Time Trap

by Deborah Chester

  “Stop the mule!” she commanded. “Stop it now! We cannot go this way.”

  The mule skidded to a halt at the edge of a gully, then jumped down into the bottom of it. Noel’s bones rattled at the unexpected change of direction. He clutched the pommel while the mule scrambled up the other side of the gully. From behind them he glimpsed Sir Geoffrey forcing his horse down the hillside at a cautious pace. He could hear Sir Geoffrey cursing steadily.

  “You will kill us,” said Elena. “Stop the mule!”

  “No!” said Noel. “I’m getting out of here.”

  “You forget I have a knife, to make you stop!”

  Noel gave the mule another hard kick in the ribs. It responded with a half rear and picked up speed, jumping recklessly off an outcropping of rock and landing with a stumble that jolted Noel half from the saddle.

  He caught himself and hung on grimly.

  “Do you hear me?” yelled Elena. “I have a knife.”

  “Then use it,” said Noel. He saw a branch coming and ducked flat to the mule’s neck. The animal veered at the last moment and scraped his leg against the tree trunk. Noel yelled with pain and kicked the beast again. He realized now that it was doing its best to dislodge them. It wanted its freedom as much as he wanted his.

  “Use it!” repeated Noel in a burst of complete recklessness. “But if I fall off you’ll fall too.”

  “Don’t count on it,” she said and sank her teeth into his shoulder.

  The pain was unexpected and intense. Noel stood up in the stirrups and twisted around, trying to grab her by the waist and sweep her off.

  She clung to him, her nails digging in, her hair flying wildly.

  The mule dodged to one side, and Elena slipped. She clawed at his arm, trying to pull herself back. Yelling and pleading in fear, her words were drowned out by the pounding of the mule’s hooves and the throbbing desperation within Noel’s ears. She was still sliding, her head dangling near his foot, near those dangerous hooves.

  He thought about what it would be like to fall at a speed like this. He thought about what might happen if she should roll beneath the mule. He thought about slashing hooves cutting young flesh to ribbons, of smashing bones, of Elena being broken like a discarded doll upon the ground.

  “Damn!” said Noel. He tightened his fingers around her own and heaved himself hard to the left in an effort to pull her up.

  He nearly succeeded. She was sobbing “please” over and over again, struggling to help him, struggling not to pull both of them off. The nearly intolerable strain of compensating the balance eased off. She clutched his shoulder, then his neck. She settled herself astride, then screamed.

  Startled by the raw terror in her voice, Noel looked ahead and saw the chasm yawning ahead. It plunged hundreds of feet down, a precipitous barrier effectively separating the base of Mt. Taygetus from its foothill Mistra.

  Frozen, he stared at the looming disaster for an eternity. Elena’s scream went on and on forever. He wanted to scream with her, but he hadn’t the breath. The mule’s head came up as though it too saw the gorge ahead. It slowed, but not quickly enough, not soon enough. The awful certainty that they could not stop in time slammed through Noel with the force of a sledgehammer. He hauled back on the rope with all his might, but the mule wasn’t responding. The idiot animal actually tossed its head in protest.

  “Stop!” shrieked Elena. “For the sake of God, stop!”

  “I can’t!” shouted Noel.

  The edge rushed closer. Suddenly there was not enough time left for anything. It was coming, coming too fast, coming like a metro shuttle.

  Elena shoved hard. For an instant he thought she was trying to knock him from the saddle. Then she went sailing off. He heard the thud and her cry of pain as she hit the ground. She rolled over and over and caught herself from going off the edge.

  The mule’s forefeet planted themselves, and the animal’s rear sat down to create a drag coefficient. Impetus still carried them, in a choking cloud of dust, and Noel heard the animal scream in fear of its own.

  “Jump!” called Elena. “Jump before it’s too late!”

  His feet were tangled in the stirrups. His grip on the rope had locked on so tightly he seemed unable to loosen his rigid fingers. He struggled, panic taking over. In the last possible second, he got free and hurled himself off to the left.

