“And a bonny frickin’ morning to you, too.” I yank the blanket over my face and slouch further down in my chair. By now, I have a permanent kink in my back and neck from sleeping in weird positions. By contrast, Parker has moved quarters from my bed at Dermot’s B&B to a posher hotel just a few blocks away, where he makes sure he gets his eight hours of sleep every night.
The problem with being here all the time is that I startle at every little sound, thinking the doctor is coming in with breaking news or that Claire is stirring. But neither ever happens. Claire never opens her eyes. The doctors never have anything new to say. Maybe if I follow his lead, get some real rest, I won’t be such a wreck. As it is, I can’t even think straight. I inch the blanket lower, letting the light in slowly until my eyes adjust.
Parker cuffs me on the shoulder so hard my chair tips. “Ross, you look like hell. Really. Do yourself a favor. Go back to your own room. Take a shower, get some sleep, sit down to a real meal, and then go for a refreshing walk. I’ll call you if anything happens, okay?”
Too damn tired to argue, I pull on my jacket and head for the door. “If she so much as twitches —”
“I will, Ross. I will. Now go.”
I steal one last look at Claire. It’s been seven, no eight days since I left her that morning, thinking she just needed to sleep off a migraine. I’d wrestled guilt and raged in silent anger, but in time I learned those were useless emotions to harbor. Dermot had swung by on the second day with a stack of books. ‘Something to pass the time,’ he’d said. Only yesterday had I pulled the first book off the pile. It was a leather bound collection of Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s work, the letters on the outside formed in swirls of gilt. The first page I opened was this:
Half the night I waste in sighs,
Half in dreams I sorrow after
The delight of early skies;
In a wakeful doze I sorrow
For the hand, the lips, the eyes,
For the meeting of the morrow,
The delight of happy laughter,
The delight of low replies.
It’s the simplest things you miss when someone’s no longer there.
I hit the clock on the nightstand three times before I realize it’s my phone ringing and not the alarm going off. By the time I find my phone in the pocket of the jeans I’d left in a heap on the floor, it has gone to voicemail. I slump back on the bed and take a few moments to sweep the cobwebs from my brain.
For the first time in a week, I’d slept in a real bed. My head had hit the pillow at 9 p.m. and I’d slumbered hard for twelve glorious hours. I’m still exhausted, though. Yesterday evening, I talked to Claire’s mom for over an hour, giving her every detail I could recall and then repeating myself at least twice. Betsy is a sweet lady, but medical jargon is over her head. She and Glenn would have come with Parker to be with their daughter, but Betsy is still recovering from a broken hip. She can barely get up from a chair by herself, let alone tolerate an eight-hour plane ride.
I hit the #3 on speed dial: Parker’s number now.
“Hey, Ross,” he says, way too cheerily.
“You called?”
“No, must’ve been someone else. So you’re finally awake, huh?”
“Sort of. Sorry. I can’t remember the last time I slept like that. I’ll be there in thirty or forty minutes. I just need to grab a shower and something to —”
“Why don’t you rest a few more hours? Nothing’s changed here. They showed me to a couch last night and gave me a pillow and blanket. Not exactly the Hilton, but I’m fresh as a field full of daisies.”
I pause. I don’t like being away from her. Then again, the sleep deprivation is frying my gray matter. And worrying about her while I stare intently, willing her to sit up with a dreamy yawn and a stretch her slim, toned arms isn’t exactly doing much good.
“Ross, it’s all good. Really. I’ve got my Netbook here and am getting all sorts of work done without the usual office distractions. Come around noon. We’ll have lunch and then we can swap shifts. Sound good?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll be there at noon. And call me if —”
“You know I will. See you then.”
I flop back onto the bed. Sleep calls. But instead of giving in to the Sandman, I put my glasses on and check my messages. It’s from Reverend Murray. He sounds flustered, hurried.
