Our Time Is Now

by Chloe Douglas

  As she made a move to close the window, Gideon caught her by the wrist, forestalling their inevitable farewell.

  “Will you meet me at the garden pavilion tomorrow morning before breakfast?”

  * * *

  Murmuring to herself, Jessica snuggled against the down-filled pillow, caught midway between sleep and wakefulness. Her dream had been so real, so vivid, it was as though she’d been watching one of those old Technicolor costume dramas on TCM.

  Although why she would be dreaming about a strange man she barely knew was a complete mystery. This was the second night in a row that she’d dreamt about Gideon MacAllister.

  I hate to think what that says about me.

  Perhaps the bone-deep loneliness of the last several months had finally started to catch up to her. Maybe she’d been wrong to turn down every man who’d asked her out on a date. Maybe if she’d been out there getting a little nookie, she wouldn’t be having these weird, inexplicable dreams. Weird because the Gideon of her dreams was nothing like the man who was currently asleep at the other end of the hall.

  Which made her wonder what Gideon MacAllister might be dreaming about.

  Chapter 9

  Gideon tried to awaken from the hideous dream. Unable to do so, he took stock of the nightmarish scenario that was spread out before him.

  Twilight had fallen upon the blood-drenched meadow at Lewis Creek, the setting sun having put an end to the savage contest. In the far-off distance, he could hear the roar of thunder, and the slender saplings that lined the creek bed shivered in the aftermath. Before him lay a scene of indescribable brutality. Even as the falling rain tamped out the torches of those who wandered the battlefield in search of fallen comrades, the muffled cries of the wounded—a cacophony of moans, grunts, and tearful pleas—remained unceasing.

  Gideon craned his neck and stared at the gloomy sky above. How could a loving, benevolent God wreak such havoc upon His peaceful kingdom?

  “What did any of us do to deserve this?” he bellowed at the night sky, berating God, the Yankees, and the Southern Cause. But mostly he railed at himself for having been such a damned fool of a man. For having forsaken everything he knew and loved for this.

  As he stood in the rain, a dark shadow spread across the devastated landscape. A few seconds later, he heard a low, baritone roar.

  Gideon strained his ears, knowing that what he’d just heard hadn’t been the roar of thunder or the more familiar roar of cannon. When he again heard the ominous rumbling emanate from the nearby woodland, his battle-hardened senses went on alert. A twig snapped behind him and he reflexively drew his revolver, spinning on his booted heel and pulling the trigger.

  In the next instant, his bloodlust congealed into outright horror. Standing before him, dressed in a flounced, ivory gown, was his beloved wife. Blood poured from an open gunshot wound; the bullet had pierced her heart.

  “No!” he hollered, rushing forward to catch her as she fell.

  Lowering his wife to the ground, Gideon clasped her tightly against his chest, one hand pressed to her breast to stem the flow of blood.

  “Come back to me, Gideon… come back to me,” she murmured weakly, turning her head to peer at him.

  Stunned, Gideon stared at the woman he held in his arms. For it was not his wife who now gazed at him… it was Jessica Reardon.

  Just then, the ground beneath him shook. Again, he heard a low, thundering roar. A primitive, unearthly sound, it raised the hair on the back of his neck. Straining his eyes, he saw a huge winged beast emerge from the murky shadows, its red eyes demonically gleaming. It stood nigh on thirty hands high with a wingspan of equal measure. As it lumbered toward him, Gideon intuitively knew that it would take more than a lead ball to fell the winged colossus.

  Perhaps he could slay it with his cavalry saber. That was, after all, how the knights of old had slain mythical dragons, was it not?

  As he started to rise to his feet, the woman in his arms frantically clutched his arm. “Come back to me, Gideon… come back to me,” she pleaded, her voice little more than a breathless whisper.

  Gideon paused in mid-motion, torn between protecting the woman and doing battle with the beast.

  As if sensing his dilemma, the beast opened its mouth and released a fiery breath, the red-hot flames scorching the leaves on the nearby trees. Almost immediately, Gideon clutched his temple, hit with an excruciating burst of pain.

