The forest loomed in front of him. Larches and hemlocks spiked the firmament, while broad-leaved beeches and oaks shrouded the land from it. And even though twenty-five-year-old Donovan Silverheel had traversed these woods as an experienced hunter and an adept explorer numerous times, he would always be in complete awe of the coniferous giants of wild Massachusetts.

He stood at the edge of his property, a few steps from where the old trees darkened the land, gazing in. It would always be too great to comprehend, he decided, readjusting the quiver on his shoulder and trudging onward. The trees towered up and above, swallowing most of the sunlight. Amidst the susurration that ensued between the leaves and the breeze, he knew he was listening in on primordial secrets. Mists rose from the damp undergrowth – his grandmother back in Wisconsin would tell him they were ghosts of those that the woods had claimed, and as they floated and furled around him, like living things, knowing things, he thought they just might be.

Little by little, Donovan's focus narrowed in on the subtleties of the trial – the young branches of the shadbush chewed upon, the deep, round impressions dug into the humus, and the unmistakable sweetness of musk that underlay the petrichor. A herd of white-tails had gone this way, and in it were three – maybe four – bucks courting does to mate with in the coming season. He followed the tracks, stepping lightly, dark eyes sharp and trained. Soon, his tracking brought him to the clearing around the foot of a hill, and he huddled down behind the dense spoonwoods.

Maidenhair ferns bedecked black boulders that made up the face of the hill. A creek sluiced between the rocky creases and flowed over the last edge, into the tiny pond in front of him – the calmest waterfall in the whole state, though the same couldn't be said about it in the months of rain. As beautiful as the lapis-lazuli blues and greens of the pond and its bordering brush were, Donovan didn't have time to sit and admire. His brows furrowed in concentration, his vision zeroing in on a buck slaking its thirst. Pulling an arrow from his quiver, he nocked it in his bow. With the patience of a lifetime, he drew the string taut and with a steadying inhale, he aimed. Reverently, he promised the Great Spirit that he would not take more than what he needed. And in the lasting stillness that followed his prayer, he could feel the weight of his braid along his spine, the strain of his wingbones trying to meet, the tightening sinews of his arms, the steady drum of his heart... then, nothing was as tangible as his arrowhead and that buck.

Donovan's fingers were just on the verge of letting the arrow loose when birds burst from the treetops. Flying every which way, cacophonous and crazed, they startled the white-tails. The herd scattered in a thundering of hooves and a storm of gray streaks. Cursing in the name of Moskeem, Donovan rose to pursue. He had not taken two steps when he was thrown back by an invisible force. A sound like the twanging of a thousand steel wires broke the atmosphere. Scrambling upright, he froze.

Surrounding the pond, pillars of pure whiteness beamed the earth, like light being refracted from an omnipotent prism with endless faces. Splendid silver shards.

Suddenly they dimmed, they quieted, and Donovan found it in himself to take a few tentative steps towards the lightshow. The beams appeared softer now, strangely translucent, but they moved still – fading, then reforming, and sharpening, then weakening. He was a grave's length away from the phenomenon, and the thought of graves made him take one firm step backwards. He didn't want to become a misty ghost trapped in the forests outside Salem. He didn't want to be in his schizophrenic grandmother's stories.

Just when he felt that this was the strangest thing he'd ever witness in all his life, things got stranger.

From the phasing beams advanced a shadow. Closer and closer it came, until it crossed a pillar, the light parting like a curtain around its horned form. Donovan's breath caught in his throat at the sight of the largest elk he had ever seen.

The beast stopped mere inches from him, and with its antlers arching over Donovan's 6'4" frame, it was massive. Vast, onyx eyes held human ones. Movement in his peripheral vision drew his sight beyond the elk's neck and his breath caught in his throat – sprouting from its shoulder blades, folded against its sides were wings. Each feather was as large as his forearm, perhaps even larger. Viridian sheens transposed to azure and then back again, casting phosphenes, iridescent in the lightbeams.

Convinced that he was stuck in a fever dream, Donovan blinked furiously, then screwed his eyelids shut, shook his head, and counted to five. The winged stag was still there – unblinking, unflinching. His hand rose of its own volition, reaching out and landing lightly on the creature's neck, and he deliriously sucked in a lungful of air. This was not a dream. This was not an illusion.

