Time Shards

by Dana Fredsti

  “How extraordinary,” the professor marveled.

  “He was cold as a cellar stone earlier.” Alex placed her palm against the man’s neck. “My god, he’s so much warmer now—I don’t know how that’s possible, but there it is.”

  “He’s a tough old bastard, our Merlin.” Simon gave a reluctant nod in admiration. “Shall we take bets whether he pulls through?”

  “Do shut up, Simon,” Alex snapped.

  “What?” he responded. “I salute the old bugger. Besides, just half a tick ago we all thought he was dead as mutton. Simple common fact.” Alex opened her mouth to rebuke him, but Simon held up a finger and jerked his head toward the stairs.

  “Sounds like company’s coming. Better leave him be.”

  No sooner had the words left his mouth than they heard the sound of a key in the lock downstairs. Everyone cleared away from Merlin’s body as the door below opened.

  “Against the wall!” a guard ordered from below.

  Amber expected a Roundhead soldier to march up the stairs. Instead, a young woman in shawl and bonnet appeared, hauling up two wooden buckets. She had a scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face, like a bandit, as if to avoid inhaling any contagious witchery.

  “Oh no, it’s that madwoman again,” Harcourt muttered.

  “Sweet Lord Jaysis preserve this goodly Christian woman from all harm and vexations of Satan!” she cried loudly. “Get ye back, underlings of evil, and eyes down, all of ye. I’ll not suffer any to look upon me with the evil eye. Ye cannot ensorcel me with thy black arts!”

  “Just be quick about it, woman,” the jailer said from below. The peculiar woman hefted the buckets before the prisoners. One was empty, the other sloshed with water. She continued her high-volume rant, addressing the two newcomers.

  “Hear now, ye workers of iniquity! My name is Nell Prudence, and I have two buckets. One is water for ye to drink—and be thankful of it, undeserving wretches. The other is empty, for ye to do thy filthy business, God save us.” Nell carefully handed the water bucket to Amber. The other she abruptly thrust at Harcourt, who caught it in his gut with a pained and surprised grunt.

  “Go on with ye now, get to it, just like before. They’ll turn their backs.”

  She spun the hapless professor around and pushed him toward the other end of the chamber. He sputtered, trying to protest, but Simon came straight over and snatched the bucket away from him.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake, give us. I’ve been dying for a slash!”

  He turned his back and proceeded to do just that. Amber and the others did their best to ignore the sounds as he began to fill the bucket.

  Nell turned and regarded the rest of them with her hands on her hips, before finally settling her gaze on Amber. Then, with cool deliberation, the strange woman walked right up to the girl, uncomfortably close, and turned her head toward the stairs. She spoke loudly again.

  “Nay, there’s no gruel for the likes of ye! Think you to sup whilst honest Christians suffer?”

  She turned back to Amber and winked. Then Nell put a hand on her own belly, and pulled out a small round loaf of coarse brown bread from under her shirt. She put a finger to her mouth and quickly handed it over.

  “Take this now,” she whispered.

  Stunned, Amber just stared.

  “Go on now,” the woman insisted. “Just don’t let them catch you with it.”

  Snapping out of her daze, Amber quickly knelt to stash the bread under the raincoat that covered Merlin. Nell leaned closer to the prisoners. “Listen. Don’t do anything rash yet. They want to get information before they’re finished with you, but I don’t think they’ll have a chance until tonight, and I’ll do everything I can to get you out of here before then.”

  “Who are you?” Alex asked.

  Nell shook her head.

  “No time to explain now. Look, this is what—”

  “Make haste with you, girl!” the jailer yelled up from the door. “What’s the delay already?”

  “Fie on you, sluggard!” she hollered back, her Olde English accent firmly back in place. “Surely ye don’t want witch shite stinking up the holy church belfry now, do you? God be thanked they haven’t pissed it up already!”

  The jailer growled some unintelligible reply.