  Despite the agonizing spasms, he heard a deep, unfamiliar voice inside his head loudly proclaim, “Evil will descend upon the land of the Greenbrier. The red man cometh. Those in high places will perish in the flames of hell. So sayeth the Beast.”

  Although he tried to make sense of it, he could not. The words were like so much gibberish to him.

  Suddenly, the beast moved its leathery wings, leaving Gideon certain that it intended to attack him. Struggling to his feet, he drew his sword and charged forward.

  * * *

  Gideon awoke from the nightmare with a violent start.

  Thrashing his legs, he tried to disengage himself from the bed sheets. To his frustration, his limbs would not do as he commanded, and his body was seized with a shuddering spasm. Panting, he finally managed to throw the quilt onto the floor. Swinging his legs to the side of the bed, he sat upright, his body trembling in the dream’s aftermath.

  Damn the creature for tormenting me like this.

  He’d been at Highland House seven days now, and on each of the seven days, the winged beast had invaded his sleep, taking possession of him, body and soul. The dream never varied—the beast continually taunted him with those inscrutable words: Evil will descend upon the land of the Greenbrier. The red man cometh. Those in high places will perish in the flames of hell. So sayeth the Beast

  What did it mean? Did it mean anything? Or was he was suffering from a dark dementia, the sins of his past having finally caught up to him? Perhaps Hell did exist, here on Earth, and he was being punished for his beloved’s death. And for the deaths of all the brave men who’d lost their lives under his command.

  As Gideon sat hunched on the side of the bed, the windows suddenly rattled in their frames. From outside the house came a thunderous roar, an ungodly sound, as though hell’s pantheon was flying overhead.

  The beast had returned!

  Opening the nightstand drawer, he grabbed his Colt revolver and staggered to his feet. Moaning, he swallowed a mouthful of stomach bile, overcome with nausea, the pain in his head unbearable. To keep himself from tottering over, he slapped his left palm against the wall. Holding the revolver in his right hand, he eased himself around the perimeter of the room, using the wall to hold himself upright.

  Within moments, the unearthly rumbling ceased.

  Admittedly relieved, Gideon lurched back to the unkempt bed. Slowly, with his every movement exacerbating the pain inside his skull, he eased himself onto the mattress. He sagged against the bed pillows, his energy depleted.

  What am I doing here, one hundred and fifty years in the future? Since his arrival at Highland House, he’d been doing nothing but killing time. Or maybe time was killing him, he amended, thinking that the more likely scenario.

  Pushing out a deep breath, he glanced at the nightstand. There, in plain view, was the small brown bottle which contained the restorative that had cured his pleurisy. An antibiotic, Jessica had called it. He reached for it, but it was as though he suffered from apoplexy. His hands trembled uncontrollably as he attempted to remove the white cap. He knew he had to push and turn, but he couldn’t manage to—

  Gideon cursed aloud as a handful of colorful pills flew through the air, spilling all over the bed.

  Frustrated, he flung the brown bottle against the wall. The damned pink and blue pills had brought him back from the brink of death, but had anyone thought to ask beforehand if he wanted to remain amongst the living?

  Leaning over, he retrieved an envelope from the nightstand drawer. Although he’d long since committed the words to memor
y, he carefully removed the single sheet of paper from its wrapping. Wear and tear, dirt and blood, had rendered a good portion of the letter indecipherable. It mattered not. The few words that he could still read were punishment enough.

  … regret to inform you… tragic death… Mrs. MacAllister shall be deeply missed… with heartfelt condolences.

  As he stared at the letter, it felt as though the devil’s blacksmith was continuously banging an anvil against his skull. And though he was pain-wracked, he suddenly heard the soft murmur of a woman’s voice.

  Come back to me, Gideon… come back to me.

  A tear rolled down his cheek, splattering onto the letter, smudging the ink. In the next instant, the sheet of paper slipped through his trembling fingers.

  “I know but one way to return to you, my beloved,” he whispered, raising the Colt revolver to his right temple.

  His finger poised over the trigger, Gideon took a deep, ragged breath, his mind made up. He did not belong here. Moreover, he did not wish to be here. Everyone he’d ever known or loved was dead. His beloved waited for him on the other side. All he had to do was—

  “Yoo-hoo, Gideon! I come bearing gifts.”

