Chapter one: Remember

Gemma Halvard hated odd numbers and she considered this to be a reasonable reaction to the events that some people might view as coincidences. The day was April 15th, 2011 and her father, Leon, had died two days ago on the 13th, on Third Street at around 7pm, if you want to be precise. There had been three people in the car that had hit her father's rusted red truck. Her father had lasted five hours on the operating table before he died. Gemma was 23 years old as of last month and she was certainly too young to be without both parents, but she'd known people who had never had parents to begin with and she tried to use this fact to make her feel less sorry for herself. Gemma's mother, Marion, had died when Gemma was only 13. When the doctor diagnosed Marion with brain cancer, he expected her to last maybe 6 months at the most, but Mrs. Halvard had only made it through one. Gemma would never call herself superstitious. She believed in facts and proven theories and it was a fact that, for Gemma, odd numbers were an ill omen. She was not superstitious, but odd numbers seemed to despise Gemma. And Gemma loathed them back just as fiercely.

Gemma also hated funerals, but couldn't think of anyone who didn't hate funerals. No person is supposed to enjoy funerals, at least not from her perspective. Her father was dead and there was nothing positive she could take away from that. She wore a navy dress, her father's favorite color, and her shoes were too tight. She had forgotten to pack any shoes other than the ones she wore on the plane and so she was forced to rummage through the things her father had left in her old room when she had moved out.

It had been painful to enter her childhood home. Never had it seemed as unfamiliar as when she entered it earlier that morning. It had only been vacant for little more than a day, but it felt as if it had not been lived in for years. Gemma had visited during the Christmas holidays a few months back and it had remained to be the cheery, crowded, if not more unkempt, place she remembered growing up in. Yet now, it was a mausoleum of pain and reality she was unwilling to face. She had hurried up to her old bedroom and rummaged for a decent pair of shoes before leaving the house, determined to stay in a hotel for the next seven days.

She drove to the nearest motel and had booked a room for a week. Once she had gotten settled in the cheapest room the motel had available, she bought a ticket for the plane ride home. She wasn't looking forward to spending the ten hours it would take to fly from Oklahoma to Maine in coach seating, but she could hardly afford anything else. After that, she had changed into her dress and drove back to her father's house, which she supposed would now be her house, as she was the sole inheritor of her father's estate, until she sold it as soon as she was able to. Gemma had no siblings and no other living relatives that she knew of.

The funeral was to be held in the 4-acre field behind the house under a large oak tree. Gemma had been born under that tree and her mother was buried there as well. Gemma's mother had loved that tree and it was the sole reason her parents had bought the house in 1984, four years before Gemma came along. It had been quite large and had only grown since then, remaining a lone stalwart figure on a small hill, breaking the line of horizon on the western side of the acreage. Marion had been obsessed with symbolism, she believed everything had a deeper meaning, and upon seeing the tree insisted that there was no better place to put down roots than a place that housed such strong ones already. She had studied and mastered in Scandinavian lore, Norse mythology, and had published several books on the subject. And so she had named the oak tree Yggdrasil, after the tree that connected all nine realms that belonged to Odin and his tales. Marion considered herself to be very connected to nature and when she became pregnant with Gemma she was determined to deliver her under that tree, no matter what her doctor said. Gemma's father had protested slightly, but conceded after convincing Marion to at least hire a midwife to be present. Leon was Cherokee and proud of this so, as long as both mother and baby were safe, figured such an act would only bring good fortune.

When Gemma arrived back at the house, she parked her small rented Toyota and walked straight towards the tree. The pastor would be there already with a few men from the reservation to prepare the burial spot and she didn't have any reason to linger by the bricked dwelling. Her shoes were dusty and her toes were sore by the time she reached the oak tree and the people working under it. The weather was warming up already, spring had already begun to dissipate, and the men digging up the ground were sweating fiercely. Gemma herself felt a bead of sweat trickle down her neck and grimaced. Thank God for deodorant, she thought.

Now she stood in front of the pastor, waiting for him to acknowledge her, but his eyes were shut and she was hesitant to interrupt his silence. Pastor Gordon had been old when Gemma was a child and he was old still. His face was leathery and lined, but you could see a hint of past handsomeness when he smiled. His hair was a long white braid falling behind shoulders that were covered in a clean denim button-down shirt. His black pants were crisp and creased at the seam and his boots had a freshly-polished sheen to them.

