The Messenger: Mortal Beloved Time Travel Romance, #1

by Pamela DuMond

  I stopped walking and sat back on the bed. “I talked to his son,” I said. “He gave me his coat. He was only eight-years-old.”

  “When King Philip heard about their capture, he broke down and cried out, “My heart breaks… Now I am ready to die.” Apparently after that happened, all of Philip’s fight left him,” Aaron said. “His army was decimated and he returned to his home, still hating the English colonists, but knowing the outcome that awaited him. His wife and son were never heard from again.”

  “What happened to King Philip?”

  “Are you sure you’re up for this, now?” He asked.

  “Yes,” I said. Absolutely not.

  “He was pursued and shot dead by a Native man, who was accompanied by a colonial Captain. He was drawn and quartered. They chopped off his hand, and gave it as a souvenir to the man who killed him. That guy carried it around in a bucket, and would make some cash by showing it to people. They chopped off Philip’s head and stuck it on a pike where it stood on display in Plymouth, Massachusetts, for twenty five years.”

  Chapter 39

  Interestingly enough, it was a major land grab. At the end of King Philip’s War, the east coast Natives lost their land, their lives, or their freedom as they were sold into slavery. The colonists had definitely won this battle.

  * * *

  I left the long-term care facility that day. I got home and all I could do was cry. Dad made me put on a coat; we went outside and walked for a little bit. But I just couldn’t share with him.

  Besides not being with Samuel, the hardest part was not knowing what happened to him. Did he survive Malachi? If so, did the colonists ship him, like they did most of the friendly Natives to Deer Island where he most likely starved or froze to death during that bleak winter? Or was he sold into slavery, like the rest of King Philip’s tribe? Maybe he was one of the few Natives who escaped, and joined another tribe.

  I wrote a couple of versions of King Philip’s story. One was for Stanley Preston’s history assignment on major land grabs. One was about my experiences about a girl who traveled back in time and experienced colonial life. The third I wrote for myself. So I would never forget. That version was all about Samuel, falling in love, and learning to become a Messenger.

  About a week after I left the hospital, I grew tired of living my days in easy, pull-on attire and my nights in a rotation of sweaty, flannel pjs. I was exhausted from staring at the iridescent stars on the ceiling and reminding myself that breathing required not only inhaling, but also exhaling.

  Maybe falling in love with Samuel really was fiction. Perhaps Dr. Boring was right; maybe Samuel was just a byproduct of my coma-induced delusion. He never existed. But then why did I remember so many details about him?

  How his hand felt on my face? His rough skin, his touch firm, but gentle. That didn’t feel like a delusion.

  The intimacy of his fingers when he tucked my hair behind my ear. Could I make up a detail that small?

  When he pulled me to him, leaned into my face, cupped my chin, and said, “Madeline. I do not care where you are from—the future, the past, a star in the sky. I will love you here, now. I do not care what people think. I will love you, forever, Madeline.” And when he kissed me like I had never been kissed before.

  Was it possible to remember these moments from a delusion? A guy that I made up?

  No. It wasn’t. He was real.

  And I was done.

  Done with the shrinks and the know-it-alls who said I was just a silly teenage girl who had a couple of accidents. I’d figure this thing out for myself.

  I pushed myself out of bed, limped to my desk, and found Mama’s book under a deluge of paper handouts on rehabilitative exercises and homework assignments that I needed to catch up on.

  Her handbook was still beautiful, but a little dusty. I wiped it off with the edge of my pajama top, grabbed a mini flashlight and went back to bed. Propped myself up, laid it in my lap, and opened it.

  I focused the flashlight and carefully turned the pages. Some were earmarked, but not by me. There were pages that had text written in foreign languages; others with scrawled markings including doodles, maps and arrows.

  Then there were those pages that were bunched, stuck together, and didn’t lay completely flat.

  I had Mama’s handbook for almost a day before I fell off the L tracks. Why didn’t I register any of this when Dad first gave it to me? I felt like I’d been sleepwalking through my life, when everything around me could be a sign, or even magic.