  “Bad enough all the good folk be in the church praying, instead of tending to their chores,” she continued. “Don’t care if it is Doomsday, there’s still work to be done!” Turning back to Alex and Amber, she pulled down the scarf from her face. Nell was even younger than she acted, maybe in her mid-twenties, with sea-green eyes and a determined, pretty face.

  “The Royalist counterattacks are keeping them occupied,” she said quietly, “so that’s good news. If we’re lucky, they’ll be too busy to bring you before their witch hunter. His name is Stearne. He’s trouble.” She shot a glance at Merlin’s still body. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

  Amber grabbed her arm.

  “Thank you! But quick, how are you going to get us out?”

  The young woman smiled.

  “Why, with my witchcraft, of course!”

  At that, she hurried back down the stairs and out of their sight. They heard the door slam and the lock click.

  * * *

  The prisoners stared at each other for a moment.

  “Well,” Alex said, “that’s the first bit of good fortune we’ve had since we were tossed in here.”

  Professor Harcourt looked dubious. “How do we know we can trust her?”

  “Do these fellows look like they train double agents?” Alex shot back.

  Amber nodded. “She brought us food and water, and she’s definitely not from around here, right?”

  “You worry too much, old man.” Simon made a lazy yet dismissive gesture with one hand.

  “Don’t start again, Simon.” Alex gave him a quelling glare. He grinned back at her. Amber went back over to Merlin, and Cam joined her at the unconscious man’s side.

  “Maybe we could clean some of his wounds, now that we have some water,” she said.

  “Shame to waste good drinking water,” Simon quipped.

  * * *

  The Celt leaned over the prone man and inspected his injuries. He scowled. Their captors had abused the older man shamefully—cuts, burns, and bruises all attested to that. When Cam lay his head against the man’s chest, it took a long time for him to detect the faint heartbeat.

  Next he examined the ugly wound on the side of the man’s forehead. It was staved in as if he’d been struck with a war club—his skull looked to be cracked, though it was hard to tell under the sticky black-clotted mass of blood and hair.

  Rising, he went to the bucket of water, conscious that Amber was eyeing him hopefully. He looked around for a piece of cloth, then turned his attention to his cloak. Before he could rip off a strip, though, the older woman stopped him and offered him the checkered cloth from around her neck.

  He took it, and put a hand to his heart in thanks. Then he dipped it in the water, took it over to the stricken man, and set to work carefully cleaning the head wound, moving slowly and deliberately so as not to let his manacles get in the way of his ministrations.

  * * *

  Amber eased back down on the floor to rest her aching feet. Alex sat down next to her.

  “I have to hand it to him,” Alex noted, nodding toward Cam. “He’s taking all this remarkably well, considering he’s probably older than Jesus. Wouldn’t you love to hear how he got here?”

  “Mmmm, I reckon I can guess.” Simon cocked his head to one side and put a finger to his head in a parody of deep thought. “He woke up one morning, crawled out of his cave and said, ‘Blimey! Where’s me precious rocks and bearskins? Did those Neanderthal types the next hill over nick ’em all?’ And he’s been meandering about looking for them ever since.

  “No, strike that,” he said, motioning toward Amber. “Ever since he laid eyes on her, he’s been chasing after our Yankee bird here.” He gave
her an appreciative glance. “Not that I blame him, of course.”

  Amber flushed with embarrassment.

  Harcourt crossed his arms and remained silent.

  “Honestly, why do I bother?” Alex sighed and rubbed her brow.

  Simon grinned. “Aw, don’t be like that, Constable. Go on, tell us how your apocalypse started out.”

  Wary of playing his game, she tossed him a sidelong glance. Simon raised his eyebrows, trying to look innocent.

  “Right,” she said, giving in. “Well, why not? Not much to say, actually. I was driving through Dedham Vale on my way back into town. First there’s a weird sound, maybe a siren, then there’s a massive blast ahead of me—in all honesty, I thought the Russians had dropped the bomb on us—and before you can say ‘Wham UK!’ there’s no road, and my patrol car’s collided with a stand of poplars that wasn’t there a moment before. The front end is complete scrap, so I started walking through a howling wilderness. After a day or more our local historical society here scoops me up on one of their bloody patrols.”

