Timeless

by Amanda Paris

  He beamed at me, standing straight up and walking over towards me. He had kind, light blue eyes and looked to be about sixty years old. He indicated that I should take a seat on the last pew, which I did, and he assumed a professorial stance, looking as though he were about to give a lecture on the church’s history.

  I was not, I reckoned, the average American tourist, though it was hard to imagine any tourists out here in such a remote place. Nevertheless, he looked eager to tell me more than I wanted to know.

  “The edifice around you was built in 1235, or rebuilt, I should say, on the ruins of a much older structure destroyed sometime before then. The records do not indicate when the original foundation was laid. We do know that the church was stripped of its wealth and all but destroyed again by Henry VIII during the dissolution of the monasteries in the 1530s. It was nevertheless not immune from the king’s destructive vendetta against the true church,” he said emphatically, as if these were current issues, not ones from long ago. So it was a Catholic, not an Anglican chapel, I thought, somehow relieved. That might work in my favor when I cast the spell to bring Damien forward.

  The priest finished, nodding at me as though he expected me to know all about sixteenth-century politics. I was only dimly aware of the Protestant Reformation in England, having little interest in history after 1216. I smiled politely, wondering how I could extricate myself. I was anxious to begin but also extremely nervous.

  He looked as though he might begin a lengthier discussion of monasteries in England, so I quickly thanked him and asked if I could look at the paintings on either side of the altar. I wanted to find the exact spot where Damien and I had stood in our dream, and I needed complete quiet to concentrate.

  “Certainly,” he assured me, asking if I wanted to know about the history of the pictures. I almost snapped at him in my impatience to get started but forced myself to decline politely.

  “Well then,” he said, disappointed, “I’ll leave you to it.”

  He looked meaningfully at the donation jar on the table at back of the church. I reached into my wallet and pulled out five pounds, placing the notes in the jar. I hoped it was enough for him to leave me alone.

  “You’re too kind. Please stay as long as you’d like,” he said, again all smiles. I wondered who attended this church, so deep into the woods, and started to ask him. But I really did want to begin my spell.

  The priest went back to folding brochures, and I stood up. I wondered what he’d make of Damien when he appeared out of thin air. But then, would he just appear? Would he walk through the door? I was unsure how this was going to happen.

  I walked up the center aisle, concentrating on the spot where light poured from the rose window above the altar.

  I stopped directly in the small circle of light. Though the church felt cold, a sensation of warmth filled me, just as it had in the clearing outside. I pulled out the rosary from my pocket and closed my eyes, first imagining Damien standing in this spot so long ago. I unpinned my hair, letting it fall to my waist. I wasn’t exactly sure how to cast spells, but Ramona had told me to concentrate—harder than I ever had before—and to make sure I covered everything in the spell. There was no dress rehearsal, no second chances. Either I did it right the first time, or…I didn’t let myself finish this thought.

  I looked up at the rose window, feeling the warm colors bathe my face in the red, blue, and green hues. A tingling started in my stomach and then filled me, from the roots of my hair to my toes. I had the sensation of something pulling at me, and I knew I was caught between two worlds, two times. Almost unconsciously, I began to repeat Damien’s name to myself, over and over again, calling to him through the vortex of the years. I could feel the swirling around me, but I concentrated only on his face, his intense, sparkling eyes.

  His face had burned itself into my memory. I clutched the rosary Ramona gave me tightly in my hand—so tight that it came apart. I spilled the beads on the stone floor below, breaking my concentration.

  “Miss? Miss? Are you quite alright?” I heard, as if from a distance.

  I staggered back and opened my eyes to see the priest standing a short distance away, regarding me with concern.

  “Yes,” I said, slightly breathless.

  “Would you like to sit down?” he inquired politely.