Gemma waited silently, listening to the three men digging quickly, but efficiently behind the pastor. She glanced at the stone that marked her mother's grave and then at oak tree and the heart with Gemma's initials, G.P.H., inside of it that Marion had carved into Yggdrasil after Gemma was born. She stared at the carving, willing the tears that had gathered in her green eyes to disappear. She would not allow herself to cry yet. That would come later. Gemma realized that today of all days she missed her mother more than any other day in her life. Now that her father was gone, she felt the full impact of her mother's absence. Gemma needed Marion there to hold her hand, to rub her shoulder, to pat her cheek, just as her father had done for her during her mother's funeral. Now, Gemma had no one and while she was used to, and fond of, solitude, she felt isolated and alone.

Pastor Gordon opened his eyes and cleared his throat. Gemma started at the sound and quickly turned towards him. The man nodded his head serenely and said, "This is a good day for grief." Gemma blinked, unsure of how to reply to such a statement. She had forgotten what it was like to have a conversation with the man. Pastor Gordon was wise and respected, but he had a tendency to catch you off guard when he spoke. Gemma simply nodded and fiddled with one of the woven bracelets on her right arm.

"Your father wished to be buried in something simple so his neighbor made him a pine box. Many have given me gifts to bury with him, what will you add?"

Gemma expected this question. Her ancestors had been buried with gifts as per tradition and custom and, upon her father's insistence, so had her mother. Gemma had given her mother a beaded bracelet she had made in school, but she had learned many skills since then. "I brought a blanket I have woven, but I will bury it with him after the guests leave."

Pastor Gordon nodded again, "That will do just fine. It is a good gift." He turned to look at the progress of the men and their digging. They were almost finished and Gemma wondered how long they had been under the oak tree. "Your father should have been put to ground yesterday, but I think it is good we waited for his only child to sing a mourning song," the pastor said, frowning slightly.

Gemma was glad they had waited. The Cherokee did not like to wait to bury the dead, but the Cherokee also respected family and the mourning rites they were given. "I wish I could have gotten here yesterday, but my flight was delayed too long. Thank you for waiting," Gemma replied. Pastor Gordon looked back at her, smiling softly, and Gemma could see a few years drift off of his face. His presence was calming and she felt reassured.

"Will you remain for the full seven days?"

Gemma wished she could tell him no, but she knew her father would have wanted her to stay. She was to mourn her father for seven days, not once speaking his name. She would do this, but she also needed to use the time to get her father's estate settled and sold before she left. Gemma simply said, "Yes."

Pastor Gordon said nothing, as if he knew her answer before she could reply and so did not need to acknowledge her response. The three diggers, now so covered in dust, dirt and sweat that they looked like wild creatures more than men, finished the deep hole in the ground and were shaking off some of the filth while Gemma looked at them. She was not surprised that she did not recognize them, but she was unhappy that there were three of them and not two or four and she cursed odd numbers silently. They shook hands with the pastor and he gave them words of gratitude before they left. They did not look at Gemma once and this unnerved her slightly. It may have been a sign of respect, but it only made her feel like a ghost, like an invisible intruder standing in the field under the oak tree.

The men were gone and when Gemma turned to look back towards the house she saw perhaps about fifty people walking towards the tree and towards her. She shied back towards the tree and focused once again on her mother's carved heart. She disliked crowds and being the focus of them. The service started when the group reached the tree, but Gemma remained fixated on the carving, determined to not look at anyone, to not bring more attention to herself. It wasn't until she heard the thud of her father's simple casket hit the ground beside the freshly dug hole that she realized Pastor Gordon had finished his speech and was waiting on her to start singing. She took a deep, shuddering breath and let out a long sigh. Tears formed in her eyes and she let them fall. She took another breath and began to sing. Gemma had intended to sing a few lines of sad sounds and chants, but what came out was the traditional Cherokee morning song,

We n' de ya ho, We n' de ya ho,

We n' de ya, We n' de ya Ho ho ho ho,

He ya ho, He ya ho, Ya ya ya

(I am of the Great Spirit, ho! I am of the Great

Spirit, ho! I am of the Great Spirit, I am of the Great Spirit, Ho!

It is so, it is so. Great Spirit, Great Spirit.)