  The mule’s feet went over the edge, and he heard the animal scream again. The mule did an impossible twist and scramble, but it could not stop itself from going over. Noel missed the ground and fell into the chasm as well.

  A yell forced itself into his throat and lodged there. He envisioned his body twisting and plunging for hundreds of feet. It was too far; it gave him too long to think, and to remember, and to regret. He didn’t want to die, not here, not like this. Ending up mushed at the bottom of a ravine in the wrong century and the wrong country, his LOC crushed with him, all that he had learned gone to waste, all that he could still achieve unaccomplished…dear God, he didn’t want to die.

  A tree growing twisted and wind-carved on the side of the ravine caught his fall. Noel hit it hard and went crashing through the branches with a snapping, crackling velocity that slowed him down but didn’t stop him. The tree, however, did deflect his body.

  A few seconds later he hit the steep slope with a crunching thud that shattered the breath in his lungs and numbed him totally. He tumbled, picking up velocity again, but at this level there were too many fallen logs, spindly wind-blasted trees, and rocks choking the sides. He came to a stop at long last, halfway down, and lay there so dazed and disoriented he could not at first comprehend what had happened. His vision was a gray blur of shape, without color. His hearing was only a roar. He still experienced the sensation of falling, although another part of his brain knew that he had stopped.

  He could not seem to draw breath, and he could not move. Paralyzed, he thought and felt despair.

  “Theodore!” The sound came crashing and echoing down to him from far away. “Lord Theodore!”

  Noel’s eyes flickered open. He heard, but he could not make himself care. Wrong number, he thought.

  The mule lay perhaps ten or fifteen feet away from him. The impossible angle of its head told him its neck was broken. Sunlight glistened on the blood that had flowed from one nostril. It had been a strong, good-looking animal, and he’d killed it.

  Killed me too, he thought and wished it were over.

  “Lord Theodore!” called the voice. Sir Geoffrey’s voice.

  “Lord Theodore!” called Elena.

  Noel shut his eyes. They could not get to him down here. He did not care.

  Chapter 6

  He must have lost consciousness, for when he next awakened the sun no longer shone on his face. The air was cooler, too. He could not remember why he was lying on this sloped, rocky ground. A distant memory told him there had been a purpose, but he’d lost it. There had been something to do, something urgent, something important. He had to remember.

  A hand touched his face.

  Noel blinked and sat upright, gasping and frantic. “Must get back,” he said aloud. “Must hurry and get back. Something’s wrong.”

  “The only thing wrong,” said Elena, “is that you nearly killed yourself. How could you be so stupid?”

  He did not know what she was talking about. He kept silent. After a moment his hand reached out to touch her cheek. “Pretty.”

  Her face flamed with color, and she slapped his fingers away. “Try that again, and you’ll lose your hand,” she said.

  He smiled at her and sank bonelessly back to the ground.

  “Theodore,” she said, gripping his shoulder and leaning over him. Her face and voice were anxious. “I can find no broken bones, although you cried out when I felt your ribs. It is a miracle you are not dead after such a fall. Where are you hurt? Tell me. Theodore?”

  “Not Theodore,” he said in irritation. “Where’s Trojan? Find him. Tell him something’s wrong.”
>
  She bent even lower over him until her hair was a veil beside his face. It was tangled and snarled, but it smelled of the wind.

  “You are Theodore,” she said in a low voice. “Remember that, even if your wits have been rattled. Sir Geoffrey is within hearing, so guard what you say.”

  “I can’t get home,” said Noel worriedly. He wanted her to understand. “I need to get home. Call Trojan and tell him to help me.”

  She frowned. “You make no sense. You babble as though you have fever, but your skin is cool.”

  “Want home,” he said, and then even talking was too hard. He shut his eyes until the sound of someone else approaching roused him.

  “How is he?” said Sir Geoffrey.

  “Not good,” said Elena. “His wits are gone. He makes no sense when he talks.”

  “Small wonder of that,” said Sir Geoffrey. “Your brother shouldn’t have used a slingshot on so valuable a head. He must have been addled to even try such an escape. How many bones broken?”

