The Spirit Well (Bright Empires)

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  The inevitable breakup was not owing to any vindictiveness or hard feelings towards Kit; she bore him no ill will whatsoever—just the opposite, in fact. She was extremely grateful to him for introducing her to the wonders of ley travel, if accidentally, and any resentment or bitterness she initially felt—and there was plenty of that in those first traumatic days—had long since evaporated in the sunny prospect of a far brighter future than she could have imagined, much less engineered, on her own. That it was a future taking place in a post-medieval version of Prague gave her no end of pleasure; the paradox was delicious. I guess I’m just an old-fashioned girl at heart, she mused happily.

  Now that she was familiar with ley travel in its broadest, most general sense, and growing in confidence by leaps and bounds, as it were, Wilhelmina was keen to master the finer points and intricacies and so had become a willing guinea pig for Brother Lazarus’ experiments.

  “Getting the time period right,” he said during one of their sessions. “That is most crucial if we’re ever to effect a reunion between you and your friend.”

  “Or any other useful purpose, for that matter,” suggested Mina.

  “To be sure.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “Are you certain you wish to try?”

  “Why not?” She shrugged. “What have we got to lose? I know how to get back here. If anything goes wrong, I can always return. And who knows? Whatever happens might prove useful.”

  “There is rarely advance without experiment,” he observed, then leaned forward, elbows on the table in the posture of a lecturer instructing a pupil. “If this experiment is successful, we will add a great deal to our store of knowledge. See here, now. Listen carefully. Thomas Young was active in London between 1799 and 1829. He was a president and member of the Royal Society, so you should be able to make contact with him through the society secretary—providing you can get back to London in the first place. The ley that took you to Prague should lead you back to London—although this is far from certain.”

  Mina agreed that it was worth a try. “I just wish there was a way to calibrate the time frame more precisely.”

  “That, my dear, is what the experiment is designed to explore,” he said with a smile. “If my theory is correct, each physical point along any particular line corresponds to a specific time reference. That being so . . . ” He smiled and shook his head. “Well, you’ll just have to try making a jump and see where that gets you. A leap or two along the same ley should give you the means of comparison. Again, this is assuming you end up in London.”

  “I have my ley lamp to help me,” she pointed out.

  “An extraordinary instrument,” Brother Lazarus enthused. “I would give my right arm to know how it works.” He regarded her across the table. “Are you certain you wish to try this? Going home again could be distressing.”

  “I was born and raised in London. I’ll be all right.”

  “When will you go?”

  “I’m ready now,” Mina told him. “There’s no time like the present.”

  As the sun began to sink beyond the crags to the west, Brother Lazarus walked with her to the high mountain ley to see her away. “Vaya con Dios!” he called as Wilhelmina embarked on her long-delayed return to London.

  Her attempt employed the line she now called the Bohemian Ley; the landscape was as she remembered it from that first traumatic leap, and visiting the place again brought a curiously nostalgic feeling. The little blue lights on the lamp confirmed the presence of an active ley, and her first jump proved marginally successful in that she reached the outskirts of a sizeable town set in a place that in most ways resembled the English countryside. At first glance the landscape looked familiar; but as she stood on a bluff overlooking a wide, generous valley with a small village of thatched-roof cottages, the absence of paved roads and motorways gave her to know that if it was anywhere near London, the day of the combustion engine had yet to dawn. Immediately turning around, she doubled back before the ley closed—and tried again.

  In all, it took her two days and no fewer than seven leaps before she happened to strike the winning formula: roughly a metre every four hundred years, or thereabouts. She worked out that if one paced off the stride and matched stride to leap, so to speak, one could home in on England’s capital city in a particular epoch. Her seventh attempt brought her to a suitably modern period.

  The sound of the gusting wind receded, blending into the whine of an ambulance siren echoing down the brick canyon of Stane Way. The alleyway looked familiar, and she was mightily encouraged. It remained to be seen precisely when she had arrived, but that mystery was cleared up the moment she emerged onto Grafton Street. A bus bearing an advertisement for Virgin Mobile phones was the first vehicle to pass, and it was quickly followed by a British Telecom van advertising their speedy 30 MB service for £I6 a month.

  “I made it!” trilled Wilhelmina. “I actually made it!” She shivered with equal parts excitement and dread at the prospect of a return to her old haunts, then started down Grafton Street. Her progress soon had her reeling with the brute force assault on her senses. The ordinary sights of the city were garish and gaudy, the sounds strident and confusing—everything blared and screamed and contested for her attention. After the relative peace of a less-mechanised time, the modern pace of the world seemed an ordeal—too loud, too fast, too rough. She had the feeling of running an obstacle course full of unnecessary shock and alarms.

  Everywhere she looked, the view appeared designed to deliver a blow. A low-slung black car with black-tinted windows cruised by, booming out a bass beat designed to disturb; a motorbike zipped past in the opposite direction buzzing like an oversized hornet; the pavement teemed with French language students lugging matching orange backpacks and drifting along in amorphous crowds like multi-headed amoebas; a tower block undergoing renovation was a gutted noise box echoing with the clatter of jackhammers and diesel generators filling the air above with a noxious pollution of high-decibel clashing and blue fumes; the signs in shop windows screamed in fluorescent letters Sale! and Ultra Discount! Everything Must Go!