She repeated the verse three times and when she was done, she was sobbing. Her knees faltered so she gently sank to the ground. While Pastor Gordon and the rest of the mourners picked up her song, two people from the crowd began to lower her father into the deep pit besides Gemma. She tried to watch the coffin descend, but all she could see was a blur of color that only slightly cleared after each tear fell. Instead, she looked up towards the top of the oak tree. Its green leaves could not stop the sun from filtering through to the ground and Gemma's eyes burned from the brightness, but the sun was more bearable than her grief so she kept her head tilted towards the sky. She cried and cried and did not notice when the others had stopped singing. She did not notice when the coffin reached the bottom of the hole or when the crowd slowly drifted away one by one. She didn't even notice as each person passed the grave and patted her shoulder once before leaving. It wasn't until Pastor Gordon sat beside her on the ground and took her hand, humming the Morning Song, that Gemma let her head fall down to her chest. Her tears slowed and her breath evened. When Gemma tears stopped completely, Pastor Gordon said, "Remember, we cannot exist without the sun." Gemma said nothing and Pastor Gordon waited a moment before he too patted her shoulder once and then left her alone.

She sat there, her eyes swollen, her nose sniffling, and her feet aching from the too-tight shoes, and she wished for her mother. She wished for her father, too, but gave thanks for the time she was able to have with him. She would give anything to have spent another decade with both of them.

The sun had lowered a ways in the sky and Gemma stood up. She walked slowly back to the Toyota to grab the blanket she'd woven for her father's burial gift. As she reached the car, another vehicle pulled up beside hers. A tall, balding, portly man got out. It was her father's attorney, a friend of her mother's from Marion's college days. Gemma had met him first when her mother died and had only seen him one other time after that, but he was recognizable enough. Gemma was not expecting to see him until tomorrow. She was not emotionally prepared to deal with him today.

"Hello Ms. Halvard," the man said loudly while slamming his car door, "My name is Mr. Thomas Pont. I don't know if you remember, but I handled your mother's affairs when she—" Gemma interrupted him, "Yes, I remember."

"Oh. Good, good. I'm sorry to show up early and unexpected, but I came across something in your father's papers that was time-sensitive. Shall we go inside?" Gemma could have forgiven him the early arrival, but the mention of stepping inside her childhood home made her stomach lurch. It was too soon, much sooner than Gemma had planned to go back into the house, but she was tired and admittedly curious about what could be so important that Mr. Pont needed to come a day early. So Gemma opened the passenger side door of her rental and grabbed her purse and a duffel bag that held clothes and the blanket she would bury with her father. She found the house keys after some digging and when she produced them, the pair walked to the door and stepped inside. Gemma's stomach lurched again, but she was determined to ignore it, to ignore the harsh, painful echo of memory.

They sat at the dining room table and Mr. Pont pulled a single envelope out of a briefcase he had been carrying. "I won't go into the nitty-gritty stuff until tomorrow, but your father wanted me to give you this letter on the day of his burial. His will stated it was vital you get it today," he said with a tone of importance, as if Gemma should thank him for delivering it to her. He then slid the envelope across the table and she picked it up. There was only her name on the front in her father's slanted handwriting, but she wanted to cradle the small paper as if it were a thing to be treasured. Her father had given her one last thing and if it was only her name in his nearly illegible script, she would treasure it. The ache in her stomach drifted upwards to her chest and became a deep burn of longing. Slowly, she slid her finger between the seal and pulled out a thin piece of sketch paper. On it was a note that read,

Dearest Papina,
Remember the Ulunsuti. Remember the words. Remember your words. Remember your mother's words. And remember I am with you always.
Donadagohv i (Until we meet again),
Edoda (Father)

When she finished reading the note for the third time, she looked up, but Mr. Pont had risen out of his chair to read it over her shoulder. She jerked the letter close to her chest, obscuring it from his view. She was appalled. The letter was private and this man was almost a stranger to her. Gemma was about to voice her anger, but he said, presumptuously, "Who is Papina?" It took Gemma a moment to understand what he was asking for he had pronounced the name incorrectly, like Pop-in-a. She scoffed at him. "It's Pah-PEE-nah, my middle name and my father's pet name for me." Before Mr. Pont could continue his rude, intrusive behavior, she said swiftly, "My father is dead, Mr. Pont, please understand that I wish to be left alone until tomorrow. I will welcome you back then." The man look slightly abashed and stood up, briefcase in hand. Gemma walked him to the door and closed it soundly after his hurried, "Until tomorrow." She tried to shake off the lingering feeling of disdain and picked up the letter once more. She had forgotten about the Ulunsuti, but she remembered well the ridiculous fervor her father had held towards it.

