by Mez Blume
Imogen tiptoed a step closer and peered over my shoulder at the man. “What, like an actual Indian?”
“Yyyea.”
“That explains why he’s dressed like that.”
I took stock of the man’s clothes: a cotton, blousy shirt with an open collar, tied off at the waist with a beaded belt, trousers made of some kind of animal skin—looked like deer—and tan moccasins.
“I’d have thought he’d have more feathers on his head or something,” Imogen added.
“He does have one feather.” I pointed to the black crow feather strung into his ponytail.
“Oh yea.” She sighed. “So what now?”
I clenched my teeth together. How could she just stand there pestering me with questions? How was I supposed to know what to do? With another deep breath, I said at last, “I should go find help.”
She gave me a blank look. “You mean we should go find help, right?”
“Well one of us has to stay here … unless you want to go off into the woods on your own …?”
“Katie,”— she spoke in her most patronising tone — “that’s a terrible idea. Hello? Haven’t you ever heard of the buddy system?”
“Well what about his buddy?” I half shouted, my temper spiking again.
“Not to mention,” Imogen continued without hearing me at all, “this guy is a total stranger and probably some kind of nutter. He could be dangerous.”
“He’s unconscious,” I said through gritted teeth. “There’s not a lot he can do to us lying in the dirt. Look, there’s his horse. I’ll just ride up the trail and… and …” I hesitated. The truth was, I had no idea where to begin to find help.
“No,” Imogen barked, her old superiority breaking through the kill-me-now-I’m-so-bored act. “You are not leaving me here with this… this half-dead Indian, Katie.” She whipped her smartphone out of her pocket like a cowboy in a duel. “Why don’t we just call an ambulance? What’s the emergency number here?”
“You mean 911?”
She started thumping away at the screen.
“Immy … it’s not gonna work.”
She held the phone to the side of her head for a second, then looked down at the screen with a frustrated growl. But she wasn’t dissuaded from her plan. Not yet. “If we go where I can pick up a signal, we can phone the police or search where’s the nearest hospital. I just need to get higher up…” She started scrambling up the boulder again one-handed while the other hand held the phone up in front of her, her eyes glancing hopefully at it every step or two.
“It’s not going to work, Imogen,” I repeated, a good deal testier this time. All these wasted seconds could cost the man his life.
After reaching the top of the boulder, a few waves and shakes of the phone later, Imogen finally let the phone drop to her side. She gave me a withering look like it was all my fault. “Why won’t it work?” she called down.
“Because…” This really was not the time to explain things. The last thing I needed on top of a dying man was a hysterical Imogen. “Because there are no signals around here. People don’t use phones in this… area.”
Imogen scowled. “Very funny,” she said, with a sarcastic little laugh. But a look of panic quickly replaced her scowl. “You are joking?”
I wanted to smack myself on the forehead. It looked like I would be landed with a hysterical Imogen whether I mentioned the little fact that we had got ourselves thrown back in time or not. To her, being without a phone in any case was as good as being stranded in the past.
“I’m going for help,” I said again in a tone I hoped meant business, and I didn’t wait for her reply before moving around the unconscious man to his mare. “It’s ok, girl. We’re gonna help him,” I reassured her in my calmest voice as I held out my hand to let her get a whiff of me. She must have smelled the man’s blood on my hand, because she seemed to understand there was no time to lose. With a snort, she stepped forward, presenting her side to me as if waiting for me to mount.
“Do you even know the way back to camp?” Imogen sounded desperate now. “This doesn’t look anything like the trail we came from.”
I had no answer, so I chose to ignore her question. Swinging myself into the saddle, I called over my shoulder, “I won’t be gone long, I promise. Just keep an eye on him. If he wakes up, tell him not to move and that help is on the way.” Hopefully. For all I knew, the only other human being within miles might be the vicious officer and his horse-bandit buddies who had left the poor man for dead to begin with. With a last look at him, I pushed the buzzing what-if’s out of my mind and nudged the mare into motion.
Just as the Cherokee had said, the old mare wasn’t one for galloping. But after about five minutes, I managed to get her into a pretty good stride. “‘Atta girl,” I said, patting her neck. Raising my gaze to the trail again, I nearly screamed. A rider on a horse came flying towards us like a loosed arrow. I pulled back on the reins and squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the collision. With a whoosh the horse and rider passed us, so close I felt the sleeve of his billowy shirt brush against my arm.
“Whooooa,” a deep voice sounded from behind.
I settled the mare and finally managed to turn to face the stranger, just as the rider turned his chestnut stallion to face me.
The face looking back at me, to my enormous relief, belonged to a boy, probably around fifteen or sixteen. He was dressed very smartly in what looked like the sort of clothes I’d seen in paintings of the American Revolutionary War… maybe later. But young and nicely dressed as he was, the intensely suspicious way he glared at me out from under heavy, furrowed black eyebrows made me gulp as if I’d just been caught at a crime.
He trotted forward, not saying anything, just giving me a good look-over with the same displeased air. He looked almost affronted at my hiking boots and blue jean shorts… or perhaps he was simply confused by them.
