Into the Dim

by Janet B. Taylor

  Faces appeared and disappeared. Fat-cheeked babies that morphed into crumbling skulls in an instant. Millions of faces. An unending stream of shrieking mouths on either side. I closed my eyes, or thought I did. But death was everywhere.

  I scrambled for something—anything—to hold on to. But there was nothing. I was nothing. A microbe. A grain of sand on a beach surrounded by a dry ocean.

  Then, the pain, as I slammed through what felt like the world’s largest plate-glass window. Except I was the one who shattered into a million pieces.

  Blood boiled in my veins. My joints flexed into unnatural poses. The pain . . . Oh God, the pain.

  Help me. Help.

  Everything sped by in swirls of green and white and brown. Cold air washed my skin. Seared my lungs.

  My lungs! I’m breathing.

  I filled my chest with the glorious taste of air. Blessed oxygen raced to my starving cells, and slowly I became aware of cold, hard earth beneath my back.

  I cracked an eyelid. Stark, rosy light sliced into my skull, and I squeezed it shut again. Groaning, I rolled to my side and puked till I thought I might die.

  When the heaving slowed, I peered through watering eyes to see Collum crawling across a bare forest clearing toward me. A strange purple light flickered over him, dissipating as I watched. Closer to me, Phoebe lay splayed on the ground, the same lavender haze fading from her skin. As I inched across the cold earth, the last remnants of the tinted light arced off my fingertips, then disappeared.

  When I reached my friend, I swiped at the blood beneath my nose and shook her. “Phoebe! Can you hear me?”

  She moaned and began to stir. I rolled her away just in time.

  “Ugh.” Wiping her mouth, she scooted away from the disgusting mess, moaning, “Hope? You all right, then?”

  I collapsed onto my side, arms no longer able to hold me up. “Yeah. Though it would’ve been nice if someone had warned me”—I shuddered as my gut gave a final twinge—“about the rotting baby heads.”

  Phoebe peeked through one bleary eye. “Uh . . . rotting baby heads?”

  “No one’s experience is the same,” Collum explained, his voice hoarse. “That’s why we didn’t warn you. But the first time is always the hardest. The next time won’t be quite so bad.”

  “Well, jeez,” I muttered. “Thank God for small favors.”

  Chapter 17

  FINALLY RECOVERED ENOUGH TO STAND, we retreated from the eerie glade and began to slog through the snow-laden, primeval forest. New sunlight glittered pink and gold on chittering limbs. I breathed in the forest scents of ice and wet wood and stillness. So fresh and clear, I tried not to think about how no one in a thousand years had tasted air like this.

  I looked back only once. The little rise, surrounded by a perfect circle of ancient oaks, pulsed with a sleepy power. Nothing littered the bare earth inside. Not a weed. Not a leaf. Not even a fleck of snow, as though it didn’t answer to natural law.

  “According to the research, the locals believe this part of the forest is haunted,” Collum said, noticing my look. “Which is good for us.”

  I’d read about places in the woods where even today people didn’t venture. I wondered if some of those dark areas were nodes, other places where ley lines crossed. Maybe the spooky feelings people reported were the unseen power of the earth warning them away.

  Collum forged ahead, breaking a trail. I followed, zombie-like. Sure, my cheeks were already burning from the cold. And snow squeaked under my boots. And I could hear the birds waking in the dawn light. But none of it seemed real. How could it?

  “I know how you feel.” Phoebe’s breath puffed out in a white cloud as she stomped along beside me. “Bloody bizarre, right?”

  I snorted. “You could say that.”

  “Well, I cried like a baby the first time, so you’re doing better than me.”

  I felt like crying. But Collum had set a brutal pace, and it took all I had to keep up.

  At the rutted road that twisted through the frigid forest, we hitched a ride with a farm family headed for London. It took a lot of coaxing, and some coins had changed hands. But soon we were perched on a wagon laden with winter root vegetables. Collum did all the talking at first. But gradually I joined in. When the “thees,” “thous” and “wherefores” sprang naturally from my lips, I felt a pang of gratitude for my mother’s insistence that I master all those archaic languages. Still . . .

  If you’d just told me, Mom, maybe it would’ve been different. Maybe I would’ve been different.

  We had so little to go on.

  My hands tightened on a basket of turnips. Well, I’m here now, aren’t I? And I’m coming for you.

  Collum rode up on the wooden bench beside the farmer. I began to chat, carefully, with his wife. Phoebe stayed quiet, still uncomfortable with the twisty medieval dialect. Two ratty-haired children perched atop a crate of wormy apples, casting shy glances our way.

  “’Twill be our last trip to town before the roads close for winter,” the woman offered. “But my John just had to come see the new king crowned. Wanted the little ones to see it too.”

  She sighed and settled her thin frame more comfortably against the hard wagon bed. “I pray to all the saints this winter won’t be hard as the last. We lost our good milk goat. And our youngest babe.”

  The young woman’s prematurely weathered face never changed as she spoke. Phoebe and I exchanged a look, marveling at a time when the loss of livestock and a child were uttered in the same breath. In this era, however, losing a goat would likely cause more suffering. She could always have more children.

  We rested as best we could, jouncing along the nearly impassable road. One of the children, a little girl with a perpetually runny nose, crept closer and was soon fussing with Phoebe’s braids. I shut my eyes, the sun winking in orange patterns against my lids, and listened to the cadence of the conversation going on up front.

  The sway of the wagon lulled me, and I must’ve drifted into a sort of fugue. Tiny nuggets popped up like bubbles in my drowsy mind.

  A man’s voice, speaking urgently as his strong arms set me on the ground. A whiff of burning that coated my tongue. Shouts. Screams. Someone grabbed my hand, and I began to run.