The elk was very real, very alive. Very much extant.

It stamped a cloven foot and Donovan felt its muscles ripple beneath his touch, as solid as he expected an elk to be. Its breath misted around his face – wet and warm, warm, warm.

A sharp, keening whistle pierced the air, and then his head; Donovan slapped his hands over his ears. A wall of light erupted between him and the beast. Then he was flung away like a ragdoll again.

Being every ounce the warrior that he was raised as, he was on his feet in an instant. There was a loud splash and he just caught the shower leaping from the pond. Something heavy had fallen in.

Hurrying to the edge of the water, Donovan kneeled and peered into it. From the depths, within a flurry of twinkling effervescence, he sighted a someone, a woman – eyes closed, raven hair haloing a fair face, some dark goddess rising. The woman floated up, his hands plunged into the icy water, and fingers grasped the purple fabric she was clothed in. He pulled her out and laid her on the grass beside the pond. Bending his ear close to her nose, he was relieved to hear her breathing. Donovan sat back on his haunches, taking a moment to try and wrap his head around the events of the day. He'd only wanted venison for the week, and good bones and skin to craft into accessories that he could sell in the city fleamarket.

Bringing his attention back to her, he pondered on whether he should wake her up or carry her back to his place first. He didn't have to ponder long for she awoke; vivid, violet eyes caught him like a deer in the headlights. She lunged at him, and after a short tumble, had him pinned to the floor by straddling his chest. Donovan was terribly aware of the cold, thin blade at his throat, of his arms trapped under her knees.

He was terribly aware of being a prey in the very forest that he'd always been a predator in.

"Who are you?" she demanded. He registered a strong, strange accent.

"I—" Donovan coughed as she wrapped her free hand around his neck. "Donovan," he strained, "Donovan Silverheel."

"Where are we?" He wondered why someone would ask that, and she wasn't waiting for him think. She squeezed his throat. "Where are we?"

"Harold Parker Forest!" he answered.

"What?" She bit her lip, risking a quick glance around, and then snapped back to him. "What... what is the name of your nation?"

Nation? Donovan thought. To her, he replied, "Mahican?" Her catlike eyes narrowed and she released a frustrated groan. "The... the United States of America?" he tried quickly.

Her expression eased, and she queried, "you are American?" She said American slowly, as if testing the syllables in her mouth.

"Yes."

The two regarded one another. Donovan was suddenly struck with how he couldn't place her race, nor her nationality, nor her accent, and that unnerved him a little. She was slight and fine-boned, almost pointy, but in an elegant way. Apparently satisfied by her own observation of him, she got off his chest and stood up. He lifted himself on his elbows and was surprised when she extended a hand out to him. He hesitated at first, but then took it.

She pulled him to his feet without much effort and he realized that as slight as she looked, she was uncharacteristically strong. And they reverted to sizing each other up. Standing, she was only a head shorter than him, and that made her taller than the average Native American female, or even the average American woman. Taking in her wide stance, weapon held at the ready, and the indistinct black lines etched into the skin of her arms, all the way down to her wrists, he theorized that she must be a warrior where she came from. Mahican warriors were inked, too.

"You can leave. I won't go after you," she said in a trice. Then she turned on her heel and went to the pond. There she settled down and stared into the water.

Warily eyeing her, Donovan walked a few paces backwards. Ultimately deciding that she wasn't interested in slashing his neck anymore, he retraced his path to where he'd dropped his bow, picking up the arrows that had spilled from his quiver along the way during their scuffle. He had every intention of leaving that madwoman to her own devices and moving on with his life; today had given him enough peculiarities to come to terms with for this lifetime. However, he paused when he heard her sniffle, and inhale shaky, breaking breaths that he knew only came from trying too hard to stifle any implication of grief, to hide any evidence of weakness. From trying too hard not to cry. He'd heard it from his late mother at Chief Silverheel's funeral, and he'd heard it from himself at his mother's funeral.

With the foreboding feeling that he was going regret the consequences of his actions, Donovan returned to her side.