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Crudely carved from a black stone, it resembled a tiny bear about an inch long and an inch high. It bore an inlay of another reddish stone that ran in a line from its mouth and terminated in an arrow shape about mid-chest near its heart. Its eyes were inlaid turquoise.
    For a long time, Carrie studied it, turning it over and over in her fingers, feeling the slick surface of the warm, polished stone. Slowly the memory emerged. Shashtsoh , the grizzly bear. The line of red was a heart line and indicated a brave heart. Nana George, her part-Navajo maternal grandmother, had given it to her after she'd come back from a vacation in Arizona. Carrie had thought she'd lost it years ago. To find it in her pocket now was very strange, but very comforting.
    "The Native Americans believe that the bear is the bravest of their forest brothers," Nana had said as she lay dying. "Keep him close. When I am gone, his courage and strength will help guide you down the true path of your life."
    Why had her grandmother felt that way? Carrie racked her brain for an answer, but none came. All she saw were the blank pages of memory. Carrie bowed her head, closed her eyes tightly, gripped the small bear in her fingers, and concentrated with as much energy as she could. But nothing came to her except the dull throbbing behind her eyes.
    Be patient, my sweet girl .
    Carrie started. Her eyes popped open, and she looked around for the person who had spoken. But she soon found she was alone with only a robin for company. The robin looked at her. Blinked and flew into a nearby maple tree.
    It will all come back to you soon. For now, you must concentrate on you, what you need, who you are, not as a name, but as a woman .
    That voice again. Was it inside her head or coming from a real person? Again Carrie scanned the area around her. Still no one. Then who—
    Suddenly she recognized the voice. "Nana George? Is that you?"
    But the only sounds she heard were the buzzing of the insects and the twittering of the robin high above her.
     
    ***
     
    Later that evening, while helping Clara with supper and still contemplating what had happened by the stream, Carrie glanced out the window. "It's getting foggy out."
    "No, dear. That's the Transition beginning."
    "Transition? What's that?"
    Clara took her hand and seated her at the table.
    "When a troubled soul, such as yourself, comes to the village, the village must come into a material state to admit that person. That process is called a Transition."
    Carrie frowned. "A material state? But isn't it material already?"
    Clara laughed softly. "Renaissance exists in the mists of time. When it's needed, it then takes on its material state to welcome the troubled within its embrace."
    "Then is this some kind of dream? Since I'm not really here, I can leave anytime simply by… waking up. Right?"
    Shaking her head, Clara grasped Carrie's hand. She dropped her gaze to their hands, made a soft tsking sound with her tongue, and then spoke as if to herself. "This is always the most difficult part." Then she shook herself as if to clear her thoughts. "Get to the point, Clara." She raised her gaze and fixed it on Carrie. "I can assure you, this is not a dream from which you will awaken. You are really here, and I'm afraid you can't leave."
    Oddly, that she couldn't leave didn't alarm her. Carrie wasn't at all sure she ever wanted to leave here. This place, Clara, the cottage, all felt so secure and safe, and she didn't know why, but that seemed to be very important to her.
    Clara squeezed Carrie's fingers. "The village is a permanent home to just the few of us who live here. For others, such as you, this is but a stopover in time. Like a short nap in the middle of a long, tiring day."
    Again, Carrie was taken aback that Clara seemed able to read her thoughts. But she had too many questions to ask to dwell on that one fact. "How did this place, this village," Carrie asked, waving her hand to encompass all beyond the window, "come to