“Mr. Sinclair? Oh dear. I’m never sure what to say to these machines. I’ll try. You see, I would have called sooner, but I misplaced your number. Terrible habit of mine, stuffing notes into my pocket and forgetting all about them. Sincere apologies. I do hope you haven’t already returned to the States. I made an interesting discovery. Thought you might like to take a look at these documents. So, if you’re still here, I’ll be at the kirk for the next two hours or so. Do come by, but if I’ve missed you ...”
He rattles off a sixty second apology. Might as well have taken that time to explain what was so important. With everything that’s happened with Claire, piecing together a seven hundred year old gap in my family tree doesn’t seem so important anymore. I’m so messed up that I’m not even sure what the date is. My phone tells me it’s July 19th. I feel like that should mean something, but I don’t know what.
I dial him back, but it rings and rings, no answer. Who in this day and age doesn’t have voicemail? Then again, I’m the one who can’t download an app for my not-so-smart phone. I consider ignoring his plea, but I have three hours to kill before going back to the hospital. As long as I’m in Scotland, I figure I might as well get the information from him. Unfortunately, I’d had the rental car company come and take our vehicle away while I was at Claire’s bedside. A quick ride on Dermot’s bike in the fresh air will be good for me.
I drag my weary body into the shower, towel off and throw on the least smelly of my clothes, sniff-testing my shirts like I used to do in college when I was too poor to feed quarters into the washing machine. Dermot is nowhere to be found, but he’s left some croissants and a few pieces of fruit on the serving table in the dining room. I scribble him a note, letting him know I’ve borrowed his bike, but will have it back by noon. I’ve yet to see him use it anyway, so it’s not like he’s going to miss it.
With a croissant tucked in my jacket pocket, I head out the door to the back shed, which he hasn’t bothered locking. Crime must not be much of a concern in Aberbeg. A minute later I’m flying down the road, my open jacket flaring in the wind, while Aberbeg’s morning rush hour traffic buzzes past me — all six cars. I pedal like I’m being hunted down by assassins on motorcycles. The faster I get this over with, the sooner I can get back to Claire. Parker won’t care if I’m an hour early.
Less than two miles down the road my quads are on fire and my lungs feel like they’re about to burst. I ease up on my pace. At some point, I realize I’ve forgotten my wallet. No big deal. I’m not going to need it.
My thoughts keep drifting to Claire. Although I’d been scared to death the first couple of days, I remained hopeful. Yet day after day sitting in that hospital room has left me with too much time to think. Too much time to worry. To wonder how long this could go on. If we’d been at home, I could have gone on about my daily life — or at least had friends around me. Here, the solitude only intensifies all my negative thoughts.
Parker isn’t the greatest company. He’s a total guy’s guy. To him, it’s okay to whoop it up at the sports bar with a client, but cry at a funeral? Never. I’m not even sure he has tear ducts. Plus, if he talks anymore about which team is going to the Super Bowl this year, I just might have to shock him with the defibrillators. Sure, he’s playing the dutiful brother, but he can be a jerk. It isn’t like I can open up to him and cry on his shoulder while he’s doing business on his smartphone. I haven’t even told him about her pregnancy. If I did, he’d probably say something insensitive, like, ‘I guess it wasn’t meant to be, pal.’
Tears rush to my eyes. Their wetness skims my cheek. Soon, it’s a cascade. The road blurs befo
re me. Head down, I pedal harder, as if I can keep my grief at bay through sheer physical exertion.
A strange sound fills the air, like the throaty rumbling of a beast. Then I hear the bellow of a horn and look up to see I’ve wandered into the middle of the road. Before me is a narrow bridge spanning a small stream. And blasting across it is a full-sized lorry, its grill aimed squarely at me.
I should’ve veered left, but instinctively I go the other way, thinking he is on the wrong side of the road. A wall of hot air blasts into me first. I jerk the handlebars sideways, but not soon enough.
The truck’s front bumper clips my back wheel, catapulting me from the bike. I skid on my side across the asphalt, pebbles scraping skin raw, and tumble, tumble, tumble down an endless grassy hillside.
Part II
A shadow flits before me,
Not thou, but like to thee:
Ah Christ, that it were possible
For one short hour to see
The souls we loved, that they might tell us
What and where they be.
From Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s Maud
15
LONG, LONG AGO
Northern England — 1333
A mosaic of green sprawls overhead. Dapples of sunlight break through in shifting patches. Carefully, I turn my head to the left, then the right to take in my surroundings.
I exhale in relief. I can still see. That’s a plus. My neck isn’t broken, either. I’m not so sure about the rest of me, though. I have that stunned feeling that follows you when you’re flattened in a game of touch football and the air gets knocked out of you.
Where the hell is my bike? Dermot’s bike, I mean. If it’s banged up, I’ll have to replace it with a new one and this trip has already bankrupted me.
Something heavy thumps on the ground behind my head. Oh, crud.
Steamy breath warms the crown of my head. There’s a loud snort, spraying my hair with snot. Teeth click and grind together. They’d hunted the wolves to extinction in Scotland centuries ago, hadn’t they?
Metal jangles and a soft nicker follows. I tilt my head back to see a velvety brown muzzle hovering over me. Lips nibble at my hair. I might have squealed like a girl. Might have. But whatever sound I make it’s enough to make it take a step back. ‘It’ turns out to be a horse, thank God. Then again, one strategically placed stomp of its hoof and my skull will be split open like a watermelon struck by a hammer.
“Hey there, buddy,” I say. The horse, a bay, flicks its ears at me. “Niiiice horse.” I tuck an arm beneath me and try to roll over, but every bone in my body screams at me to just lie there. So I do.
Well, things could be worse. Maybe.
The horse meanders in my vicinity, happily munching on sprigs of undergrowth, its tail swishing at flies. The smell of earth and pine fills my nose. Apparently, I’ve tumbled into a small glen. I hadn’t noticed all the trees when I was riding past, but then I hadn’t actually been paying attention.
There’s something weird about this place, though. Why would anyone turn their horse loose to graze in a wooded ravine, fully saddled and bridled? It must have gotten loose, wandered from its paddock through an unlocked gate. Or thrown its rider. Either way, I have no intention of borrowing it to get back to Claire. The last time I rode a horse was at my friend’s uncle’s farm when I was eight. A few hours later I’d broken out in hives. My throat nearly swelled shut. After that, I admired horses only from a distance — or in movies.
Finally, I bite the bullet and force myself to sit up. My body is already recovering from the fall, but there are going to be some wicked bruises. No bike in sight. Maybe it got tangled in the brush higher up on the slope? Or maybe it’s still there on the road, an unattended gift for any thief who happens by? My glasses aren’t anywhere near, either. Holding on to a sapling, I start to stand, but the blood drains from my head too quickly. The ground tilts. Trees spin around me. I sink back to my haunches and grip my knees to steady myself.
Now I remember. Claire isn’t waiting for me at the B&B. She’s in the hospital. An embolism has ruptured in her brain. She’s in a coma. They had talked about doing a craniectomy to relieve the pressure, but there are risks. Even if it works, she might already be brain damaged. She could wake up and not know me. Or she might never wake up at all. She could die on the operating table. They’d told me all these things to prepare me for the worst.
I should have never left the hospital. I should have just grabbed a blanket and gone to sleep on a lobby couch. Should be there waiting for her right now. God, I want to puke, but there’s nothing in my gut. I didn’t eat this morning. Last night, either.
After the lightheadedness and nausea pass, I notice something really bizarre: I’m not wearing the clothes I’d left the house in that morning. Instead of my comfortable old jeans, broken-in Adidas and a button-up shirt, I have on some kind of baggy brown leggings, worn boots and a belted, oversized smock made of coarse, itchy material. What the hell? I’d say this is the result of a drinking binge and a blackout, but I rarely touch the stuff. Why would someone steal my clothes and dress me like this? I don’t get it. The thought is making my skin crawl.
I stretch my hands out before me to inspect a spattering of dark flecks on my sleeves. There are raised rings of red around both wrists, almost like burn scars. The flecks, though, they aren’t mud. It’s dried blood, but ... I’m not bleeding.