  I searched the handbook for clues. About halfway through I spotted something. The letters were small, handwritten in cursive, and faded. I pulled the book closer and read them.

  General Jebediah V. Ballard (1640 -1690) married to Elizabeth Sophia Endicott (1654 to 1715)

  Children:

  Abigail Constance Ballard (1675 -1740)

  William Tobias Ballard (1678-1708)

  It was Elizabeth! She was my great, great, to-the-nth degree grandmother. She was my ancestor, not Abigail. Which also meant she survived King Philip’s attack. Maybe I’d never be much of a Messenger in this life, but maybe I helped save Elizabeth when I accidentally time traveled. Perhaps that was good for something.

  I put my finger on the paper under her name. Something tiny, dull and purplish stuck in the binding shone for a millisecond. The flashlight flickered and then died.

  No way! I smacked it a couple of times and it fluttered back on.

  I aimed it directly on the tiny purple thing. It looked familiar. I pulled on the binding gently, carefully with a finger. I saw the edge of a tiny feather. I wanted a miracle, needed evidence, but could not, would not damage this book. Nothing budged. I remembered when Angeni told me to use less effort.

  I eased the edge of my pinky finger between the pages, and created a miniscule opening. I clutched my healing ribs with one hand and blew on the binding.

  My ribs hurt, but the pay-off was worth it. My breath revealed a few remnants of small, colorful feathers, long, coarse, black horsehairs and tiny, multi-colored seashells. I flashed to Elizabeth kneeling awkwardly on the floor as she picked up the remnants of the necklace Samuel made me after Reverend Wilkins destroyed it.

  The necklace Samuel made for me. In the year 1675.

  Samuel was real. Not a coma-induced delusion.

  We had been together, for real. We had fallen in love, for real.

  * * *

  Several days later, I returned to Preston Academy. I’d been in a coma. On life support, off life support. My broken ribs and fractured ankle were mending; I still walked with a cane and knew I had fallen in love. But, whatever, ’cause my history teacher, Stanley Preston, didn’t care about any of that.

  He ambled up and down the aisles, passing out the assignment papers I had missed to the other students. He walked past me and smiled. “We are all happy to welcome Madeline Blackford back to Preston Academy after her strange accident at the L platform.”

  Aaron whistled.

  Chaka hollered, “Yay!”

  Taylor Smythe studied her fingernails.

  I knew Mr. Preston was a bully, and I was a little shocked there was no full-blown attack.

  “This week’s homework assignment is inspired by Madeline. Please pick well-known figures in history that experienced near fatal accidents. Or do you believe they were botched suicide attempts? And if so, make a case for that. Ten page paper due next week on Friday.”

  Chaka mouthed, “WTH?”

  I shrugged my shoulder on the side that my ribs weren’t broken. But living in the year 1675 had shifted part of my spirit. “Excuse me Mr. Preston,” I said.

  “Yes, Madeline?”

  “Do you have questions you’d like to ask about my accident?”

  He rocked on his heels. There was the same, malicious glint in his eyes that I used to see in Reverend Wilkins’ eyes back at the garrison. A look oozing with judgment. A look that confirmed he would try and make me feel awful, just so he could fee
l good.

  “As long as you’re offering. I’m sure your classmates would want to know, could even learn something from what went through your mind, before your… accident.”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “You know me. I’m all about getting the message out.”

  Chairs creaked as every kid in that class swiveled and faced me.

  Loved the attention. Not. I cleared my throat. “Before my accident, I’d had a bad couple of days. My stepmom was taking off for a new job assignment. The guy I liked—well, we all know how well that worked out.” I heard a few guffaws. “I was scared of heights from a different accident.”

  “You don’t have to do—” Chaka blurted.

  “She already agreed,” Stanley interrupted.

  I blew a kiss to Chaka. “You, Mr. Preston, made me realize a few things.”