  I stumbled backwards into the first pew and then looked around, hoping I’d brought Damien forward. I realized in a panic that I’d forgotten to cast the spell correctly. I hadn’t said anything but his name. And had I actually said it? I knew I’d not mentioned anything about modern language or life. I moaned to myself. Could I cast the spell again? I realized with a dreadful certainty that the moment had passed; the portal—if such existed—had closed. I’d not even uttered so much as his name.

  Damien certainly hadn’t appeared beside me, but I still held out some hope that he’d come over. I crossed the roped-off section of the church and peered behind the altar.

  “I’m sorry; I can’t allow you to go back there,” the priest warned.

  I began to make a search of every pew, but in vain. Damien had not appeared. I knew the priest thought my behavior odd, but I didn’t care. I’d look over every inch of this church before I was through.

  I asked to inspect the rest of the church, but the priest told me there were only two other rooms. I could see inside the one to the right of the altar. It looked like they kept candles, vestments, a chalice, and the wine and wafers for communion there. I saw another door leading off from the left side of the altar and made my way there.

  “Wait! You can’t go back there!” he protested.

  I tried the door. The room contained a few choir robes and a small piano. There was no sign of Damien.

  So much for being a witch, I thought sadly. If I couldn’t work magic to save the one person I loved the most then what did it matter?

  I apologized to the priest and turned to go. My first thought had been to return to the castle, to try again, but I thought it unlikely he would have come through there. If I couldn’t do it here, where I felt Damien the most, there was not much purpose in getting my hopes up again, only to feel intense disappointment.

  It was starting to get dark when I left the church, and I dreaded leaving the clearing and making my way through the forest again. A great lethargy weighed down my limbs and a drowsy numbness overtook me. I still clutched the cross attached to the rosary beads. It had made an imprint in my hand. I sent out a quick prayer for deliverance. It was going to take a much higher power to return.

  I stumbled through the woods, trying to ignore the sense of desolation that I felt. Just as before, the trees seemed to close over me, trapping me inside. The perpetual silence drowned my senses. Despair beckoned, and I nearly answered its call when I caught sight again of the pond where I’d drowned again.

  I knew Damien had been real, but I wasn’t strong enough to save him, to bring him to me. I’d held back the tears while I wandered in the forest. When I thought I’d begun to walk in circles, the woods finally cleared, revealing the spot where I’d first entered. Though grateful to have found my way out, to leave the darkness behind me, I didn’t want to turn my back on all my hopes.

  I found the overgrown path, still marked by the bus’s grooves, and followed its interminable length. Night came upon me, and I stumbled twice, feeling the depression pull at my heart. I didn’t care now whether or not I returned to London. Mr. Dean had tickets for us to see Hamlet at the Globe tonight. How fitting, I thought, feeling a great kinship to the mad, lonely Ophelia, drowning first in her lovelorn despair, then in a fit of madness. He is dead and gone, lady,... And will he not come again?... Her words echoed in my mind. Alone in her torment, she had ended in the place where I began.

  It was a seductive thought. Maybe I wouldn’t go back, I thought. Maybe I should return to the pond and relive my past. I was just as separated from Damien as I had been before. But I’d already passed the pond, and the woods closed again behind me, refusing m
e entrance. I knew I would not find my way again.

  Grief finally overtook me. After miles of fruitless steps, I fell beneath a yew tree into a deep and numbing sleep.

  I expected to dream about him again and hoped I would. It was the only way to see him now. But I slept heavily, without dreaming, and awoke sometime later to find a large man with a graying beard, about fortyish, towering over me.

  Still groggy, exhausted, and disoriented, I wondered if I imagined him. Grief hit me like a fist, almost physically doubling me.

  He said something to me. I thought it was my name. But that would be impossible, wouldn’t it? He couldn’t possibly know that.

  He offered his hand to me. I took it, and his electric grip literally shocked me. I abruptly released him and stood up, brushing off the dirt from my jeans and pulling leaves from my hair. I couldn’t find my balance. He reached over to steady me, I thought, but his hands seemed to claw at me. I instinctively recoiled, and he immediately became very still. I didn’t want him touching me again, and I felt a strong surge of adrenaline nearly propelling me to run away, despite my weariness.