  “That’s not too far off from my story,” Simon offered. “Our part of town got it so bad during the Blitz, I could scarcely tell anything was the matter when it all went tits up. Except then the rest of the world up and disappeared. Spent the next couple of days looking for something to eat and running from the odd dinosaur until I wound up too close to these parts. The welcoming committee nicked me, too.”

  “What about you, Professor?” Amber asked. She had a feeling she’d just invited one of Harcourt’s long, rambling monologues, but even that was preferable to his current sullen silence. Besides, she welcomed anything that could take her mind off what might happen to them if Nell didn’t make good her promise.

  Harcourt brightened under Amber’s encouraging smile.

  “Mine is truly a tale worthy of Jules Verne,” he began most grandly. “I had just commenced upon the first leg of my Continental lecture tour through the most distinguished cities and universities of Europe. I had secured passage on a first-class vessel leaving Folkestone Harbour. Nothing but the best, of course, as I’d been invited by the crème de la crème of society and academia…”

  25

  Folkestone Harbour, United Kingdom Thursday morning, November 22, 1889

  The clerk at the ticket window shook his head again.

  “Sir, I don’t wish to be rude, but to be perfectly frank, it makes no difference if you’re the queen’s own ambassador, and this the first leg of your diplomatic mission to the emperor of China,” he said firmly. “If you want to cross the Channel, you’ll buy a ticket for the ferry like the rest of the good folks here, or you can buy a ticket for the next train back to Southampton and charter a ship more to your liking. Begging your pardon, but unless you wish to walk or swim, those are your two choices. Now, which of those may I sell you this morning?”

  Professor Winston Harcourt sputtered.

  “But this is outrageous, man!” he exclaimed. “Are you telling me there is no first-class accommodation available whatsoever?”

  The customers behind him in the queue responded before the clerk could.

  “Did you not hear him the first seven times?”

  “Come on, mate. It’s bloody freezing out here!”

  “Get on with it!”

  Startled by the outbreak of mob unrest, the professor quickly purchased a ferry ticket, picked up his traveling case, and took his leave of the Harbour Station. The stone face of King Neptune, aloof on the wall above the ticket window, watched him depart while the irritated customers still waiting heaved a collective sigh of relief.

  Exiting the building, Harcourt spotted a carefully printed white sign.

  FOLKESTONE—BOULOGNE-SUR-MER

  He made his way down the pier to where the ferry boat was waiting. The last few people were coming down the gangplank. Only after they’d disembarked would the waiting crowd be allowed to board. Professor Harcourt glumly handed over his ticket and joined the rabble, his visions of a comfortable and tastefully decorated private cabin rapidly evaporating.

  They looked to be in for a rough crossing, he observed. Ominous gray storm clouds roiled over the Channel and the wind was already brisk, blowing stray spatters of rain. His options for shelter were few. An uninviting cabin beneath the deck, close and musty-smelling, filled up quickly with most of the female passengers. Many brave souls dared the sky to do its worst, spreading out in chaise lounges or simply turning up their collars and thrusting hands into pockets to ride it out on deck.

  There were luggage racks available, but the professor had no wish to let his case out of sight, so he kept it at his side as he claimed a spot on deck along the railing. His fellow sojourners were predominantly male, a mix of French and British, with a young and eager American couple at the railing, as well.

  At last all the passengers were aboard. Lines were cast off, the horn sounded once, then again, and the steamship’s twin screws pulled them away from the pier, and then propelled them on their way. Before long, the sea churned gray-green, and the wind blew bitterly cold. Harcourt clung to the bar with one hand and to his hat with the other, hoping to keep his footing on the rolling deck and to avoid seasickness. He kept his case clutched tightly between his feet.

  Seagulls wheeled above the boat, taunting him with their rusty squawking. The gusts of rain blew in more frequently and the chill increased. The professor had no real experience in marine matters, and his fortitude wasn’t usually tested so severely. In abject misery, he peered down at the case by his feet. His stomach wrestled with temptation… and lost.

