lot of action in its day. Most of my ancestors were conceived on it!"

Jack, who, until that moment, was not known to be a prude, turned bright pink. He quickly looked at me, and I buried my face in his shoulder, struggling not to laugh out loud.

Mrs. Cudahy smiled gently at Jack. "I'm sorry if I've shocked you. I used to be an opera singer and traveled and lived in all sorts of strange places. I suppose it's rubbed off on me a little." She winked at Jack. "Plus, I'm an old lady. I'm supposed to be a bit batty."

Jack cleared his throat. "So, this house has been in your family since it was built?"

"Yes, but I'm the last in the line, I'm afraid. My husband and I never had any children. Though it wasn't for lack of trying." She grinned mischievously at me, and I grinned back.

As she led us through the house back toward the parlor, I noticed the finely carved moldings; thick mahogany doors with leaded glass transoms and heavy brass door fittings. It was all beautiful but very worn. I could tell that a massive renovation would be needed to restore the house to its former splendor. The same feelings of familiarity I had had when standing in the front of the house came over me. I could clearly picture in my head what I would see when we turned each corner and opened every door. It was almost disconcerting to me, since I was sure I had never been in the house before, but it was also comforting, in a way, as if this were a reunion between friends.

Once we were back in the parlor, Mrs. Cudahy refilled our glasses and motioned for us to be seated. Jack sat next to me, holding my hand, his thumb rubbing circles over my knuckles. The nagging questions in my mind wouldn't go away. "Mrs. Cudahy, I would appreciate it if you could explain further how you knew I would be coming. I'm pretty sure we're not related, so I can't understand how any relative of yours would know about me."

Mrs. Cudahy stood. "Perhaps if I gave you something, it would explain it better than I can," she said as she left the room, leaving a scent trail of Tea Rose perfume.

Jack leaned over to me and whispered, his eyebrows wiggling. "She's probably going to get a gun or something. We could leave now before she gets back."

I elbowed him in the ribs. "Very funny, Jack. Don't you feel it? That feeling of rightness that this is where we should raise our family?"

He looked at me with a raised eyebrow, then smiled, reaching for my hands.

"Laura, I certainly hope it's not your pregnancy hormones talking right now because if we buy this house, it's going to be a long-term commitment."

"Jack, I'm not blind to the condition of the house, but I'm going with my sixth sense here. I really want this house. Please trust me—have I ever steered you wrong?" I squeezed his hands, my eyes searching his.

He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again when Mrs. Cudahy returned and handed me an object wrapped in yellowed newspapers. "I hope this explains some of."

I gingerly unwrapped the layers of paper. Dust motes rose from the wrinkled bundle and danced in a shaft of light from the parlor window. Inside the layers lay an ornate picture frame. I rubbed the surface with my thumb, attempting to rub off some of the black tarnish. I peered closely at the picture and my breath caught in the back of my throat. It was a sepia-toned likeness of a woman wearing nineteenth century clothing. Around her neck lay an unusual necklace with what appeared to be an old-fashioned key hanging from a chain. The straight dark hair was swept up off her face and coiled around her head. Her large light eyes staring back at me were tilted slightly at the corners and her nose was a little too pert for conventional beauty. The upturned lips were reminiscent of the Mona Lisa and anything but demure. I had seen this face before many times. I saw it every time I looked in a mirror.

Second Excerpt

The feel of a rough, wet tongue lapping on my cheek woke me. Opening my eyes I found a strange-looking dog of questionable parentage. It was undoubtedly the ugliest mutt I had ever seen but certainly the friendliest if his pleasure at waking me was any indication.

I sat up quickly and was rewarded with dizziness and spots before my eyes. I put my hands on either side of my head to keep it steady. The dog climbed into my lap and lay down, his tail thumping against the ground.