  “Where do you want to go?” he asked in his deep voice. A strange look appeared in his dark eyes, resurrecting the fear and terror I felt yesterday in the woods. He gave me a look I remembered from somewhere. But where?

  “Yes,” I replied hesitantly. “I need to get back to London.”

  He offered his hand again, but I declined, not quite able to shake the strange feeling he inspired.

  He said nothing further but pointed out a path I had not seen before. I’d not remembered it the night before; it seemed to appear from thin air.

  “Thank you,” I said hastily, almost running down the path, despite the exhaustion I still felt. Several minutes later, I looked back. He seemed to walk towards me, I thought, though it could have been my imagination. Regardless, I ran on, fearful that the stranger still watched me, a menacing figure looming on the horizon.

  ****

  The rest of the day passed in a blur. I realized later how lucky I was that I hadn’t been raped or killed despite the seeming safety of the English countryside. I thought again about the stranger whose touch had terrified me. I later attributed the feelings to my seriously addled wits, wondering if I’d actually even met a stranger there or just dreamed him.

  I finally found my way to civilization, and someone in Salisbury gave me directions to the train station. I saw Ben and Mr. Dean outside talking with a police officer. Ben spotted me first, a look of relief on his face as he ran towards me. He put his arms around me, clutching me to him.

  “Emily, your head!” he exclaimed.

  I’d forgotten about the wound I received yesterday, but between the scraping branches and falling stone gargoyle, I knew I looked dreadful.

  “I fell,” I said meekly.

  “Into what? A pack of wolves?”

  “Something like that,” I said, taking the Kleenex he offered and wiping my face.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, not waiting for my response. “We were worried sick!”

  His arms had never felt as good around me as they did then. I broke into sobs, knowing he’d understand. He always did.

  After the heaving subsided somewhat, Mr. Dean cleared his throat.

  “Emily, where have you been? Did you get lost trying to find your relatives?” he asked.

  Ben shot me a puzzled look. He knew I had no relatives here.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you,” I mumbled.

  I didn’t have the strength to explain myself. Despite getting some sleep in the woods, I still felt drained.

  We entered the station together, and Ben sat down with me at a small side table, while Mr. Dean looked at the train schedule, keeping one eye in my direction to make sure I wouldn’t bolt again. The next train wasn’t for another hour, so we went inside the small station café to find breakfast.

  Mr. Dean hadn’t said another word to me, waiting, I could tell, for me to recover before he began firing questions. I must have looked terrible. I could see the concern written on both of their faces. I knew I was lucky the police officer hadn’t lectured me severely. I guessed that student tourists likely went off on adventures all the time.

  We ate in silence, waiting for the train to arrive. I finished my croissant and went into the ladies’ room, promising Ben—who looked ready to follow me—and Mr. Dean that I wouldn’t try anything sudden. I splashed my face with some water and took a long look at myself in the mirror. Most of my hair had escaped the rubber band, and leaves and dirt had collected in the frizzy curls. Long scratches crisscrossed my face, and my arms had bruises all over them. I could feel the knot on the back of my head from the gargoyle, and the gash on my forehead looked nasty. Altogether, it was not a pretty sight. I did the best I could with water and paper towels, knowing I’d have to leave my hair for later.

  The train arrived shortly thereafter, and all three of us got up to board. Ben didn’t put his arms around me again, but he sat very close, ready, I knew, if I should need him.

  After the train pulled out of the station, Mr. Dean cleared his throat.

  “I would never have expected this of you, Emily,” he began in a severe tone of rebuke.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, ashamed to have caused him so much worry. I should’ve worked harder on a good cover story.

  “You know,” he continued, “you could at least have called me. And you didn’t have to lie either. Annie said you were sick until I checked on you myself, and of course I knew where you’d gone, remembering that you had relatives living nearby.”