  Yet . . . and yet—these streets heaving with traffic, bristling with advertising, and thronged with oblivious pedestrians bowling along in pursuit of their own private agendas were exactly the same as she remembered. The bleak skyline of grey apartment blocks, the dreary sky crisscrossed with vapour trails of roaring jetliners, the litter and garbage discarded in the gutter, the thrum and thrust of a busy metropolitan street—all of it was precisely the same as it had always been. Funny, she had never noticed the casual brutality of it before. Well, she noticed now, and she did not like it.

  The assault on her senses staggered her; she felt the city closing in on her, and her stomach grew queasy. At the first opportunity she ducked into a side street and slumped onto the bottom step of a townhouse to gather her wits and regroup. You don’t live here anymore, Mina, she told herself. Just let it wash over you. After a few minutes she was able to regain her composure enough to continue on to her old neighbourhood.

  Since leaving, Wilhelmina had had plenty of time to consider what she would do if she managed to return to London again. Her first inclination was to avoid Giovanni’s Bakery—too many memories, too much explaining to do—but now, as she entered more familiar streets, she changed her mind. Part of settling her affairs involved making a clean break with her old life so that there would be fewer questions left unanswered, fewer loose ends left dangling. If nothing else, she reckoned she had back pay coming, and she could use some ready cash for getting around the city.

  First, however, she had to find out the present day, month, and year so she would know how much time had elapsed since that first fateful journey. She passed a W. H. Smiths and stepped inside, moving directly to the wall of magazines and newspapers. A quick examination of The Times caused her to do a double take; a glance at the dateline on the nearby Guardian confirmed it. The newspapers were dated the month and year she had left, and the day . . . . w
hat day had she departed? A Sunday—yes, Sunday—she and Kit had planned to go shopping on her day off. It was Monday’s edition of The Times that she held in her hands.

  Flabbergasted, she stumbled back onto the street, her mind spinning with the implications. By the time she reached her old workplace, Wilhelmina was slightly dazed and not at all certain what her reception would be. She paused across the street from the little shop and watched for a moment. Nothing seemed to have changed: the green-and-white striped awning was the same, the sign on the window proclaiming Artisan Breads Our Specialty was exactly as she had last seen it. Fixing a smile to her face, she crossed the street and pushed through the door. The bell over the door tinkled, announcing her arrival, and the girl behind the counter looked up.

  “Mina!” screeched Tatyana, the cashier. “You’re here!”

  “I, uh—”

  “What are you wearing?”

  Wilhelmina glanced down at her travelling attire. “Clothing crisis,” she explained. “Don’t ask.”

  “You didn’t come in this morning,” Tatyana pointed out. “What happened?” Before Mina could answer, she continued, “We tried to call you. We were worried. It’s been crazy here all morning.”

  “Sorry,” said Wilhelmina.

  Just then John, the bakery owner, bustled into view carrying a tray of sticky buns. “Who’s sorry?” he asked, then glanced around. “Mina! What happened? You didn’t open this morning.”

  The sight of her employer, the shop, the warm yeasty smell of baked goods in the display cases brought a surge of emotion Mina had not anticipated; she had not spared a single thought for the place in all the time she had been gone. “I think I ate a bad shrimp,” she muttered. “Sorry. I couldn’t get my phone to work.”

  “No kiddin’. I tried to call you.” He set down the tray and regarded her closely. “You look different. You okay?”

  “Actually, I need a sick day,” she replied gamely. “If that’s okay.”

  “Sure,” agreed John. “Take a couple days if you need to. I’ll cover for you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.” She hesitated, then said, “I don’t suppose I have any pay coming?”

  “Isn’t it direct deposited?”

  “Right,” said Mina. “I wasn’t thinking.” Her salary would have been deposited electronically into her account; to get any money would require a visit to the bank and production of her bank card— which she no longer possessed.

  “Well, I’d love to chat,” John was saying, “but I’ve got another tray of buns coming out. See ya later.” He turned and retreated to the kitchen. “Go up and see Rachel—maybe she hasn’t done the endof-month stuff yet.”

  Wilhelmina called her good-bye as he disappeared around the corner. Two women customers entered the shop, followed by a mum with a pram. The place was suddenly filling up.

  “Hope you feel better, Mina,” said Tatyana, turning to serve the newcomers. “Hi, can I help you?”

  Wilhelmina backed toward the door. Somehow, now that she had seen them, she could not make herself say good-bye for good. A cheery, “See you later,” was all she could manage.

  A quick visit to John’s wife in the office upstairs confirmed that her paycheck had been, as always, deposited directly into her account.

  “Is anything wrong, Mina?” asked Rachel.