Absently patting the dog, I looked around. The scenery was new, but offered an uncanny familiarity about it. I realized I must have staggered down the hill in my confusion. The gloomy cloud cover of night had blossomed into a sky of glaring blue and the ground around me appeared bone dry. Wanting to see how much time had passed, I lifted my arm but was dismayed to find my watch gone. It had been a gift from Jack, and I felt another stab of loss.

Seeing no sign of the asphalt parking lot, I determined that I had managed to roam to the other side of the hill in some kind of delirious state, because I couldn't remember anything. I stood, pushing the dog gently off of my lap. The ground appeared to pitch violently, so I sat down again. I searched unsuccessfully for my purse in the overgrown vegetation, and then shrugged out of my rain jacket as the sweltering sun bore down on me. When the earth stopped spinning, I stood again slowly to make my way back to the parking lot.

There were no marked paths, forcing me to walk very slowly. I had to continually brush aside green stalks and blades with my hands, cutting the skin on my palms. I paused to rest and wipe the sweat from my face. It then occurred to me that, except for the insistent humming of insects, it was totally silent. No planes flying overhead, no traffic on the highway.

Something pounding through the underbrush on my right shattered the silence. My mouth went dry as I recalled that panthers could still be found in the wild in this part of the state.

I turned as a small boy, aged seven or eight years, emerged hurtling through the underbrush running smack into my middle. I staggered backward. He looked up at me with wild brown eyes and pointed behind him.

"It's a catamount! Help--he's gonna get me!"

I had no need to ask what a catamount was as the object of the boy's terror slowly sauntered its way out of the thicket, its body low to the ground as it moved toward its prey. Instinctively, I shoved the boy behind me. As if to make his intentions clear, the large cat darted his tongue out and flattened its ears. The feral eyes glinted in the sunlight and I wondered if it could smell my fear. Something moved outside my peripheral vision, but I dared not look. A deep growling began in the depths of the cat's belly, and I turned and threw my arms over the boy. He trembled, his sweat sticking to my own on my bare arms. I bent my head, prepared for the gouging of sharp claws through the thin cotton of my blouse. The beast hissed, and sprang from the ground. I squeezed the boy tightly, his small bones sharp under my hands, anticipating sharp teeth in my flesh. The crack of a rifle shot at close range split the air.

The feline dropped down like a leaden weight, hitting my shoulder, and knocking us to the ground. Tasting dirt, I turned my head and spat. I scrambled on my hands and knees away from the cat, dragging the boy with me.

Coming to a spot about ten feet away, I stopped. Clutching me wildly, the boy sobbed incoherently. I gathered him in my arms and made soothing sounds while keeping a wary eye on the panther for any signs of movement. The acrid odor of gunpowder stung my nostrils.

A shadow fell on us, making us both look up. The boy scrambled to his feet and tried to unobtrusively wipe the tears off his cheeks with the backs of his sleeves. His clothing gave me a start. I couldn't remember the last time I had seen a boy his age in anything but jeans and a tee shirt, but this child wore a white cotton shirt with loose knee breeches and suspenders.

The dog bolted out of the bushes and leapt on the boy with a joyful yapping. I made a move to stand to greet our rescuer, but instead felt two firm hands grab me by the arms and hoist me up. I found myself looking up into eyes that suddenly reminded me of the Caribbean. I had a flash of recognition for a moment, and then it was gone. He was about my age, or perhaps a little older, but I was sure I would have remembered this man had I met him before. He was looking at me just as closely, his gaze almost intimate. I lowered my eyes.

"Thank you," I managed. "You…you saved my life." His hands trembled on my arms and I realized I was shaking.

"Are you all right?" His look of concern warmed me, and I was ready to say yes until I felt the pain in my shoulder from where the cat had landed on me. I winced.

He released me gently. "I think you need to see a doctor. Do you live around here? I'll take you home."

I blushed when I realized that he was staring at my jeans.

"You're not from around here, are you?" He averted his eyes, then looked at my face.