  I blushed, feeling guilty at all my lies.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Dean. It won’t happen again,” I said, not meeting his eyes.

  “No, it won’t,” he said sternly.

  Ben took my hand in his. I knew Mr. Dean would have me under surveillance for the rest of the trip, but I didn’t care. Nothing seemed to matter anymore to me; what I came for had not happened. What did anything matter if I couldn’t be with the person I loved most?

  ****

  The rest of the trip continued uneventfully. Ben tried to raise my spirits, to make me feel excited about seeing the sights in London the next day—the last our class spent in England. But I felt apathetic about them. I would have preferred to stay in the hotel, but Mr. Dean was not, of course, going to allow that.

  We traveled to Paris, staying for two days before we took an overnight train to Rome later in the week. I was as uninterested in those places as I had been in London. I knew that, under different circumstances, I would have loved visiting these famous cities and seeing their museums, palaces, and galleries, but my heart literally wasn’t in it without Damien. I wished we’d taken the trip before my dream, when Ben and I had been happy together. What a difference it would have made to me.

  I felt angry. It wasn’t fair. My life had been nearly perfect before Mom died. Now I’d lost Ben too. I didn’t want to feel the way I did, to love Damien so much. But then I shook my head. I could never regret what I felt for Damien. I hoped we could at least have one lifetime together someday.

  I spent most of the rest of my time abroad following Annie around, listening to her chatter. I tried to fake my enthusiasm for Annie’s sake, but Ben saw right through me.

  The interminable trip finally neared its end; we had come to the last night. Our final city, Rome, teemed with romantic side streets and historic places that inspired nothing but grief in me. I longed to share them with Damien, but our love seemed doomed. Great love usually is, I thought, not deriving any comfort from our resemblance to other tragic couples forever separated by death.

  Mr. Dean had decided that we would all take a bus ride around the city sites for a last evening tour before leaving the next day for home.

  I listlessly boarded the bus, apathetic about where we went or what we did. Ben sat beside me, a comforting, undemanding presence. He seemed to understand that something terrible had happened
, but he didn’t ask me what it was, sensing, I supposed, that I wouldn’t talk about it. We both ignored the others, who sat behind us throwing spitballs at the back of our heads and loudly chanting old rock songs.

  Zack and Annie sat directly in front of us, rolling their eyes as they joked with Ben. I alone sat quiet, contemplative as I looked out the window at the fading light. I tried to ignore them all, though I envied their merriment, wishing I could feel something. I’d become a hollow shell since I’d failed to bring Damien forward.

  When we passed the Coliseum, I remembered that Ramona had told me that we could experience multiple past lives. I wondered if I’d ever had a past life here. We didn’t stop, having visited it the day before, but continued our evening tour by bus.

  Mr. Dean instructed the driver to let us off at the ruins of the forum, which we hadn’t had time to visit earlier that day. He pulled over, and we filed out.

  Ben took my hand, leading me away from the crowd of students milling about. My feet glided over the ancient stones, joining the footsteps of thousands who’d walked here before me.

  Moonlight bathed the area around the forum, and several students had found shadowed places to explore each other rather than the past. I wondered how many lovers had trod these stones over the centuries. I wished desperately to be one of them, to know that, in one lifetime, at least, I had found Damien and spent my life with him.

  Ben led me past the others, and I followed, a little teary eyed, wishing it were Damien who had me by the hand. We stopped under the Arch of Severus, and I leaned against an ancient column to gaze at the stars above us. The tears slid down my cheeks as I wondered if Damien looked down at me from above. I hoped so. I traced a pattern on the column with my hand. Two small ants made their way up together, disappearing behind a yellow wildflower that grew unbidden between one of the cracks.

  I softly murmured his name to the sky, willing him to hear me across eternity.

  “Emmeline,” the wind whispered through the ruins.