Restoring Time

by Jenn Lees

  Rory sucked in the mountain air and pulled Siobhan close. She shivered against him. “You’re still acclimatising to the outdoor life, aye?” He spoke into her hair.

  The coming winter would be her first up top here in the real weather since her childhood. She snuggled into his side.

  “Do you understand what I mean now, Rory?” Xian spoke to his left. “You’re their leader.”

  “Aye.” The breeze ruffled George’s greying hair. “Every person of voting age put you as one of their nine. And from what Brendan tells me, most marked you their number-one preference. Their first choice.”

  “I shall endeavour to not disappoint.” Rory braced himself against the stiffening breeze. “I’ll serve them with all my energy while I work as a member of the Chief Council.”

  “We all know you’re dedicated, Rory.” Siobhan’s soft voice reached his ear.

  “You’re more than that to them. More than just a part of the Chief Council.” Xian turned to George. “Isn’t he?”

  George nodded but kept silent.

  “What’re you guys saying?” Rory rubbed his cheek, his stubble flicking beneath his fingers.

  Xian had hinted at this before, on their journey to Edinburgh. Were they meaning he should be the head of this Community like some clan chief of old? Or like Mrs Donaldson?

  His friends remained quiet while he made eye contact with them. George looked at him from over his glasses and Xian crossed his arms, his mouth curling upward on one side.

  “Something to think about, Ruairidh,” George said.

  “Why d’you say ma name the Gaelic way?” he asked George.

  “It means red king,” Xian said, and George gave a silent, enigmatic grin.

  Why had his parents named him so? Did they believe he was destined for the heavy responsibility of ruling?

  Och, no. No way was he up to bein’ a king. A sole ruler. He’d need all the support from those dear to him just to keep right on the Chief Council. But he wouldn’t voice these thoughts to his friends. He glanced at Siobhan, his turmoil easing with her presence there.

  A gust of wind brushed his face and ran its cool fingers through his hair, and something tugged at his soul.

  Was it destiny?

  Siobhan had been there and seen his future-self. She hadn’t told him all but held back. He’d sensed it, but not pushed.

  But maybe now he should.

  Chapter 27

  The Invercharing Community, 2061

  Xian and George walked down the hill, their backs disappearing from Rory’s view.

  “Come, I’ll show you something.” Rory took Siobhan’s hand and led her upward.

  They continued on the path that wound its way through green grass blown flat by the wind. Rory led Siobhan along the wide ridge-back of the ben. She buttoned her coat, pulling her collar tight against the brisk wind. The track ended in a large granite rock face and Rory turned her to the view facing north. Rory shoved his hands in his pockets and indicated ahead with a flick of his chin to deep, blue lochs nestled in between high grey mountains.

  “I’ve climbed most of these peaks, and I ken every track and place of shelter.” He ran his vision over the vista before them while he spoke. “I’ve known it in the blinding glare of a summer sky shining off the lochs. Ken which tumble of stones and boulders to rest on beside the water.”

  He’d tell Siobhan the grazing lands of each herd of deer, the nesting ground of the capercaillie and grouse, and the high pines that held the nests of the osprey, if she asked. Rory blinked back the moisture gathering in his eyes and swallowed the choke in his throat. To say he loved this land would use words that fell so far short of what he truly felt.

  “It’s beautiful.” She sighed beside him.

  “Aye.” He joined her sigh with one of his own then lifted his face into the wind and braced himself for thoughts of what was to come. “And a responsibility.” He rested his chin on Siobhan’s head while she continued to regard the view. “You need to tell me more of the future. We’ve begun our preparations for storing food, but you mentioned civil war. I’d hate for anything to tear this beauty apart, and I’m more concerned for my people.” He straightened up, searching to make eye contact with her.

  Siobhan swallowed. “Like I said, you’ll be the commander of the Alliance. Lloyd was part of it in that future and he threatened to enslave the youth if we didn’t fight his way. He had it over us because we owed him.”

