“Oh, so droppin’ off yer wife—and her bein’ in a family way—at my house is none of my business? Maybe lettin’ ye run around the woods, yer head so high in the clouds I coulda come up behind ye and taken it off had I wanted, is nae my business either. But it would be my business to let yer mam ken that her son was runnin’ all over the country, gettin’ lasses in a family way, and droppin’ ‘em at my doorstep, while the boy goes about, tryin’ to kill men without so much as a dirk in his belt!”
The men were face-to-face and ready for battle, a battle of strong emotions, and maybe fists.
Ian was both angry and hurt when he heard the facts presented from a viewpoint that wasn’t his. Shoulders back, chin up, he shouted, “Ye dinna understand, I had to do it!” He closed his eyes and his voice softened, “It was what was best for her.”
Jody wasn’t ready to calm down, though. He hollered back, his enraged words blasting forth a mere twelve inches from Ian’s face, “What do ye mean, best fer her? How could ye leave yer wife and unborn bairn with someone else, even family, while ye went out and tried to get yerself killed?”
Ian’s wrath flared up again. “I’m not tryin’ to get myself killed! I have to, to, take care of some business.” He wanted to say more, but realized there was no explaining vengeance to a man who had learned to live and cope with the horrors of his past by using forgiveness. Ian turned away and headed into the woods, picking up his pack as he walked past it.
“Oh, so that’s how it is, eh? Ye jest walk away from yer family so ye can take care of yer business? Dinna ye ken that takin’ care of yer family is the most important business there is? Or are ye too much of a coward to take on any responsibility?”
Ian dropped the pack, turned around, and glared at Jody. He was too far away to throw a punch, but close enough to go for a tackle.
Jody saw the rush and stepped aside at the last moment, avoiding the hit and sending Ian head first into the scrub. “Oooh, the wee lad doesna like bein’ called a coward now, does he? Well, a coward is what ye are if ye go and desert yer family. Coward or nae, tell me, why did ye leave her? If ye dinna want her, then why did ye marry her?”
Ian picked himself up from his tumble in the bushes. Jody was right; he deserved some sort of explanation. He walked over to his uncle and motioned to the ground. “Let’s sit.”
Jody sat on a fallen log, his face and stare, hard as granite. It would take one hell of a story for him to forgive his nephew for abandoning his pregnant wife.
“Evie’s a traveler, like Sarah, from another time, but I dinna think she kens it. She shouldna be here. As soon as she gets to feelin’ better, Auntie Sarah can send her back.” Ian shrugged his shoulders, like this simple explanation was all that was needed.
Jody’s eyes turned from stone to fire. “Ye dinna even let Evie make the decision? She’s yer wife—whether by priest, handfast, or the Indian way—and it’s yer job to take care of her.”
Jody shook his head in amazement and disgust. “Ye kent she was with child, and yet ye jest left her? What kind of man are ye?” The rage was too much for Jody; he couldn’t sit still. He stood up and paced, at first ignoring Ian, then glancing back at him, snorting and shaking his head again in disapproval.
“Aye, but it wasna my bairn!” Ian protested. “She was already with child when I met her: her belly grew real fast. I had only been with her two and a half moons and she was like Robin at four moons when I, I, left her with Sarah.”
Ian pulled his knees up to his chin. He was motionless, as if he were a part of the ground beneath him, small as the ant crawling over the end of his boot. He hugged his knees and rocked back and forth, wishing he could be anywhere but here.
“Yer child or nae, she is still yer wife, and it’s yer responsibility to take care of her and the bairn. And that means from right now until yer deid,” Jody said, as if there were no exceptions or arguments acceptable.
But Ian had managed to compose himself. He stood up to his uncle, this time calm and determined. He was wearing his shield of futility. No matter what was said to him, his decision was made, and it was futile, useless, to argue with him.
“Ye were never a whole man without Auntie Sarah, my mam used to say. Then she came back, and ye were whole once more. Then ye got sick, she left again, and we thought ye were gonna die. Ye wanted to die without her, dinna ye? Well, Uncle, I dinna want to go through that. I may not be a man to ye, but whatever I am, I want it to be whole. Send Evie back; it’s best for everyone.”