  “Um, no—not really. It just that I seem to have lost my card. It’s a huge bother.” She sighed. “Oh well.”

  “I can give you last week’s,” suggested Rachel, “if that’s any use. That hasn’t gone in yet.”

  “You can? That would be a big help.” She waited while the middleaged woman took out a key and opened the bottom desk drawer and withdrew a metal cash box.

  “I’ll need you to sign for it,” said Rachel. She withdrew a handful of bills and began counting them out onto her blotter. “You sure everything’s okay?”

  “Never better,” said Mina. “Why?”

  “I don’t know—you look different is all.” She handed a tidy stack of bills to Wilhelmina. “Six hundred. Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” She stuffed the money into her pocket and scribbled her signature on the slip Rachel offered. “Thanks a lot. I’ll see ya.”

  A minute later she was back on the street. Next stop, Kit’s flat.

  The walk to his front door gave her time to think about what she might say to him—how she might explain not being able to see him for a while, if ever. There was no easy way to do that, so she decided a clean break was best. Taking a deep breath, she gave the door a few solid raps and waited, then knocked again. She tried two more times before giving up. Kit was out. Typical, she thought, and considered leaving him a note, but she had nothing to write with or on, so she let it go. She could break up with him some other time.

  Back on the street again and buoyed by the thought that it had only been a day since she was last in London, she resumed her walk and her feet directed themselves to her old flat. Why not? she wondered. She could at least check on the place and see if there was anything worth taking away with her; and while she was there, she could let the landlord know she might be gone for a while.

  Ten minutes later Mina turned onto the street, and a few minutes after that was bounding up the steps of the building. She paused briefly to collect her spare key from the old lady who lived in the apartment below.

  “Did you lock yourself out, dear?” asked Mrs. Parker as she handed over the key.

  “Silly me,” replied Wilhelmina. “I’ll put this back through your letter box when I’m finished.”

  “You do that.”

  “Cheerio, Mrs. Parker.” Mina moved away and climbed the stairs to her flat. She slid the key into the lock and stepped inside. One look at her cosy little nest and she was overcome by a surge of melancholy that weakened her at the knees. There was mail on the doormat, which she collected and tossed on the hall table. She stepped into the lounge and took in the sight of her couch and pillows, and the fleece blanket she used to curl up in, the book she had been reading—it was almost too much to bear. She went into the kitchen, and one glance at the flowers still fresh in the vase on the windowsill and she lost it. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she stood in the centre of the room and bawled.

  If anyone had asked her why she was crying, she would not have been able to provide a reasonable answer. In fact, even as the tears flowed she told herself she was being a big baby and that she was far happier with her life now than she had ever been and that she would not trade her new life for anything. Still, the tears flowed.

  When she was finally able to drag her ragged emotions together, she went into her bedroom, emptied the stale water from the glass beside her bed, and straightened the duvet, then proceeded to look around for anything that might be useful to her in her new life. From her wardrobe she selected a lightweight black wool jumper and a pair of smart lace-up ankle boots she had worn only once; the rest she could live without. Closing the door to the wardrobe, her eye fell on the jar of pennies and obsolete coins—shillings and ha’pennies and the like—she kept on the bureau. She carried the jar to the kitchen and upended it into a plastic carrier bag, then went to check out the bathroom.

  One look at the gleaming white tile, and she knew she had to have a shower. She turned on the taps, stripped quickly, and stepped into the free-flowing hot water and lathered up. Oh, such luxury! It had been so long since she had had a proper shower, she had all but forgotten just how truly delicious it could be. She washed her hair and then just stood and let the water run over her until the room filled with steam. With a sigh of regret, she turned off the water and dried herself on a fluffy towel. She brushed her teeth, keeping the toothpaste and brush to take with her. She used the toilet, flushed, and turned out the light. Okay, it wasn’t all bad, she thought as she padded back into her bedroom to dress; there was a lot to be said for the convenience of modern plumbing.

  Then, having wallowed enough, she decided it was time to be about her business. She b
undled the items she was taking with her into the carrier bag of coins and had a last look around. As she locked the door, she drew some comfort from the idea that she did not really have to abandon anything just now; she could keep the flat just the way it was. Now that she knew how to reach London again and arrive within a day or so of her initial leaving, her home in this particular world would always be there waiting for her. She could come back anytime she chose. What is more, it would be a bolt-hole for her, should she ever need a safe house.

  Pleased with herself for having generated this consoling thought, she proceeded in a much better mood and treated herself to a wild shopping spree—which, to her practical mind, meant a visit to the big Marks & Spencer flagship store on Oxford Street. She took her time browsing the ladies’ section and eventually settled on a long flowered skirt, three good-quality cotton T-shirts, two of them longsleeved, a thin leather belt, an assortment of utilitarian foundation garments, a smart white overblouse, a short wool jacket in navy blue, two pair of thick tights, and a tri-pack of cotton socks. She dressed in the changing room and then continued to Selfridges a few doors down, where she indulged in the splurge purchase of a fine cashmere pashmina in radiant sky blue.