"I live in Roswell. My car isn't far from here. I'm sure I could drive home if you would just help me find it." I brushed the dead grass off of my pants and shirt and then noticed he hadn't moved or spoken.

"There are no railroad cars around here, Ma'am." He looked at me as if I were speaking in a foreign language. "But it would be my pleasure to escort you back to Roswell. That's where we're going, too."

Confused, I opened my mouth to reply when I noticed his peculiar costume. He wore a long-sleeved white cotton shirt, a pullover variety with three wooden buttons buttoned up to the neck. His pants were light brown, almost yellow, and held up with suspenders. And then I noticed his rifle. It was huge; almost five feet long, and looked exactly like an antique Civil War Enfield rifle that my history-buff father had hanging in his study.

"Is there a battle reenactment going on?" I asked, hoping that his explanation would soothe the growing worries I felt tickling the back of my brain.

"No, Ma'am. Only battles going on 'round here are the real thing." He looked closely at me with a furrowed brow. "Did you hit your head when you fell?"

I had begun to wonder the same thing and reached up with both hands to feel for bumps on my skull. No such luck.

"No. I don't think so. But I heard a child's voice. I…I thought it might be my daughter."

"Your daughter?" He searched the immediate area with his eyes, a look of growing concern on his face. "Willie and I haven't seen anybody at all since we left the house this morning." He took a step closer. "Will you be all right if I leave you here with Willie while I go look for your little girl?"

I shook my head. "No. That won't be necessary. Annie, my daughter, she's…she's been gone for five years now. I guess it was only wishful thinking when I heard that voice. It was probably Willie's." I looked away from his intense gaze, feeling once again the crushing weight of sorrow and afraid I might end up crying in front of a perfect stranger.

"I'm sorry."

I looked at him, and knew that he was.

"Please, just get me back to Roswell. I'll be fine."

He nodded slowly, then turned his attention toward the boy. The boy stood as still as a tree trunk and looked as if he wanted to blend into the scenery. The tall, lean man limped as he walked, his pants leg sporting several patches.

"Willie, you are in for the biggest whipping of your life. You could have been killed." The man limped over to the fallen animal and nudged it with the butt of his rifle.

"This here cat would have had you for supper if I hadn't been here in time. Sort of what your mother would do to me if I let anything happen to you."

"You're not my Pa. I don't have to do anything you say." Despite his defiant words, the boy's lower lip trembled. He stuck his chin out and added, "Anyway, my Pa says you're a traitor and should be in prison. I'm not listening to no traitor."

The man paled and looked as if he had been struck. He knelt in front of Willie, keeping his left leg straight out to the side. He grasped the boy by the shoulders and said, "Did he really say that?"

Willie stood still, examining his feet but I could see his jaw trembling. "Yes. And he said that I needed to protect my Ma from any secesh claptrap you might be scooping out." The boy's voice was barely audible and a tear hit the toe of his shoe.

Despite his reaction to the boy's words, the man gathered the child in his arms and hugged him. "No matter what's between your Pa and me, it's not going to change the fact that you're my nephew, and I love you as if you were my own son." He stood and added, "And that means that it is my duty to protect you as a father would in your own father's absence. I'm sorry, Willie, but I'm going to have to give you the switch when we get home."

The boy stood there meekly with a few stifled sobs racking his small body. My heart went out to him. I went over and put my arm around his bony shoulders.

The man looked at me with dark blue eyes. "I'm sorry, Ma'am, to involve you in our little family disputes. Please allow me to introduce myself. I'm Mr. Stuart Elliott of Phoenix Hall, Roswell, and this is my nephew, William Elliott, junior."

I smiled at his gallant bow and introduced myself, mimicking his formal tone. "I'm Mrs. Laura Truitt. I live on Mimosa Boulevard in Roswell."

He gave me a quizzical look. "Where is Mimosa Boulevard? I've lived in Roswell all my life and I've never heard of it."