**23 I Woke Myself Screaming
January 11, 1781
Pomeroy Point, North Carolina
Somewhere nearby, there was hysterical screaming. A woman was shrieking without pause, her pitch rising and falling with her gasps for breath, her protests never diminishing.
I reach up to push the hair out of my face and realize that I am the one who is producing those hideous wails. Panic-stricken and overwhelmed, I can’t stop myself. Screaming is me: there is no thought or emotion—just horrid noises emanating from my core, surging up, and blasting out a fissure—my mouth, I think.
The chaos slowly subsides, or at least the volume is decreasing, but now my essence is being invaded, attacked. It feels as if a giant jellyfish is enveloping me—tentacles grabbing and pulling my newly discovered body into its mass, eager to consume me. A thundering growl erupts from a point deep within me, “Get your hands off of me!”
“Okay, okay, everyone, leave her alone.”
A woman with a soft English accent is speaking, but I don’t recognize her voice. I hear the authority in her tone, though, and so do the others. The pawing ceases, my panic subsiding enough that I can breathe.
A woman’s voice I don’t recognize: “Hmph,” escapes directly from my chest, completely bypassing my clenched jaws. I have only encountered a fistful of people since I’ve had a memory, and this woman is definitely not Ma.
A couple more parts of my physical being are now making themselves uncomfortably known: my tongue is swollen, and my throat raw and raspy from my hullabaloo. My body needs fluids. I take two slow, deep breaths, attempting to pull myself together. I become conscious of the fact that ‘I’ will have to snap back into reality; no one else can do it for me. And the sooner I get it done, the better.
“Water, please?” I implored squeakily, my eyes squeezed shut to avoid stimulation.
Hearing the swish of fabric nearby, I forced one eye open and saw the backside of a woman as she ushered everyone out of the room, her curly golden brown locks, kissed with the silver highlights of maturity, escaping the ribbon-tied queue, to cascade down her back. Her full-length colonial-style dress was a non-descript neutral color, but the shawl around her shoulders was a bright sunny yellow. She turned and smiled at me. “Are you sure you don’t want something stronger, whisky maybe?”
“That sounds like a good idea,” I whispered hoarsely, then swallowed hard, trying to get my mouth moist enough to speak louder. “Can you put a little honey and milk in it, though? I’m not used to whisky, and I’m not even sure I should be drinking alcohol.”
My apparent hostess opened the door, said something to someone outside, and returned to the kitchen area. She took two containers from the cupboard: a honey pot and a bottle of whisky. A moment later, she answered the knock at the door and returned with a small pitcher of milk. She poured a shot of whisky into a stoneware cup, added a dollop of honey, then a healthy splash of milk. “Do you want it warmed?” she asked as she reached for the hot poker set in the ashes.
“Uh, no thanks; cold is fine.”
I sipped the concoction. Just as I had hoped, it tasted like crème liqueur. I brought the brim of the cup to my bottom lip and inhaled the musty scent of the milk, concentrating on the sweet yet sharp taste of the drink, trying to exclude all distractions, meditating on the creamy texture, letting my thoughts settle and synchronize gracefully.
“Have you ever tried it like this?” I asked hesitantly. I really didn’t want to engage in conv
ersation, but didn’t want to be rude either.
“No, we usually drink it straight. It either fixes what ails you or allows you to not care about it anymore.” She paused a moment, then asked, “What do you mean you aren’t sure you should be drinking alcohol?”
The tranquility of floating inside my cup of bliss is shattered by her words, reminding me that I need to come back and face my new reality: pregnant and alone, my husband gallivanting off to parts unknown, probably to ‘get even’ with those men who had terrorized him last year. Ouch, this new reality is uncomfortable—and anxious—but not as scary as my transition from unconsciousness earlier. Waking up in the presence of strangers, with a real roof over my head, and with a noggin stretched to bursting with vibrant, disjointed, and unbidden information is more than one shock too many for me.