On Gemma's eighth birthday, Leon had taken her to the furthest east corner of their land and Gemma had been very excited, expecting to finally get that pony she'd begged for. Gemma hadn't ever had a pet before, they'd had chickens and a single goat, but her mother was allergic to cats and her parents insisted she wasn't old enough to take care of a dog yet. Her young mind couldn't understand why a pony would be any more troublesome than a dog. You wouldn't even have to feed it; they ate grass, for goodness sake, and they had plenty of that to spare. She even knew how to ride one. She had been on a horse twice at the county festival, surely she was an expert.

What her father showed her was not, however, anything remotely similar to a pony. They had reached the fence that bordered their field and her father had begun to dig into the earth. Gemma had started to cry then, she knew her father would soon begin to lecture her on the importance of Nature and the plants around them as he so often did. It was a rotten way to spend her birthday, she thought. But when her father stopped digging, he pulled out a small object wrapped in very old looking buckskin and her curiosity stopped her tears. Maybe he had hidden a special gift, maybe it was a surprise.

"What is that, Edoda?"

"This is a very important secret, little Papina," he said softly and laid the thing on the ground. Gemma knelt down next to her father and reached her hand towards it, but he gripped her fingers before she could touch it. "No," he squeezed her hand firmly, "you must not touch it. Only when you are old and I am gone will you be given this duty." Gemma wrinkled her nose. That's no fun, she thought. Her father let go of her hands, but continued to look at her to make certain she understood. Gemma scooted back a little, away from the thing, and he nodded.

"When I was your age, my father showed this to me. He told me the secret and I learned why it must be kept hidden. Are you paying attention, Gemma?" Her eyes had drifted to a flower bobbing in the wind next to her knee, but at her father's words her eyes snapped up to his and she nodded. "Maybe you are still too young," he said gently, considering her. Gemma did not consider herself a child and did not like when someone else did either. She hated to be left out of things like "adult conversations" and she said hurriedly, "I am not too young, I promise."

Her father smiled then, the lines around his mouth deepening, "Alright, listen closely." He unwrapped the object, drawing the thin buckskin away from what Gemma saw to be a dull white rock. It was bigger than her father's fist, but must not have been very heavy because he picked it up easily in one hand. Leon drew out a bottle of red liquid from his pocket and set it on the ground. "This stone is the Ulunsuti, Papina."

Gemma eyes grew large. She knew the story of the Ulunsuti. Her father told her about how their Cherokee ancestors had fought a large dragon, the Uhktena, and when they had killed it, a magic crystal that held the dragon's powers fell out of its forehead. The warriors had kept the stone and protected it from those that would use the gem for evil, but the stone was said to be very dangerous. "Power can affect even the most pure" her father had told her, but, at the time, she did not really understand what that meant, it was just part of the story. The rock in front of her did not look very magical though. It wasn't shiny or sparkly like she had imagined it would be. She stared at it and thought for a moment. Maybe her father was playing a joke on her. Or maybe the rock was like the tooth fairy, a story her parents made up so they could give her presents without her knowing. The Ulunsuti was just a story after all. It wasn't real. She hesitated to tell her father this though. He looked at the rock as if he believed, as if he was sure it had hidden powers, and Gemma didn't want to disappoint him or make him sad. She thought that if she said she did not believe him he would put the rock back into the hole and would think she was still a child.

Gemma leaned over the stone carefully and said warily, "It does not look like the Ulunsuti, Edoda." Her father chuckled and said, "And thank the spirits for that. When we forget to take care of the stone, then it will look like a magical crystal worthy of any story and we will be in big trouble." He put the stone back onto the buckskin, picked up the bottle of red liquid, and began to unscrew the top of it.

"What's in there?" Gemma asked. "This is sheep's blood," her father replied and Gemma shuddered. "Gross!" Her father chuckled again, "Yes, it is gross, but necessary." He took the stone in his right hand and the open bottle in his left and poured the blood over the stone, turning it over to bathe both sides in red. When it was completely covered and the jar empty, Gemma's arms broke out in goosebumps. The air had an electric feel to it and she watched the stone glow bright, so bright she had to look away. When she looked back at the stone, it was once again a dull white, the blood gone from its surface. "How did you do that?" she asked wondrously.