  “I’m no’ surprised he’s trouble.” Rory shook his head. “In the future you went to, we needed his supplies. If all goes well these next growing seasons, we won’t. I don’t like him. Too self-interested. One to keep an eye on.”

  “Yes.”

  “You said the Alliance fights the Government. Why? We’re on the same side, are we no’?”

  “Not in that future.” She slipped her arms around his waist and squeezed tight. “Rory don’t fall out with the Government—”

  “I dinnae intend to.” Rory faced the mountains before him. “An Alliance of Communities in the future makes sense, being of one mind and lifestyle philosophy. But command them?” A heaviness returned to his shoulders. Would Xian and George push for him to be a sole leader?

  He knew the future, from Siobhan, and what they must do to ensure survival when the famine hit. People looked to him to lead...They saw something in him.

  Rory bowed his head.

  “What’s wrong?” Siobhan looked up at him.

  He shrugged. “What people expect of me.”

  “They’re right, Rory. You’re the man for the job, in this time and this place, you’re the one to get them through it.”

  He released a long slow breath.

  “In the future, you begged me to change things when I returned so that future wouldn’t happen.” Siobhan’s deep-blue gaze held firm while she announced this revelation.

  “Did I? I dinnae like the thought o’ changing history.” His neck prickled. “The last time I travelled I avoided seein’ ma parents, stuck to the mission of meeting your father, and determined not to change anything. The first time I went back, I was trying to prevent a change in the future, our present, because ma father took a time journey without permission, you ken?” His throat tightened; he forced his words through it. “Look what that did. My father died...” His voice broke.

  “Rory?” Siobhan spoke gently into his ear.

  “Och, I failed him.” Tears mingled with his words and he was unable to hold them back. “When we stormed the slavers’ holding-house, I led the way and provided cover. I wore my SAPI vest and had a more powerful firearm than Dad, or Alistair. I did nae keep Dad safe. He got shot. Four times in the gut. He bled out...” Rory’s shoulders shook.

  Siobhan’s arms tightened around him, shushing him.

  “You’re not responsible, Rory.” Her hands cupped his cheeks and lifted his head until he looked her in the eye. “The men who took your mother and sister are. You did all possible.” She brushed his tears away. “Unfortunately, there is often collateral damage. You’re a soldier, you know that. I’m so sorry it was your father, a brave and wonderful man by the sounds of it. Just like you, my love.”

  Rory’s breath came haltingly. George had trained him for the prospect of deaths in a clash, but his own father’s death was still hard to come to terms with, even though, as a soldier, his father would have been prepared for it.

  “He’d be proud of you,” Siobhan interrupted his thoughts. “And pleased that you will get us through what lies ahead.”

  Rory wiped the rest of his tears off his face with the heel of his hand. “Aye. I hope he forgives me.”

  “Rory, he’d say there’s nothing to forgive. You helped save your mother. If you hadn’t, there wouldn’t be this present, would there?”

  He was unable to speak; his throat so tight he’d lost his voice.

  “You must step up now, Rory, and be the leader they meant you to be.” Her tone was eager, desperate.

  Siobhan’s words e
choed in his mind.

  He must.

  He wouldn’t back away from what they all must face. How could he stand before the one who requires an account of the actions of everyone in this life if he did? No, he wouldn’t disappoint and fail those who looked to him to pull them through. He’d not let his parents down, either. They’d spent their lives building and defending this Community.

  This was his task for his time.

  He would protect those he’d pledged to lead, even if it meant fighting to secure peace.

  Rory wrapped his arms around Siobhan, and resting his face in her hair, he prayed for wisdom.

  PART TWO

  Autumn’s brown heather carpets the mountainside.

  Early snow dusts the granite-grey peaks.

  In the dark grey sky sit angry clouds whipped by the wind.

  A stag steps from a copse of pine, halts and tips pointed tines over his back. Nose high, he sniffs the glen. A sharp honk of warning, and his does scatter.