At least I feel safe with my new guardian, even if I don’t have a clue about what’s going on. But whether she’s the one in charge, or it’s some ornery ogre just outside who’s calling the shots, I know she can’t help me—I am the only one who can really take care of me.
I delayed my response, “Before I answer any questions, who are you, and where is Ian?”
“Well, Ian brought you in a bit ago, said that you were his wife, that you had a headache, and that you were tired all the time. He, um, left to search for his Uncle Jody. They should be catching up with each other soon. By the way, I’m Ian’s aunt, Sarah Pomeroy, Jody’s wife. You can call me Sarah.”
“Oh, boy,” I murmured, dipping my nose back into my drink, glad that I was sitting down.
I continued sipping to stall for time, but I couldn’t lose myself in the cup again. It was as if the warm swim I had been enjoying had suddenly become an icy shower.
What should I say— I think I know you?
I have never met either of them, but for some reason, I know who she and Uncle Jody are, sort of. My memory is coming back in huge surges now, like tidal waves, overwhelming me, threatening to knock me off my nut again. And what I am ‘knowing’ has nothing to do with what Ian told me.
“I think I’d better lie down again if it’s okay. I…I…oh, boy.”
Sarah rushed towards me, arms out to catch me in case I fell. “Here you go; don’t try to do too much now.”
Faint averted, she led me to the chaise lounge and helped me lie back. “Would you care for a cool cloth?”
“Thanks, that would be wonderful, Sarah. And a tall glass of water, too, please. I think I’m dehydrated, and the whisky and milk won’t help that.”
Sarah made another trip to the door, whispered to someone outside, and came back to my side. She laid her cool hand on my forehead—a mother’s touch, not a healer’s. “Now, is that better?”
I nodded, but I could tell she was still confused.
“I’ve never heard anyone around here say the word ‘dehydrated,’ much less know what it meant. Are you a healer?” she asked, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.
I snorted, biting off the rest of my laugh before it sneaked out. “No, it’s just basic knowledge where I’m from. Ian says you’re quite the healer, though. Are you a doctor or a nurse?”
My question took her off guard. She blinked a couple of times, then paused before replying, wringing her hands, choosing her words carefully. “You know, when I first got here, I told someone I was a nurse. He thought I meant ‘wet nurse.’ Women aren’t doctors here in America, or even England, and a nurse isn’t considered a person with medical training.” She raised a single eyebrow. “Where did you say you were from?”
“I didn’t say, and you know that,” I replied, sporting a smug grin. Her face dropped, and I felt bad about my attitude. “Sorry, I’m not trying to be rude; it’s just that I have a problem with my memory. A big problem, as in I don’t have one. I fell and cracked my head pretty good the day after I found Ian. At least, I think it was the day after I found him. Anyhow, until an hour ago, I only remembered bits and pieces of things that happened before I woke up one morning with a concussion and Ian taking care of me. That was just over two months ago. Now, all of a sudden, I’m overloaded with memories. I think that’s why I was screaming when I woke up. But it’s weird. The things I’m remembering aren’t personal memories. I know, but don’t remember, if that makes any sense. I know about people, technologies, events that…well, stuff that might make people around here think I’m a witch.”
I finished my short biographical dissertation with a sigh and an opening big enough for her to climb right into. And, by the look on her face, she knew exactly what I was talking about.
“Oh, crap,” I said before she could respond to my observation. I sat upright and groaned, but not in pain. Volumes of information were once again surging into my gray matter, but this time without the headaches and hysterics.
I still don’t know who I am, but now I recognize Sarah, both by her name and from the detailed descriptions of her given by Lisa Sinclaire, author of the romance novel series, ‘Lost.’ I don’t remember reading the stories, but I know all about Sarah, and her husband, too—Jody Pomeroy, the most perfect man in the world, 18th century hero of the Second Rising in Scotland, now an American patriot. The ‘Lost’ saga was supposed to be historical fiction, lusty science fiction fantasy, but Sarah Pomeroy is standing right in front of me. She really is a 20th century time traveler!