At last he stopped sizing me up and spoke. “How is it you’ve come to have my cousin’s horse?”
I choked. “Your… your cousin? He’s your… Oh thank goodness! I mean, it’s not good. I mean,” I took a deep breath and tried again. “Your cousin’s been hurt. I only took his horse to go and find help, but now that you’re here…”
“Hurt?” He gave me a suspicious sideways look again.
“He chased after some horse bandits and was knocked unconscious,” I explained.
I could tell he believed me. His face, just tan compared to his cousin’s, went pale. He looked me squarely in the eye and said in a shaken voice, “Take me to him.”
6
New World
Minutes later, we galloped into the clearing. The boy leapt from his horse and swept past me to kneel beside his cousin. I don’t think he so much as noticed Imogen, who was sitting a safe distance from the injured man with her back against the boulder hugging her knees to her chest. She had definitely taken notice of the newcomer, though. Her mouth hung open as her eyes swept over him with a half-confused, half-dazzled look.
“You said horse thieves did this? Did they stop the chase and come to blows here?”
I turned my attention back to the boy. “Uh, not exactly,” I began, trying to sound in control and trustworthy. “He was chasing after horse thieves, but it was a man in a blue uniform who struck him down. He had blond hair and a beard. Your cousin called him Lieutenant something-or-other.” I looked to Imogen for help, but the boy got there first.
“Lieutenant Lovegood,” he said in a tone of surprise.
“Yes, that was it!” I answered.
He shook his head. “Can’t be. Lieutenant Lovegood works for the Governor. He’s responsible for stopping horse thieves, not helping them do the job. You must be confused.”
An offended little gasp came from the direction of Imogen. She’d awakened from her stupor and stalked over to where we stood, arms crossed over her chest. “Excuse me?” I winced, preparing for Imogen’s temper to flare up the way it did when anyone dared to contradict her. “Do
we look stupid to you?”
The boy seemed to realise she was there for the first time. There was an awkward moment’s silence during which his eyes scanned Imogen’s very short shorts, insect-mauled legs and badly dyed hair. He seemed to be genuinely considering her question.
Imogen didn’t wait for a reply. “It was definitely the Lieutenant who knocked him out, ok? We both saw it with our own eyes. Just wait until your cousin wakes up, if you don’t believe us.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am. I didn’t mean to offend you, but if what you’re saying is true —”
She shot him an I-dare-you kind of glare.
“And I’m sure there must be some truth to it, as you claim it… It’s just a bit mystifying is all. I can’t think why Lieutenant Lovegood would behave in such a way.”
“The point is,” I broke in before Imogen could fire back, “Your cousin just asked the Lieutenant for help, and this is what he got.” The sound of a twig cracking made my heart jump. I spun around on my heels. “What was that?” I felt instantly humiliated for asking. After everything we’d experienced in the past half hour, I’d become as jumpy as Imogen.
“Grasshopper,” the boy answered.
“Huh,” Imogen scoffed. “I highly doubt a grasshopper could make a noise like that—” She broke off into a screech as something tumbled into the clearing clutching a bow with an arrow ready on the string.
“This is Grasshopper,” the boy said, gripping the newcomer’s shoulder. “My cousin, and Crow Feather’s brother.” The new boy who had just appeared as if out of thin air barely spared us a glance before returning his arrow to a quiver on his back and bending down beside the bleeding man. He leaned his head against the man’s chest to listen for a heartbeat. He was younger and scrawnier than his brother with not a single hair on his bare chest, but he had the same dark skin and thick black hair, only his stuck up in a wild mess rather than flowing down his back.
“He lives,” the boy breathed before turning his dark eyes to his cousin. “Wattie, who has done this?”
Grasshopper looked just as sceptical when the first boy, Wattie, repeated our story to him. Meanwhile, my bandana had completely soaked through with Crow Feather’s blood, and no one else seemed to notice. “Don’t you think we ought to get him some help?” I blurted. “Is there a doctor around here?”
Grasshopper took his brother’s hand. “He needs home.”
Wattie nodded. “Grandmother Whispering Water can mend him if anyone can.”
It took all four of us using every last bit of strength to lift Crow Feather and drape him over the tall stallion’s back. When we’d finally settled him, Wattie climbed up behind him and picked up the reins, then stopped as if just remembering something and looked down at Imogen and me. “We’re mighty obliged to you … ladies,” he said, clearly a little unsure whether that were the right word.
Grasshopper stepped forward. “Wado,” he said first to me. As he turned to say the same to Imogen, thanking her, it suddenly struck me that the boys were on the verge of taking off and leaving us alone and lost in the forest. Panic bubbled up inside me like a boiling kettle and came out in a desperate plea, “Couldn’t we come with you?” I knew the request sounded mad, but what was I to do? Wait and hope that by chance another source of help turned up? It was already getting dusky under the canopy of trees.
The boys exchanged a puzzled glance. Imogen positively exploded. “What?” I winced as she gripped my arm yet again and pulled me a few strides away from the boys. “Katie, what on earth has got into you? We were nearly just trampled by horses, then shot by some lunatic, and now you want to go off with some Indian boys we know nothing about?”