"I did nothing," her father replied, sounding relieved. "I only fed it as I must do every year. After it's fed, I must tell the stone that it's not needed before I put it away." Gemma could do nothing but stare at the stone as her father said firmly, his eyes on the crystal in his hand, "We will not need you for a very long time."

The static feeling of the air dissipated and Gemma felt a weight fall off of her shoulders, one that she didn't notice was there until it was gone. Her father wrapped the gem with the buckskin and placed it back into its hole, right by the corner post of the fence. "Gemma, you must do this every year. When your mother and I are gone, you must take the stone and keep it on your land, wherever you go. Do you understand?"

Gemma did not understand, not really, but she nodded her head. She knew it was important that she do as her father told her and yet it wasn't until almost a decade later, when she was sixteen years old, that he mentioned it again. "Gemma, when I am gone, what must you do with the Ulunsuti?" he had asked out of nowhere. Gemma had rolled her eyes, "I give it blood and put it back to sleep, Edoda. I remember." And Gemma did remember, but not entirely. She did not remember the glow of the stone or the way the blood soaked into it like a sponge. Perhaps if her father had taken her every year she might have remembered how, in that moment, she truly believed in magic and believed every story her father, and even the myths her mother, had told her were real, were possible. But at sixteen, Gemma only remembered that her father had weird quirks about traditions and "the spirits" and would go out to poor blood over an old rock to appease said spirits, or something like that. She had kept it a secret though. Who would tell someone about their father doing crazy, possibly worrying things involving blood rituals? Not Gemma certainly.

The ache in Gemma's chest still burned, but another feeling was taking precedence, one of annoyance and vague frustration. She didn't want to deal with this. The sun was beginning to set and her feet hurt so much that she was confused at herself. Why had she not taken them off before now? She shook her head, muttering about her own absent-mindedness, and went over to the duffle bag she had laid by the door. She pulled out a purple flannel shirt, a pair of jeans, fresh socks, and sturdy leather boots. Gemma changed into the clothes and put the dress into the duffel bag on top of the blanket she'd soon bury. She grabbed her father's note from the table and placed it in her back pocket. Looking out at the sky through a window, she decided to hunt for a flashlight, just in case.

She searched in the kitchen, rummaging through the junk drawers and even under the sink. Gemma thought that the garage might be a better place to look so she went through the door that connected it to the kitchen. Rusty hinges gave out a loud screech and it startled her. With one hand over her jumpy heart and another on the light switch, she saw a bright yellow flashlight sitting next to a shovel and a bottle of dark red liquid. That's convenient, Gemma thought with a grimace, but decided to grab both items. She might as well do as her father asked, just this once. She would leave the stone here when she sold the house and the land to the reservation. She might even tell Pastor Gordon about the stone incase the next owners happened across it and asked questions.

Gemma went back to the kitchen and put the flashlight and shovel in her duffel bag. She hauled the bag over her head and across her shoulders. With the bottle of blood in her right hand, she opened the back door with her left and shut it behind her, leaving her keys and her purse inside the house. She would grab them when she came back to return the flashlight and shovel to their rightful place. The bottle she would throw away and hopefully never think about again.

She walked hurriedly to the east side of the property. She would douse the stupid rock in blood and bury it forever, relieving herself of the little voice inside her head telling her to fulfill the promise Gemma had made to her father. It did not take her long to reach the fence that bordered the field and she followed it all the way to the end where the corner post sat. Thankfully, the sun had yet to sink all the way down and there was enough light to see with. She unzipped her bag and grabbed the shovel, setting the bottle beside her. She was unsure how close to the post the stone was so she started to dig about a foot away. After a few minutes of digging, she widened her hole, going closer to the post until she barely scraped the buckskin cloth. It wasn't as far down as she thought it should be, but Gemma did not think anything of it. She put the shovel back into her bag and closed the zipper. Brushing away dirt with her hands, she hoped to not come across anything living within the dirt, mainly spiders. After a few minutes of this, she pulled the wrapped stone out of its home and set it on the flat ground off to her side, next to the blood.