My confusion, the heat, and buzzing flies made me snap. "Well that makes us even, I guess. I've lived in Roswell for seven years, and I've never heard of Phoenix Hall."

He raised his eyebrows. "I think you've had a bit of a shock." He gave a shrill whistle and the ugly mutt came bounding out from behind a tree. "Charlie, get Endy."

I watched in amazement as the dog ran into the thicket and then emerged with the reins of a horse in his mouth and the horse itself bringing up the rear. It was a huge animal with big eyes and a slobbery mouth. The thing sneezed as it approached, spraying us all with God knows what and showing me a mouth full of teeth. Two rabbits hung by their feet on a length of twine, stretched across the back of the beast. I had obviously interrupted a hunting expedition.

Stuart grabbed hold of the reins and firmly patted the jet-black flank of the horse. "Mrs. Truitt, would you mind sharing Endy with Willie?"

I looked the man straight in his eyes to make sure he was speaking to me. I had to look up several inches, as he was a good deal taller than my own five feet seven. "There is no way I'm getting on that horse! Besides, you're limping. You ride that thing—I'll walk." I took a few steps backward to put as much distance between myself and Endy as I could and fell over a fallen branch, landing soundly on my backside.

Stuart stifled a laugh but Willie had no such compunction and laughed outright.

"That's the last time I save you from a vicious animal attack," I snapped at Willie.

That sobered him up sufficiently. Stuart reached down to me, for the second time that day, and hoisted me up. "You sure are a stubborn woman. But I am not going to ride a horse while a lady walks. Wouldn't do for my reputation as a gentleman at all."

Instead of releasing me, he put one arm under my legs, and picked me up like a baby. His touch seemed somehow familiar, and I studied his face intently, aware of his own close scrutiny. Neither one of us said anything as he swung me up onto the horse's back. Too petrified to move, I clung to the saddle. He reached behind the saddle and pulled out a long gray uniform coat with black collar facings and handed it up to me.

"You might also want to wear this so as not to shock the gentle citizens of Roswell."

I stared at the coat as if it were a snake he had asked me to wrap around my neck. I longed for the rain jacket I had inadvertently left behind.

"It is at least ninety degrees out here and if you think I'm going to wear a wool jacket, much less release my grip on this saddle to put it on, you've got another thought coming." Sweat saturated my cotton blouse, making it cling tightly to my chest. His eyes widened as they rested on my shirt a little too long, and I hunched forward, having contracted a sudden case of modesty.

"Mrs. Truitt, I really must insist. I don't want to be grist for the Roswell rumor mill and I'm sure you don't, either. It just would not look right for me to bring you into town wearing, well…." He looked me up and down as if trying to decide what to call my outfit. "Well, whatever it is that you're wearing."

Still feeling a bit dazed and confused, and not in the mood to argue, I took the coat and threw it over my shoulders. He lifted Willie up on the saddle behind me, shouldered his rifle, and began to lead the way pulling the reins.

The terrain seemed vaguely familiar but we never came near enough to a main highway for me to get my bearings. I assumed we were sticking to horse trails. After about an hour, we approached a large wooden gate. A hint of recognition pressed on my memory as we passed through the gate onto a long dirt drive. I knew what I would see before I saw the house looming up in the distance. A buzzing sound ran through my head as we approached and the front door swung open. A petite but very pregnant woman wearing a long, full dress waddled down the steps toward us. From her fingertips, a squeaking mouse dangled by its tail.

"Stuart! What's happened?"

I had come home. The one thing I was sure of was this was my house. I didn't know who these people were or why they were in my house, but I had my suspicions. The thought of it all made me very lightheaded. I looked at the little creature, suspended by its tail, and suddenly I felt that time had me suspended, too, helpless in a world I knew and didn't know. Feeling my head swim, my eyes transfixed on the swinging rodent, I promptly slid off the horse in a dead faint.