  The Saltire flutters behind a tank traversing the green and orange-brown carpet of heather, crunching the grey rock in its path, leaving two churned strips of dark.

  Armed Government soldiers flank it on either side.

  Thudding fills Ruairidh’s ears.

  A yell comes from his core, ascends via his racing heart, and works its way out through adrenaline-forced lungs.

  “For land and love!”

  His brothers join their rage-filled cries to his.

  Callum, Xian, Kendra—all close by his side.

  The strong, brave militia from Invercharing, and many others, are at his back.

  On this, hinges all.

  Home and hearth, they used to say.

  Home—Siobhan and their sons.

  But in the place in his soul that is home, in her stead...

  A void.

  Chapter 28

  Invercharing Community, 2063

  Sweat dampened Rory’s brow. The wisps of hair that escaped his ponytail stuck to his face. The heat tempted him to remove his shirt, which clung to his back but the memory of the sunburn was enough to squash that idea. He was thankful for the two good summers of bountiful harvests since they’d started storing food. Rory leaned against the cart they loaded with oats. It had been another long summer’s day and Rory expected everyone available to assist in the harvest. Siobhan had come early morning and helped for as long as she could before young Jake became hungry and fractious in the hot sun.

  “We’ll fill the new storage bins again this year, with any luck.” Uncle Brendan, his grey hair tucked under his broad-brimmed hat, tossed the sheaf of oats into the cart.

  “Aye, we’d better. More mouths to feed since Cèilidh and Micah are wed, and his men have joined us,” Rory said. “Not to mention the bairns those two make.”

  “Hmm, very fertile sister you have there.” Droplets of sweat trickled down Uncle Brendan’s face, which was a similar colour to his red shirt. “Twins do run in your family.” His face broke into a grin and he turned back to the harvest.

  Rory glanced at the nearby sentry post where Callum was speaking to the militia on duty. The bandits of the opportunistic kind had been active lately, the Community’s extra sowings producing plentiful crops had intrigued them. All the Communities had increased their sowings and yields at Rory’s insistence. Some questioned, but Rory explained the logical prudence of such a program and avoided any mention of darkened skies filled with volcanic ash.

  A cry came from a young woman in the field where Uncle Brendan had headed. She waved her arms at Rory, then removed her hat and almost threw it, her face tight with concern. Rory ran to her, crunching over the short stalks left by the harvest, and sped along the row of stubble where the woman stood. Someone lay on the ground at her feet, face down—a male form wearing a red shirt.

  “Uncle Brendan?” Rory’s feet pounded on the loose earth in time with his pulse. “Get Christine!” Rory shouted to the militia at the sentry post. “Guys, help me here!” He ran to Uncle Brendan and rolled him over. He was pale, bluish even, with no hint of the ruddiness of his exertions of a few moments earlier.

  Rory shook him. He didn’t respond. Rory thumped his chest. His eyes stayed open, staring, dirt caking his forehead and nose, and he was motionless. Footsteps crunched the straw stubble nearby.

  “What’s happened?” It was Callum. “Uncle Brendan!” Callum fell on his knees beside him and pressed his fingers on his neck. “I cannae find a pulse.”

  Rory laced his fingers and placed his hands in the centre of Uncle Brendan’s chest. He pressed for one hundred times then stopped.

  “Check for a pulse!” he ordered Callum.

  Callum placed his fingers on Uncle Brendan’s neck again then shook his head.

  Sweat fell off Rory’s brow in large drops and spattered on his hands clasped on Uncle Brendan’s chest. “We’ll keep doing it till we get something.”

  Foot tread thumped toward them. “Christine’s comin’.” It was Kendra.

  Rory continued his external compressions. A snap beneath his clasped hands vibrated up his arm and sent a sickening to his stomach.

  “What was that?” Callum bore his alarmed stare into him.

  Rory swallowed and kept pressing down, willing Uncle Brendan’s heart to start.