“Look, I know it sounds crazy, but—”
“It’s insane!” She was shouting now. “You know what? You can do what you want. I’m going straight back to camp to tell your parents to put me on the next flight to London. I don’t know why I ever agreed to come to this stupid, backwards country in the first place.”
“Imogen, wait.” It was no use. Before I could even try to explain, she stomped off, then broke into a run down the trail.
I stamped my foot in the dirt and turned to the boys who’d witnessed the whole scene. “I’m sorry,” I muttered. “Just go. I hope Crow Feather will be all right.”
I knew those boys might be our last hope of getting out of the forest alive, let alone finding our way home from this dangerous world of the past. But I had no choice. I turned my back on them and ran, sick with dread, after Imogen.
“I don’t get it. This has to be the campsite.” Her voice was strained, like she was on the verge of tears.
I leaned against the rock wall, panting for breath. Imogen had always excelled at sports. When she decided to move, she moved fast. I’d only just managed to catch up to her.
“I followed that little stream, just like before. And look.” She pointed at the rock above my head. “There’s the face in the stone. The one your dad pointed out.”
I craned my head back. Sure enough, she was right. This was our campsite, but there were no tents, no clearing with a brick fire pit and latrine. Gnarled old trees shaded the whole space, their knotted roots snaking through the ground where our tents had stood this morning, nearly two hundred years from now. Imogen was bound to notice one or two of those changes.
“Katie—” Her voice sounded choked, panicked. “What’s going on? Where are they?” She leaned against a tree and slid down it until she was sitting right on the leafy forest floor and hid her face in her hands. I was sure I heard the distinct sound of muffled sniffling.
Never in all my twelve years had I ever heard Imogen cry. She was tough, sporty, in charge. I stood there stunned for a few seconds, then swallowed and quietly made my way over to sit crosslegged beside her.
“There’s something I need to tell you, Im.”
“Tell me, then,” came the muffled answer from behind her hands.
“About what’s going on…” I paused and rubbed my forehead. Why was this so hard? I just had to spit it out. Simple. Only it wasn’t simple to say something I knew would sound crazy. Something I knew would cause an Imogen-shaped bomb to go off. “The thing is… The reason everything’s so different … It’s because we’ve … we’ve just … we’re not …”
“Katie, what is it?” Imogen snapped, uncovering her bright red face and fixing me with an impatient glare.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Back in the cave, the painted horses on the wall…”
“What about them?”
“Do you remember how I couldn’t stop looking at them?”
“Yea.” She sniffled. “It was weird.”
“Well, the reason I was zoned out like that was because the horses started…”—I had to force the word out of my mouth— “moving. Running, in fact. The painting sort of … came to life.”
She made a little sarcastic sound in her throat.
“And then,” I carried on quickly to prove my point before she could interrupt, “do you remember how it felt like we were falling? Remember the swirling colours?”
Her puffy eyes narrowed. “Wait, that happened to you too? I thought that was an hallucination from the snake bite…”
I shook my head. “I told you. There was no snake bite. It was the cave painting. It sucked us in, and when we opened our eyes and the forest looked all different, that’s because we landed, well, here.” Very slowly I added, “In the past.”
She kept squinting at me with her mouth hanging open like I’d just been speaking gobbledygook. Then ― I could hardly believe it ― she actually started laughing. But when she spoke, she sounded anything but amused. “Very funny, Katie.” She wiped her eyes and got to her feet so she was looking down at me, her arms crossed over her chest. “I remember how much you always loved playing make believe. But seriously?” The old snotty, superior tone was back. “I thought you’d have grown out of it by now.”
“This isn’t make believe!” I shouted, jumping to
my feet in a fury. What was it going to take to convince her? “Just look around. You said it yourself—everything’s different. This is our camping spot, so where are the tents? Where’d all these enormous trees come from? You wanted to know why my parents aren’t here? They’re not here because … because they don’t exist yet.”
She wasn’t listening. She was stumbling aimlessly from tree to tree with a hand on her forehead as if checking for fever. “Either you’ve lost it or I have. Was it something I ate?” she asked herself. “I must have been bitten by that snake, and now I’m in a state of delirium.”
“You haven’t lost it,” I said loudly, interrupting her ridiculous hunt for an explanation. “This is really happening.” I knew what I had to do. I had vowed to myself and to Sophia in my unsent letters never to tell a soul what had happened last summer; now that I’d managed to slip through time again, taking Imogen with me, I had to tell her the whole story. It was my only chance of convincing her. I reached down the collar of my shirt and pulled out the locket. Then, cornering Imogen to force her to see, I gently opened it and held it out for her. “I’ve never shown this to anyone, or told anyone where I got it.”
She frowned at the tiny pictures. “What’s that got to do with—”
“I’ll explain. Just sit down. It’s a long story, and it’s going to sound mad, but it’s not. It’s true.”
With a huff, she slid down a tree trunk into a squatting seat. I nestled down between the roots of an old oak tree, squeezed the locket tight in my fist, and began. “It all started with a painting.”
7
A Close Call