  He picked up a powdered donut from a small white box on his desk. “That’s what I love about teaching.” He bit into it and crumbs flew.

  “The day before my accident, you laid into me. Embarrassed me in front of everyone in class.”

  “I have to be strict as well as honest. I only want what is best for each and every one of my students.”

  “Funny. Because when we were alone in this room, you threatened my grades, my partial scholarship as well as my potential college opps. I think you did that because you don’t like me.”

  He hacked a little, and massaged his throat with his index finger.

  “I was definitely sad when I was up on that L platform. But I wasn’t suicidal.” I pushed myself to standing with my cane, and limped awkwardly toward the door, feeling the emotional weight of every kid in that room on my shoulders.

  “Class is not dismissed yet,” Stanley Preston said. He munched his donut defiantly. The powder rubbed off on his face.

  “It will be by the time I make it to the door,” I said. “If I hear one rumor that I tried to commit suicide on that L platform, I will file a complaint with the Preston Academy Board so fast it will make your head spin. Because while teachers deserve respect from their students, students deserve the same respect from their teachers.”

  Stanley Preston dropped the donut. It landed with a plop on the floor.

  Chaka and Aaron started clapping. A couple more kids joined them. The bell clanged. And I left.

  Chapter 40

  I stood in Preston Academy’s foyer and gazed up at Mama’s pale, rose-colored brick on the very top of the wall. She didn’t deliberately abandon me. She saved my life in so many ways. I thought of Angeni: how she taught me to let go, to finally live. Because I let go just a tiny bit, I was able to fall in love with Samuel.

  I think she knew the second I landed in Abigail’s life that there were more puzzle pieces that needed to be fit together than just the obvious ones. I tapped my cane on the ground, and made a decision.

  I limped over to the tall, library ladder, leaned my shoulder against it and pushed it, one clompy step at a time, around the walls toward Mama’s brick.

  Aaron appeared at my side. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.” He stepped in and wheeled until it lay directly below her brick. He flipped the safety lock down and gestured. “Madeline Blackford. Risk-taker.”

  I handed him my cane. “Madeline Blackford: Finally alive.” I climbed five steps. I paused and realized—I wasn’t freaked. About ten feet up I hyperventilated a little, and hung onto the railing.

  Taylor Smythe said, “Hey, let’s watch the freak show.”

  And to think I saved your life, and made you a General. (Note to self: next life I run into your sorry soul I’m not going to be so nice.) I climbed a few more steps. This was as high as I’d ever climbed anything. At least in this life. I white-knuckled the railings.

  Chaka said, “You go, Madeline.”

  “Go, Madeline!” Aaron said.

  The entire foyer was packed with students and teachers looking up at me. “Go, Madeline.” The chant grew. It sounded like hope. I made it up three more steps. I was about fifteen feet up that ladder when the heat washed over me again.

  Dear God. There was no way I could time travel or escape from this moment, even if I tried. If I climbed just three more feet, I could stretch my arm high over my head and touch Mama’s brick. Then I heard his voice.

  “Maddie!” Brett said. The chanting slowed. Then stopped. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you, but your entire family keeps hanging up on me. You need to get down from that ladder, now.”

  I swiveled my head high up in the air and looked down at him. “Why?”

  “Because I’ve known you a long time, and you’re terrified of heights.”

  “Maybe not so much anymore.”

  Brett shuffled his feet, and still couldn’t look me in the eyes. “If you have a panic attack up there, who’s going to help you?”

  Someone whose destiny I was meant to cross paths with.

  “No worries, Brett. I won’t be calling you.”

  I climbed the last three feet in seconds, reached my hand out and touched Mama’s brick. It felt warm and magical. It felt comforting, but exhilarating. It felt fierce, but honest. It was way better than I ever imagined.

  I felt Mama’s energy, her love, and her devotion. But I felt something a little more than I bargained for. Angeni’s magic, as well as other energies, emanated from that brick right into my hand. Maybe there were more magical souls I was meant to meet on this journey.