  “None.”

  “Impossible.”

  Elena shrugged angrily and gestured. “Examine him for yourself.”

  “I shall. Stand over there.”

  “Why should I?”

  He pointed angrily. “Just stand over there!”

  She flounced away. Noel gazed up into Sir Geoffrey’s face.

  The knight’s dark eyes were troubled. He had lost his habitual mocking expression. His mouth set itself in a thin line.

  As his hands moved with surprising gentleness along Noel’s limbs, he said, “Can you hear me, Lord Theodore?”

  “I’m not—ow!”

  “Sorry.” Sir Geoffrey’s hand came off his rib cage. “What were you saying?”

  The pain of cracked ribs drove away the cloudy haze within Noel’s mind. Behind it came clarity and renewed caution.

  When he could catch enough breath to speak, he said, “I’m not dead?”

  “No. God spared you. I cannot say why. A haze of unreason must have asserted itself upon your brain. Do you not know there is only one path to Mistra from this accursed mountain?”

  “Seem to have forgotten that.” Noel winced and reached his hand across his side, feeling gingerly. “Damn.”

  “If a few ribs are all that ail you, you are blessed indeed.” Sir Geoffrey sat back on his spurred heels. “We are losing the day. It took the devil’s own time to get down into the ravine with the horse. You must give me your word and bond that you will try no such stunts again.”

  “Why should I?”

  Sir Geoffrey met his gaze with open exasperation. “Is dying a better alternative than being ransomed? Our terms will not bankrupt Byzantium. You had no cause to do such a foolhardy thing.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Noel.

  “Can you stand?”

  Sir Geoffrey helped him sit up. Noel held his side and grimaced as he was pulled to his feet. The world spun around him. He nearly swayed over, but Sir Geoffrey steadied him.

  “Let me go free,” said Noel in a whisper. “Say I broke my neck in the fall and leave me here.”

  Sir Geoffrey met his pleading gaze for a long moment, then slowly he shook his head. “I must obey my orders,” he said. “Elena!” he called. “Help me get him on the horse.”

  There was something about the posture required to sit a horse that made Noel’s side ache constantly. His head still throbbed, but that pain was almost an old friend compared to the newer discomfort in his ribs. He realized he had used his emergency medication too soon. Now it was spent, and he would just have to grit his teeth through the rest of this ordeal.

  Elena and Sir Geoffrey walked at the horse’s head, leading it down into the bottom of the ravine. Gazing up at the vast mountain rising above him, Noel saw the buzzards still circling the sky. He shivered as though a hand had touched his soul. Eventually, they emerged in the broad river valley where once, centuries ago, the proud, ancient city of Sparta had stood. Now there were only fertile fields and groves of orange and olive trees to mark the banks of the Eurotas River. Long rays of sun slanted shafts of gold and coral into the shimmering fields of tender barley. Twilight deepened within the folds at the base of the mountains. From the city of Mistra a church bell tolled.

  As though summoned by the bells, peasants headed home from their fields. The men’s tunics were grimed with dirt and sweat. Beneath the red, brimless caps that most wore, their swarthy faces shot Noel impassive glances. They kept their distance from Sir Geoffrey, with the cautious air of men who have lost their security. They looked tired; scrawny donkeys trudged behind them with heads low from fatigue.

  Children carrying long staves made from the stalks of century plants ran for home, herding small flocks of goats or sheep before them. Noel listened to the rhythm of their chatter. They squealed with laughter or scolded an errant animal for trying to break away from the flock. The worries of war and revolt had not touched them.

  Or perhaps it had. They did not pause to stare at Noel, perched on the horse with his hands bound in front of him. They did not trail after Sir Geoffrey in his mail and spurs, pestering him with questions. They dodged the trio and went on their way quickly, as though their parents had given them explicit instructions to avoid all strangers.