Gemma unwrapped the buckskin, but did not pick up the stone. She sat there looking at it, wondering if it looked the same as when she first saw it. It didn't. The Ulunsuti remained a dull white color, but veins of purple could be seen now, streaking across it surface and branching off in different directions. Unsure of what to make of this, she unscrewed the bottle and began to pour the liquid on top of the stone while it remained on the ground. The white color of the crystal soon turned to red, but the purple lines could not be covered by the blood. The stone began to glow. Red and purple filled her eyes and the air surrounding Gemma felt alive, the hair on her neck stood straight. She was consumed with a hurried pulsing feeling and her heart picked up its pace. She wanted to finish this quickly. This was not normal. The stone was supposed to be just a rock her kooky father told her stories about, not something that frightened her. Gemma did not know if she should continue, but, almost as if her hand were guided by an unseen force, she reached towards the stone to flip it over, hoping that once both sides were covered with the offering, the weird rushing sound in her ears would stop, that the static-filled atmosphere would stop brushing against her skin. She only paused for a second, her left hand hovering a few inches above the Ulunsuti, then snatched it up as if expecting it to disappear out of thin air.

When her hand touched the stone, her vison doubled then came back into focus before all she could see was the bright purple light of the stone. It burned the image into her retina so fiercely her one clear thought was that she would never see again, but she could not shut her eyes, she could not look away from the stone. It burnt her hand yet she was gripping it tightly, her fingernails pressing into the stone so hard they cracked. A rush of searing liquid fire shot up her arm and into her chest, burrowing into her heart and she tried to scream, but she could not open her mouth. A torrent of wind swarmed all around her. Gemma was certain she was dying, and for one moment she felt relieved. She felt how easy it would be to just slip out of her body and let the purple fire take her place. She could let go. She could see her mother again, she could see her father—wait. Her father. She had promised her father…something. He wanted her to do…what? She could not remember, could hardly form coherent thoughts in the purple fog that swirled through her head. In the haziness of her mind, Gemma vowed she would fight against whatever was trying to consume her, if only for her father.

She could not feel the ground beneath her, only wind. Down the rabbit hole, she thought. And truly, her guess was not too far off. Gemma was no longer on Earth, at least not the Earth she was familiar with. However, Gemma was unaware of anything but the sensations caused by the stone and screaming gusts that seemed to come from nowhere. She felt the fire in her hand and in her heart. She felt the weight of the duffel bag still around her shoulders, banging against her hip in the gales bursting around her body. She could see only the purple light still, but it pulsed in time with her racing heart and soon the winds picked up the rhythm. Gemma floated for what felt like eons, drifting in the pulsating light through time and space. She tried to regain a sense of power over her own body, but it would not answer her demands. She could not move, could not close her eyes, and she wasn't even sure if she could breathe. She tried to count the seconds passing by, but she kept losing the numbers every time she went past one thousand. When she was sure she would age a hundred years before she could reach anything resembling earth again, she felt something firm beneath her feet and, with that, she finally lost consciousness.

...

A gentle breeze ruffled through Gemma's hair and moved the long grass surrounding her still sleeping body in waves that tickled her arms. She was in a field of tall wild flowers and weeds that hid her from curious eyes quite neatly. It was early morning and the sun was a few hours away from rising. If Gemma had been awake, she would have seen the wizard walking through the field, a tall grey hat sitting proudly on top of his greying hair, headed in a straight line that would reach her in matter of seconds. And he did reach her, in fact he stumbled over Gemma's legs awkwardly, nearly falling on top of her. The wizard righted himself quickly and peered at the girl he had tripped on. When he saw that she was asleep, he was very glad for it. Wizards are not prone to clumsiness and he was a tad embarrassed he had not seen her before stepping on her, but he had a troop of reckless dwarves to get back to. One could hardly blame him for being distracted, especially with trolls in the area.

He would have left the girl there, she was only sleeping and in no real danger, had he not seen the bright gem in one of her hands, her fingers clutching it tightly. He looked at her face more carefully then. Did he know her? He did not think so. She did not look familiar at all and that was a hard thing to accomplish, for the traveling wizard knew many, many faces, so many that some had tended to blur together. The girl's skin was a light bronze, not dark enough to be from the Southern Tribes, but much darker than most of mankind in the North. Her nose was straight and distinct, her jawline strong. Nothing about her face could be described as delicate except for the long dark eyelashes that rested against the top of her cheeks. Her clothes were very strange, definitely foreign. The bag wrapped around her was certainly made of curious material, but for every odd thing he noted about the girl, his eyes drew back to the stone she held. It was glowing a soft purple and it looked very much like... But, before he could put his finger on the thought, the girls eyes shot open and she sat up with a large gasp. The odd man had been leaning over her too closely and they bonked heads when she sat up so quickly. He let out a rough grumble of disapproval as she brought her empty hand to rub the spot they had connected so suddenly. "Oh fudge, I feel awful," Gemma rasped.