Now I’m really freaking out. This isn’t right. Oh man, after all these years of telling myself I’m not crazy, it turns out I am schizophrenic after all. I cradle my head in my hands as if to keep my brains from exploding.
Get a grip, Ross, I tell myself. Get. A. Grip.
I take in a few deep breaths, trying to remember the meditation Claire once tried to teach me, but all I can concentrate on is the frenzied pace of my heart. Claire was always the sensible one, the one who calmed my panic, but she isn’t here right now. Okay, okay, maybe schizophrenia isn’t so bad. They have medication for that kind of thing, right? When I get back to Ohio, I can call my old roommate Marc from the Psychology Department. He’ll get me set up. Not illegally, of course. But then, what university will hire me if I —
A twig snaps. I jerk my head up and scan among the tree trunks. The horse has looked up, too. Maybe someone has driven by the abandoned bike, stopped, and is coming to see if I’ve been hurt. Hallelujah!
I listen harder, but all I can hear is the neurotic piping of a finch nearby as it clings to a pine cone. I rise to my feet, more slowly this time, and move toward a clearer spot. When I reach it, I’m struck by the view before me: a steep-sided tranquil glen, as green as the greenest green I’ve ever seen. How had I not noticed this from the roadway? From what I remember, I’d been bicycling through an area that was all open ground covered in grass. Where are the sheep and cattle? The little white-washed cottages and stone barns? Where is the fricking motorway? Maybe I’ve hit my head and been wandering for hours? Or days, considering how hungry I am. I run both hands over my skull, probing for lumps. None.
Phone, you monkey brains. Use your cell phone.
“Oh, right,” I say to myself. A quick pat around my hips and chest reveals I have no pockets. What the ...? Okay, forget the cell phone. It must have fallen out by the road — wherever that is. I survey the ground nearby. Nothing.
This day is not going well. With luck, I might get a humorous story out of it. I just hope I can laugh about it later. Right now, I want to punch something. Or have a mental breakdown.
A tuft of brownish-gray springs from behind a tree a hundred feet away and darts down the slope, dodging about the trunks erratically. Longer-legged than any rabbit I know, I assume it to be a wild hare and marvel at its speed. As it bounds across the stream at the bottom of the hill, a fox chases after it and leaps across to the other bank, its white-tipped tail whipping behind it. The hare dives into a clump of bushes, then reappears further uphill. But the fox’s line of sight has been broken and it falters just long enough in i
ts stride for the hare to break away.
Wherever I am, I need to find a road so I can flag down a motorist. I’ll worry about explaining the weird garb later. As for the blood, I could blame it on a nosebleed. As far as I can see, there’s no bridge across the glen, no country road wending beside the stream. If I climb to the top of the hill, I might be able to see something. If not a road, then a house, a pub, a cow path, anything that screams ‘Civilization!’
The urge to lie down swoops over me. Why do I feel like I’ve just run a marathon? Every muscle aches fiercely. I can’t remember the last time I was this tired.
One look toward the top of the hill convinces me I don’t have enough energy to make it there before sunset. Better to go with gravity, on down to the stream, have a drink there. If I follow the water, I shouldn’t get totally lost. It will keep me from going in circles, at any rate.
With the first step, my foot catches on a root, causing me to stumble. I regain my balance and glance at the ground behind me. A glint of dulled silver catches my eye. I bend closer. There, half-concealed beneath a fallen pine branch, lies a sword. Crouching, I pull the branch away. That’s when I know I’ve lost my mind.
The sword ... I’ve seen it before. I’ve held it in my childhood. It’s mine.
The blade is straight and plain, forged for the purpose of killing. The hilt is wrapped in leather that, although worn, has been softened with tallow to keep it from cracking. The pommel is gilt, adorned with twining ruby-eyed serpents, and the cross-guard is shaped like a crescent moon.
Hesitantly, I run a finger over the length of the blade from base to tip. When I turn my hand over, a smudge of crimson stains my fingertip. I bring my hand to my nose and inhale ...
The smell of iron and blood.
It has been used. Recently.
16
LONG, LONG AGO
In the Time of Kings Page 8