  Gideon froze at Jessica’s insistent knock. Gasping for breath, he immediately lowered the revolver. God Almighty! Have I taken leave of my senses?

  Shame-ridden, he shoved the revolver inside the nightstand drawer and slammed it shut.

  “I know you’re awake, oh, bearded one,” Jessica said from the other side of the door. “I can hear you moving around in there.”

  “A moment, if you will,” he hoarsely called out, shoving himself off the bed. “I am not properly attired.”

  Hurriedly, he snatched his gray woolen trousers from where they hung on the end of the brass bed frame. Gritting his teeth against the pain inside his head, he yanked the trousers over his hips. It took several moments of fumbling with the buttons, but he finally managed to make himself decent. He then slowly ambled over to the door and opened it. On the other side stood a brightly smiling Jessica Reardon, several blue bags looped over her wrist. He stepped back, motioning for her to enter.

  “I’m sorry for banging on the door like that, but you’ve been sleeping for hours and—” Her brow suddenly furrowed as she stared at his face. “You’ve had a relapse, haven’t you?”

  Grimacing, he shook his head. “I am well.”

  “You’re lying,” she said flatly, tossing the bags onto the bed. “Your cheeks are flushed, your eyes are bloodshot, and you’re—” she placed the palm of her hand on his forehead—“running a fever. I’m going to call the doctor.”

  The instant that Jessica’s hand touched his brow, a pulsating tingle spread from the front of Gideon’s face to the crown of his head, all the way to the back of his skull, causing the pain to immediately dissipate.

  Unaware of the curative effect that she had on him, Jessica began to remove her hand from his brow. Impulsively, Gideon grabbed her by the wrist. Unable to stifle a moan, he placed her palm against his cheek and firmly held it there. At that moment, Jessica Reardon was his only link to the land of the living.

  “Gideon, I can see that you’re not feeling well.”

  “I am not… I am not ill.” Worried that he may have inadvertently frightened Jessica, he relaxed his grip on her wrist. “A dream… it was only a dream.”

  She tenderly cupped his cheek for a few seconds before removing her hand from his face. “A dream did this to you?”

  “In truth, it was more like a nightmare,” he confessed. “I have not been sleeping well.”

  “I’ve recently had a few strange dreams, myself.”

  But not as strange as his dreams, he’d warrant.

  “If you like, I can bring a dinner tray to your room,” Jessica offered.

  He shook his head, afraid of what he might do if left alone. “I have been imprisoned in this room for the last seven days,” he told her. “I would like to dine downstairs this evening.”

  “In that case, dinner will be ready in an hour.” Gesturing to the blue bags that she’d flung onto the bed, she said, “I stopped at Walmart and got a refill on your meds. And since I was there, I went ahead and bought you some clothing. Nothing fancy. Just a few plaid shirts and some denim jeans. And I, um, also bought you some shaving gear in case, you know, you want to, um—” she swirled her right hand in front of her chin—“update your look. It’s been quite a few years since ZZ Top last had a hit single.”

  Unable to decipher the meaning of her last remark, Gideon nodded his head and said, “I am most grateful. If you will give me a tally of the expenses incurred, I shall gladly reimburse you.”

  “I left the receipt in the bag.”

  No sooner did Jessica take her leave than Gideon slumped against the back of the door, the last bit of strength ebbing from him.

  In the wake of Jessica’s departure, he felt anxious and unsure of himself. The fact that he felt so filled him with self-loathing, making him wonder what kind of man he’d become. Before the war, before his wife’s death, he’d been afraid of nothing, certain beyond all reason that he was the master of his fate. Now he dreaded falling asleep at night. Dreaded having to relive the sins of his past. Dreaded having to face the beast yet again.

  Surely I am one of God’s damned.

  Disgusted with himself, Gideon snatched a blue bag emblazoned with the word “Walmart”. Removing a red plaid shirt, he held it against his chest, quickly surmising that it would fit. The garment put him in mind of his old friend General A.P. Hill, who’d always worn a red plaid shirt into battle as a clarion call to his opponents. The blood-red shirt had served notice that Hill intended to fight to the death.