Neither of us said anything. We both looked around the room, avoiding each other’s eyes, not even glancing in each other’s direction. She took a few hesitant steps away from me and sat at the kitchen table, gathering the fabric of her skirt as if pleating it. She could just as well have been biting her fingernails—she wasn’t very good at hiding her nervousness. The silence was oppressive; neither of us knew what to do or say next.
“I also know that you know what I’m talking about,” I ventured, reaching out to touch her arm, pleading with both my eyes and my voice.
Her mouth twitched side to side, as if chewing her words before letting them out. She took a deep breath and said in a chilly, clinical tone, “May I see your left arm, please?”
“You could if it wasn’t so darned inconvenient to take off these shirts.” I paused then added, “How about if I just tell you that, yes, I have a smallpox vaccination scar and a few fillings, too?” I pulled my mouth open wide with my index finger, rolled my eyes comically, and showed off my lower right silvery molars.
Sarah’s mouth dropped open in surprise, then shut quickly as she gulped hard, swallowing her shock. She stood up, took a deep, soul-cleansing breath, and smiled, at peace with her decision to trust.
The real-life fictional character reached out and squeezed me close and hard. She finally loosened her grip and allowed air space between us, but didn’t let go. She was crying and trying to talk at the same time, not making any sense at all, babbling with joy between more embraces and sniffling. I returned the hugs and patted her on the back as I rocked her to and fro like a young child.
A firm, insistent knocking at the door interrupted our emotional revelation. Sarah broke away, straightened her dress, and wiped her face with her apron. A brief sniff and a swipe of her hands through her hair for composure, and she was ready to greet the visitor.
“Ma’am, here’s the cloth and pitcher of water ye wanted. Ye have a couple of other visitors here, too. They’re waitin’ fer ye over by the barn. I told them ye were busy with a sick woman, but they said they’d wait fer ye.”
“Thank you, Dottie,” Sarah said and accepted the folded cloth and ewer of water. She closed the door and looked around, obviously searching for another cup.
“Sarah, why don’t you finish this whisky and we can reuse the cup for water? You look like you could use it more than me right now anyhow.”
Sarah set down the pitcher, took the proffered cup with both hands, and gulped it down. “This is good; I’ll have to remember this. It’s easy on the stomach, too.” She poured a splash of water into the cup, swished it around to capture the last, sweet drops of crème, drank it, refille
d it with water, and handed the non-brew to me.
A couple of deep, joyful sighs and Sarah had regained her wits. “Would you mind waiting here for me? I need to see who our visitors are and what they need.” She paused at the door. “I really want to talk to you,” she added, looking like a child who had just received a new bike and had to wait to ride it.
“It doesn’t look like I can go anywhere for a while. Ian’s gone, and I’m all alone, stranger in a strange land.”
“Robert Heinlein, right?”
“You got it, sister. Hurry back.”
“Don’t worry,” she said as she pushed open the door, “I will.”
**24 New Accommodations
I walked the perimeter of the room. It was an elegant room—if you were a priest taking a vow of poverty. Not even a simple curtain adorned the tiny window. There were no pictures or decorations on the walls, and no rugs on the earthen floor. I could tell it was as clean as it could be under the circumstances. There were still sweep marks on the hard packed dirt floor, and the crude broom that had made them was in the corner. The kitchen table was roughly made of native pine, but clean and sturdy. The neatly patched chaise lounge—coarse homespun beige fabric over the worn, shiny pale green brocade—had once been an elegant piece of furniture. “At least it’s still comfortable,” I sighed as I kicked back for a little nap.
Ӂ Ӂ
Thumps and jostling noises just outside the door woke me out of a sound sleep. Someone was excited, but I couldn’t understand enough of the frantic conversation to figure out what the problem was. The female voices faded as they walked away, but I didn’t hear Sarah’s distinctive accent among them.
I waited a few moments—fear of the unknown, I guess—then nudged open the door and looked out. I couldn’t see anything, but heard rumblings coming from the other side of the yard. I sucked in a lungful of bravery, grabbed my coat, and slipped outside.
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