  Slowly and carefully, he bent down and opened the traveling case. Inside rested scores of small bottles containing his “Special Galvanic Nerve Elixir (At last, Lightning in a Bottle!).” The label on each bottle claimed it harnessed the new miracle-working power of pure electricity in liquid form as “a most surpassingly efficacious tonic for all manner of physical and cerebral ailments, complaints, and maladies, both common and exotic.”

  Breaking into his stock went against his own rules, but circumstances were dire. He desperately plucked one out and his cold, wet fingers struggled with the stopper. The boat pitched suddenly and the tiny bottle flew from his hand out into the churning waves below.

  “Pissing damnation!” he swore explosively, nearly losing his top hat in the process. Recalling there were ladies present, he quickly added, “I mean, dash my wig!”

  Bracing himself again, he pulled out a second bottle, and after long minutes of more tortured fumbling, successfully pried off the stopper, raising the glittering vial in a toast.

  “To the victor, the spoils,” he said, and lifted the bottle to his lips. Before he could drink, however, a loud keening sound arose, causing him to think the captain again was engaging the ship’s horn. As it rose to an almost painful level, drowning out the sound of the wind, the storm clouds all around the vessel abruptly burst into a prolonged and thunderous incandescence.

  Astonished, Harcourt and the other passengers stared at the spectacle. The second bottle slipped through his fingers and plunked into the sea. He scarcely noticed this time. More passengers crowded up on deck to see the spectacle. Even the sailors came out to witness the atmospheric phenomenon.

  “What is it?” one of them asked, shielding his brow with his hand.

  “Sheet lightning of some rare type, I should think,” the professor replied. “Quite remarkable.”

  Through the fog and rain, the light grew ever brighter, suffusing the storm clouds with a marvelous radiance. Then, quite without fanfare, nature’s aerial display abruptly ceased. The people on deck oohed and awed. Some even applauded.

  “No extra charge for the fireworks show, ladies and gentlemen!” the captain joked from the wheelhouse. The sky brightened, the storm clouds rolling away as if the ferry had chased them off. The chilly air warmed a few degrees and the roiling ocean calmed down enough to offer some relief to Harcourt’s stomach. Off to starboard, the retreating fogbank uncovered
another ship approaching from the south.

  The vessel was a towering sight to behold. A majestic triple-masted ship at full sail. As it drew closer, Harcourt and his fellow passengers were delighted to see that it was a magnificent recreation of a classic pirate galleon, complete with sailors in full costume crowding the decks and the rigging. It even flew the Jolly Roger.

  The passengers waved and smiled as the galleon pulled alongside the ferry. An excited cheer of surprise went up when the vessel opened its hatches and a battery of cannon emerged.

  “Look, it’s Long John Silver!” one gentleman said. He laughed, pointing to the agitated pirate captain, who stood on the forecastle, waving his cutlass at them and bellowing inarticulately. Suddenly, one of the cannons opened fire with a booming report, sending a shot whistling over their heads. The crowd gasped, and then broke into wild applause.

  “That was cutting it a bit fine, wasn’t it?” Harcourt remarked to the sailor beside him, but the seaman was distracted, looking back to the bridge.

  The pirates raised a bright red flag, provoking another round of applause from the passengers. Inside the wheelhouse, the ferry captain didn’t appear to be entertained. He came out, a megaphone in hand.

  “What the devil are they playing at?” he said with a scowl. “That could have taken someone’s head clean off!”

  A second cannon roared, and the captain’s head vanished in a spray of red. His decapitated body collapsed to the deck. Someone screamed. Then all the guns began firing. The ferry shuddered and rocked as a fusillade of cannonballs struck amidships. Chaos broke out on deck, screams and shouts filling in the gaps between cannon fire. The passengers panicked, diving for cover or running pell-mell across the tilting deck. Some even leapt overboard, only to be left swiftly behind in the icy water. An alarm bell rang frantically.

  The professor hugged his traveling case to his chest and ran around to the other side of the wheelhouse for cover. The boat’s mate dashed for the bridge and took the wheel, wrenching it hard to port.