  “He just dropped,” the young woman who’d harvested next to Uncle Brendan, explained.

  The thud of pounding hooves echoed toward them. Rory glanced up from his compressions, his torso drenched with sweat and his mouth dry. Christine jumped from a horse, holding her medical bag, and ran toward them. He stopped his compressions and Callum felt for a pulse.

  Christine knelt beside Uncle Brendan, and with an old stethoscope listened for a heartbeat. Her brows drew tight and her lips squeezed together.

  “Keep going,” she said.

  “Did you hear anything?” Rory asked.

  Christine shook her head then turned at the approach of another horse. Rory followed her gaze and continued pressing on Uncle Brendan. It was Aunty Bec. She dismounted and left her horse with Christine and Kendra’s. She ran, hair flying and thin arms pumping as she trod the uneven ground.

  “Brendan!” Her breathless wail halted Rory. Aunty Bec knelt, her old knees hitting the ground hard, and Rory sat back on his haunches to give her space. She rested her head on Uncle Brendan’s chest and moaned, then sat back, her cheeks wet with tears.

  Rory placed his hands on Uncle Brendan to continue compressions.

  “No.” Aunty Bec put her thin bony fingers over his. “Leave it. He’s gone. No use subjecting him to the violence of resuscitation. Let him be.” She bowed her head and tears wet Uncle Brendan’s shirt, mixing with the dirt from the field.

  Rory took his hands away. The others stood around in silence, watching Aunty Bec cry. Sheep bleated, eager to be let into the field to eat the remaining stalks. The wind blew in Rory’s face and whisked Aunty Bec’s hair across hers. Rory shuffled closer and put an arm on her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Aunty,” he murmured into her hair then kissed her forehead as her wail began.

  THE COMMUNITY GATHERED in the main hall, much as they had two years earlier. This time, though, it wouldn’t be Brendan Hamilton reading out the results of the votes. His position on the Chief Council required filling and although his death had shocked the Community, they could waste no time and an immediate replacement was necessary.

  Siobhan jiggled Jake on her hip. His chubby fingers played with the shiny metallic buttons of her blouse. With eyes as blue as his father’s, his gaze flicked up to her then darted around the room, taking it all in, his blond curls bobbing with each twist of his head. Maybe he would be quiet long enough for her to stay and hear the results.

  It was the same procedure as the previous election. Anyone willing was up for a vote. She hadn’t wanted to govern, as such, in the past. Well, not in the Bunker. But with the future she’d encountered, it was crucial that people who knew, and were capable, were the ones on
the team. It would be wonderful to work beside Rory on the Chief Council. She would see more of him that way, and experience the part of him she admired the most.

  She swallowed at the churning within her—it was a mixture of emotions.

  She could be a valuable member of the team and, if she was voted in, it would signify the Community had accepted her at last.

  She’d married one of their men and left everything! For heaven’s sake, wasn’t she one of them now? Couldn’t she have a chance to use her skills? What more did she have to prove?

  She jiggled Jake more vigorously. He made baby noises and his practice words jolted in his throat in time with her movements.

  She’d worked like a Trojan with Rory right up to delivering Jake, doing all she could in establishing the increased food production and storage, plus acquiring supplies from the black market, no less. It hadn’t ceased to amaze her what was obtainable through such channels.

  She wouldn’t expect to gain a place on the Council because she was Rory’s wife.

  But surely her dedication to them...

  Rory walked through the door at the front of the hall along with the other members of the Chief Council. George Stobbart stood at the centre of the raised platform holding a piece of paper. Rory scanned the crowd, found her, then his gaze lingered on their son.

  “Martin Moffatt,” George announced, “has been successful in obtaining a seat on the Council.” Those assembled applauded.

  Rory’s second cousin, the old physicist, had won the place. A sigh rose from within her. She continued jiggling Jake and he whimpered, his baby words the start of a cry. It took her mind off the tightness in her throat.