The tall wizard stood up straight now and replied, "I should suspect so, sleeping on the ground like that without shelter would give anyone a restless night."

Gemma blinked and looked up at him. Why was there a dirty old man in his bathrobe staring at her? Was he trying to rob her? Was he homeless? Where was she? She looked at the flowers around her. Where was the fence that bordered her father's acreage? She scrambled up to her feet, joints ached fiercely, and turned to look in every direction. The field went on for a few miles until it reached a copse of large trees on both sides. Where was her father's house? Where the heck was she?!

She turned to the strange old man again. He had waited patiently for her to get her bearings, but when she looked at him her eyes were glowing the same color of purple that came from the crystal in her hand. "Where the hell am I?" Gemma's voice trembled and her hands shook, well one of them did. She looked down and noticed for the first time since she'd regained consciousness that she still gripped the Ulunsuti tightly in her palm.

"We're in Middle Earth, south of the Ettenmoors and not too far from the Bruinen. But I suspect that means little to you, my dear," the wizard said calmly.

"Middle Earth? You mean like around the Equator? Am I in South America? Who are you?" Gemma breath was quickening, not too far from hyperventilating.

"I do not know what an Equator is or where America is, but my name is Gandalf, Gandalf the Grey."

"You're kidding." She was in the middle of who-knew-where, stuck with some crazy man who read too much Tolkien. She looked down at the stone in her hand once more. It was still glowing, but it did not burn her now. It was warm, but not hot. She could feel the burning in her heart though, although she wouldn't call it a burn now. Instead, her heart felt almost raw, as if it had been scrubbed clean with a wire brush. "I'm dreaming. This is just a dream. I will wake up and my father will still be alive. Or maybe I finally cracked. That's it. His death was too painful and I just went crazy. Yes, yes. I'm crazy and this is a hallucination. Ok. I can deal with that."

"I'm sorry to interrupt your attempt at rationalization, young lady, but I really must be off and I cannot leave you here," Gandalf said, slightly agitated.

"Oh no, I'll be fine. I'm not hanging with some random stranger who is just as crazy as I am."

"I think you misunderstand, child. I am perfectly sane and I hope for my sake you are as well. I meant rather, that I will not leave you here, with that stone in your possession."

Gemma felt a strange pull in her gut, a determined possessiveness for the stone. She held the stone close to her chest and took a step back from him. "It is mine to keep," her voice grew stronger, rising in volume, "I made a promise and you will not take it from me." Gemma's eyes flashed a bright purple when she glared at him.

"Do you even know what you have in your hands? Where did you come across such an object?" Gandalf questioned.

"It was my father's and it's none of your business."

"The Arkenstone only belongs to one person and I am certain he is not your father."

A/N: The story of the Ulunsuti and the Uhktena are legitimate legends passed down from generation to generation. If you'd like to know more, just google Legend of The Tlanuhwa and The Uhktena and you'll find some cool stuff. Cherokee funerals differ upon the tribe and person and sometimes mix with other religious beliefs, but the burial gifts and seven days of mourning is a common occurrence. You should search for the Cherokee Mourning Song on youtube, it's quite lovely. If you want to know what sources I'm using, you can PM me or request I put the links up on my bio. I will obviously be tweaking some parts to fit my story as is my right as a fanfic writer. Yggdrasil is also real, or rather, a real piece of Norse mythology. Please review and let me know if you see any typos or if you have any suggestions on how to improve the story. Also, if you see any inaccuracies about Middle Earth and Tolkien's world, please PLEASE tell me. I've read The Hobbit (and will be making direct references from it later on) and have seen all of the movies, but I've read so much fanfiction on the subject that sometimes those get mingled in with the real facts in my head. No one's perfect. That being said, this story will be combing elements of the book and the movies, because I think both have fantastic qualities that I want to use.

Thanks for reading!