  By the time I’d gotten back down the ladder, half the people in the foyer were raising their hands to bump my fist. I smiled and giggled.

  * * *

  The cab honked twice curtly, outside our house. I grabbed my coat off the peg next to the front door, and pulled it on awkwardly. “Chaka’s folks are having a gig,” I said. “I’m going.”

  “Hang on. I’ll drive you.” Dad practically jumped out of the kitchen door. He’d been hovering lately. Which was getting on my nerves.

  “No. I need to do things on my own. Like normal. Like before the accident.”

  “You sure?”

  “Your face down here, please.” I pointed to his face and then mine. He leaned forward, and I kissed him on the cheek. “Yes, I’m sure. I’ll be home early. You know I hate these things.”

  “That’s my girl!” He stood back up. “No superficial, trendy stuff for you.” He pulled a twenty from his wallet. “Cab money.”

  “Thanks.” I pocketed it. “I’ll always love superficial, trendy stuff in small doses.”

  * * *

  Club Magique had been hot for a while, tanked, and was now making a comeback since Chaka’s parents bought it. They gutted it, renovated it, and hired the most amazing musicians for live gigs.

  The cab dropped me off in front by the red velvet rope manned by a couple of beefy bouncers. I handed the cabbie the twenty, and scraped through my purse for a couple of ones to add to the tip. This is why I normally took public transportation.

  The line around the club snaked for what looked like blocks. I wasn’t even sure I’d get in. A cute, young, buff bouncer spotted my cane, and then me. “Madeline Blackford?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was informed, under pain of death, to find and bring you inside,” he said.

  “You found me.”

  I was a little surprised when he lifted me off the ground. He carried me through the masses of partiers inside the loud, dark club toward Chaka’s table next to the dance floor, which was in front of the stage. I didn’t know whether to feel grateful or embarrassed. Okay, both.

  “Chaka told you to do this, didn’t she?”

  He nodded. “She didn’t want you overdoing it your first night out.” He deposited me next to her table.

  Chaka bounced off her chair, and tried not to hug me. “You’re here! You’re not going to regret this. What do you want to drink?”

  “Seltzer?”

  “Pellegrino with two limes, please,” Chaka told the waiter. She looked styling and gorgeous as always.
<
br />   “Once you’re out of that walking boot we’re going shoe shopping,” she said. “Nothing too tall in the heel department. Maybe some fun Pumas or low-heeled boots. You are not going to believe who my parents booked for tonight.”

  I glanced around the room. It was packed. The dance floor was already jamming. “I’m assuming someone very talented and cool.”

  “I’m dying!” She fanned herself.

  “Where’s Aaron?”

  She pointed to the dance floor. He was dancing with some cute, young guy, and looked like he was having a blast.

  Chaka’s dad, Nick Silverman, a handsome man with a full head of salt and pepper hair, hopped on the stage and took the mic. “Welcome to Club Magique!”

  The crowd roared. He beamed. “We are honored to welcome the amazing, the magical, the incredibly talented… Rapper Ro-Boy to our stage. Put your hands together!”

  Applause erupted. There were whistles, foot stomping.

  The stage curtain lifted, and there he was—the next hot, young dancing/rapping/singing talent. He smiled that awesome, toothy grin of his and waved. “Hello, Magique!” He and his band launched into one of his insanely popular signature tunes.

  People screamed and jammed onto the dance floor.

  “Isn’t it incred?” Chaka asked.

  I sipped my bubbly water and nodded. “Thanks for inviting me. I’m glad I’m here.” And I was. I was happy. I hadn’t felt this way in a while. I swayed a little to the music as best I could.

  “This next one is for you lovers out there, who in spite of everything, still believe,” Ro-Boy said, launched into Stevie Wonder’s song, As, which featured the most romantic lyrics.

  I froze. I knew this song. It was an exquisite piece of musical poetry about loving someone for an eternity.