  Isn’t that what I should do also?

  As he pondered the notion, it suddenly dawned on Gideon that two paths lay before him—either he could take his own life or he could fight to the death. To end his life here, tonight, was the craven, albeit easy, choice. The more treacherous path lay in navigating a future not of his own making. But navigate it, he would.

  From this moment forward, he would no longer wallow in self-pity. He would no longer cower before his fate. He didn’t know how he’d come to be at Highland House, one hundred and fifty years in the future. He might never unravel the mystery behind that strange riddle. Nevertheless, he would not be defeated by this unexpected turn of the screw. He’d survived worse ordeals.

  He would survive this one as well.

  Chapter 10

  “Jeez, Louise!”

  Startled by the ear-splitting buzzer, Jessica rushed toward the oven, fumbling with the knobs as she turned off the shrill timer. Donning a baking mitt on each hand, she swung open the oven door. Met with a blast of fruit-flavored steam, she smiled.

  While she wasn’t intentionally trying to impress Gideon, this was the first time since he’d arrived that he’d been well enough to join her downstairs for dinner. After seven nights of serving him bland microwaved meals in his room, she thought it might be nice to cook something special.

  Okay, it wasn’t that special. Just a simple pasta primavera. And because she’d recently bought a bag of apples at a roadside stand and had to do something with them, she’d made a tarte aux pommes from scratch. She’d also decided, at the last moment, to pull out a bottle of Tuscan Chianti that she’d been saving, the wine more for her benefit than his. Impressed with her reenactment story, “Another Time, Another Place,” the editor-in-chief at The Dispatch had promoted her to full-time staff reporter. As expected, she was in a celebratory mood.

  And hopefully, the meal would cheer Gideon up a bit.

  When she’d earlier delivered her store purchases, he’d seemed utterly bereft. In fact, she’d felt guilty leaving him alone and had been sorely tempted to give him a comforting hug. But she’d stopped herself from doing so because the last time they’d had intimate contact, she’d nearly combusted. Even though the incident in question had happened a week ago, the memory of that ill-fated, explosive kiss st
ill sent a shiver down her spine. Mercifully, Gideon seemed to have no conscious memory of the passionate interlude.

  Then again he seemed to have little to no conscious memory of anything. Either that or he was the most intensely private man she’d ever encountered. He’d yet to speak of his family or friends, and she still had no idea where he came from or how he’d arrived at Highland House. Other than his name, she knew absolutely nothing about him.

  Which was why, soon after Gideon’s mysterious arrival, she’d contacted a crony at the newspaper office to find out if there’d been any local reports of missing persons in the area. The only report, to date, was of a woman who’d mysteriously vanished. She’d even spent several hours on the Internet perusing various “Missing Persons” sights. Unable to find anyone who matched Gideon’s physical description, she’d been forced to abandon the search.

  Admittedly, she felt responsible for Gideon. Not to mention that it seemed right having him at Highland House. In his weakened condition, he needed her, and she liked being needed. More to the point, she liked being needed by him.

  Baffled by her growing attachment to her reticent housemate, Jessica couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been living alone too long. Perhaps she’d “adopted” Gideon because she enjoyed having somebody to talk to, even if their conversations rarely went beyond “Good morning,” “Good night,” and “Did you remember to take your medication?” Maybe she’d gone all-out on making dinner because this was the first time since she’d walked out on her husband that she would actually be sitting across from someone at the dining room table. Maybe she even secretly hoped that, in time, something would develop between her and Gideon.

  Oh, for the love of Pete.

  Had she really just contemplated falling into the sack with Grizzly Adams? It wasn’t like her to have lurid imaginings about some man she barely knew. Or any man, for that matter.

  Bad enough she was fantasizing about her new roomie during her waking hours. But more unnerving was that fact that her nighttime reveries had become full-length, costume productions that featured people riding horses, driving carriages, and wearing hoop skirts. Most mornings, she was too embarrassed to look Gideon in the eye when she took up his breakfast tray, afraid he might somehow deduce that the previous night they’d laughed, flirted, and danced on wide-screen Dream TV.