  From up on the mountain came the lone cry of a wolf. The eerie, primeval howl sent prickles up Noel’s spine. He could not help glancing over his shoulder. The mountain stood black in silhouette as the sun disappeared behind it; a corona of umber and crimson shone around its peak. Mt. Taygetus was where the Spartans had exposed children who were born with imperfections. Noel himself had arrived in the world with his left foot turned in. It had straightened itself out within a few months following birth, but the Spartans with their rigid codes of life would not have given him the chance to live. He heard the wolf howl again and shivered, imagining babies lying out there a thousand years ago, shaking in the cold, crying in fear and hunger, slowly being extinguished by the impartial elements.

  Perhaps he should not have specialized in the ancient world. Right now he rode by the toppled drums of old temple columns. The horse’s hooves scraped across pavement that had once been dressed marble. Now it was weathered and pitted from the years. Weeds choked the faint outlines of the temple steps. Noel saw a crumbling chunk of iron lying on the ground. The Spartans had used iron bars for currency, fearing that gold would corrupt them.

  Iron money…iron bodies…iron minds. Where were the Spartans now? Not even their city still stood. At least in this century, primitive as it was, people understood the quality of mercy.

  If he did not return by the end of his time loop, he must accept the fact that he was stuck here forever. Until he accepted it, he could not cope with it. If he could not cope, he could not survive.

  Church bells stopped ringing. The chant of a religious order, voices smooth and controlled, lifted like smoke to God in the following quiet.

  A peaceful scene spread before Noel. Sir Geoffrey led the horse across a stone bridge spanning the river. The road wound up through the walled gates of the town. A sentry called out to Sir Geoffrey from the gate tower.

  Sir Geoffrey identified himself, then said, “Send word to the palace that I have come bringing Lord Theodore of Albania as my prisoner. He is injured and needs a physician ready to attend him.”

  The sentry saluted and turned to dispatch a boy.

  “Let them pass!” came the cry.

  The horseman’s gate swung open ponderously to admit them. It was wider than the pedestrian gate where peasants and townsfolk were streaming through. Noel ducked his head beneath the stone archway, although there was room for him to ride upright. The dark tunnel, though short, stank of damp stone, horse droppings, and something unpleasant that Noel could not identify.

  Perhaps it was fear. He ran his fingers across the surface of his LOC, trying to draw comfort from its presence upon his wrist. As long as he had it, there was still a faint chance of getting home. He had to cling to that.


  Tall, narrow cypress trees towered over rooftops of red tile. Sturdy houses of golden limestone looked prosperous and snug. Lights shone from their windows. Open doorways emitted sounds of chatter and laughter, smells of roasting goat meat and the spices of cloves and cinnamon. The town held a festive air as though Sir Magnin’s usurpation of power had benefited it. Noel could see no signs of oppressed citizenry or despair or defeat.

  Those who bothered to appear on balconies and stare at his passing did so in grave silence. He could tell nothing from their faces.

  Partway through the steep streets, a small contingent of knights upon horses met them.

  “This is he?” said one.

  “It is,” said Sir Geoffrey.

  “We thought the Milengi had killed you. You’re hours overdue,” said another.

  “I see no one came after me,” said Sir Geoffrey in a voice dry and cynical.

  The men laughed. “Oh, we would have in a day or so, once the grape ran out, and we had nothing better to do. And who is this damsel with you? Ah, Geoffrey, have you been sampling the best treasure of these hills?”

  Elena stepped back until she stood pressed against the horse, her back next to Noel’s leg. He could feel her tremble. Now, when it was too late, it seemed she believed Sir Geoffrey’s warning.

  “She is the sister of Demetrius Milengus,” said Sir Geoffrey sharply. “She has brought Sir Magnin a message.”

  “A message. Oh, ho, and what might that be?”

  “Never mind, Sir John,” said Sir Geoffrey shortly. “Are you here to escort us up, or to block our path forever? Walking in mail has left me mortal galled, and I want my dinner. It is a damned big mountain to ride over.”

  “Aye, come then, and let us escort you in style. Give him your horse, Andre—”

  “Nay,” said Sir Geoffrey. “I’ll walk it.”

  “Make way!” shouted a voice. “Make way for the Lady Sophia!”