  My eyes popped open. The half dream dissipated, leaving me shaken and strangely hollow. I lurched across the wagon and eased down beside Phoebe. Our feet dangled from the back.

  She glanced at me sidelong. “You all right, then, Hope? You look pale as milk.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Phoebe raised a skeptical eyebrow, then uncapped a leather flask and handed it to me. “Here, take a drink. It’ll help.”

  I took several long gulps. The slushy water we’d filled from a clear spring burned my throat. “Thanks.” I croaked.

  “Look”—Phoebe nudged my side—“I know it’s hard, yeah? This is my third journey, and it still feels like a dream. Or like I’m inside a play. But you get used to it. I promise.”

  I snatched another look at the family, the little girl now snuggled in her mother’s lap, the older boy at her feet. It struck me suddenly that these people were dead. Only dust in the ground in our own time. And yet there they were. The father chatting quietly with Collum. The mother stroking her daughter’s hair. How could anyone ever get “used” to something like that?

  When we emerged from the forest, the farmer halted. I rose to my feet. Phoebe pulled herself up beside me. Everyone, including the family, gaped at the sight of the walled medieval city lying before us in the distance.

  London. 1154.

  Wow.

  Distant bells chimed the hour, I thought I counted ten peals, though there were so many ringing all at once, it was hard to tell for sure. Tendrils of smoke rose from a thousand fires to coat the sky above the city in a smoggy cloak.

  The farmer drew his son up onto the slatted boards between him and Collum. “There she is, boy.” The man smoothed his child’s rumpled hair. “Londontown. And our good Kin
g Henry there to greet us.”

  “I pray on catchin’ a glimpse o’ the new queen,” the wife said. “Do ye know, we hear she went on Crusade with her first husband, that Frenchie king.” Her voice lowered. “They say she rode with her tatties on full display to entertain the troops.”

  “I heard that too.” I agreed, tucking back a grin.

  For the first time, the historian in me woke and squirmed with excitement. I was here. I’d traveled through time and space. The possibilities stretched out before me—so many worlds, so many famous people and events.

  My jaw dropped as something occurred to me. My mother was a renowned historian, with prestigious awards for her academic publications. Her lectures were booked up months in advance. Reviewers wrote how Sarah Walton’s lectures painted such vivid pictures, it was as though she’d seen the history with her own eyes.

  I snorted. Kinda cheated there, didn’t you, Mom?

  And now I was seeing it with my own eyes. London on the eve of one of the most famous events in English history. The coronation of its greatest royal couple, Henry II and his infamous wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine.

  I shook my head. Unbelievable. Freaking Eleanor of Aquitaine.

  Her fame had endured over a thousand years. Born in 1122 to the Duke of Aquitaine, her only brother had died young, leaving Eleanor the richest heiress in Christendom. At barely fifteen, she’d been married off to the weak and overly pious French heir, who within two weeks would become King Louis VII. By all accounts the marriage had been cold and loveless. Two daughters. No sons. Fictional accounts claim Eleanor and the fiery future king of England had fallen in love at first sight. But it was likely only good politics when she divorced Louis and quickly married Henry.

  Still, Eleanor and Henry had been happy for a long time. The eight kids that followed proved that. Until it all came crashing down when Henry hooked up with “Fair Rosamund” Clifford. That did not sit well with the prideful queen, and Eleanor had eventually sent her sons to war against their own father. In punishment, Henry had imprisoned his rebellious queen in a remote castle for sixteen years.

  Well, I guess no marriage is perfect.

  A squirmy feeling oozed over me. What would happen if—no, when—we brought Mom back? How would my own mother react when she found out another woman had already taken her place?

  Chapter 18

  THE TRAFFIC THICKENED AS WE NEARED THE TOWERING STONE WALLS. The massive construction of gray stone and mortar stretched its strong arms to encase the city like a protective father.

  I squirmed in anticipation as we waited in the long line. At the gate, guards searched some of the wagons, but mostly they just waved people through. Fine carriages rolled past us and were admitted with flourishes and deep bows.

  Apparently, even in this time, rich people got all the perks.

  Everyone relaxed when we were waved through with little more than a glance. Once through the thick gate, we emerged into a fairy tale.

  A very stinky, very grungy fairy tale.

  The thatched roofs of two- and three-story buildings leaned precariously out over twisting, rutted lanes. Dirty snow still clung to shadows and roofs. The smell caught me off-guard at first, and I had to cover my nose. Rotting garbage and raw sewage. Wet wool and manure. Every so often, the sweet stench of decaying meat. I didn’t want to think what kind. All of it overlaid with a pervasive pall of wood smoke that hung in incremental layers in the air around us. As I sucked in the mélange of odors, I frowned. It was bad. Really bad.

  “Be glad it’s winter,” Phoebe said, noticing my expression. “Bet it would knock you to your knees in summer.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Right.”

  The feeling eventually faded as we lurched deeper into medieval London. Vendors shouted wares on every corner. Rags and copper pans. Hot potatoes. Boots. A strong, fishy odor wafted by as we passed a man crying, “Oysters! Get yer oysters here!”

  Phoebe and I exchanged a glance. Oysters were one of the things we’d been warned against. Not that I’d ever dream of eating one. They were riddled with typhoid.

  Phoebe gave her upper arm a significant rub, where she—like Collum and I—sported brand-new typhoid boosters. I’d had my initial shot two years earlier, when my mother first spoke of taking me on some of her more remote lecture tours. Apparently I’d also been inoculated for smallpox. Though at the time, I’d had no clue. Doug claimed Lucinda had pulled some strings for that one, since the disease was eradicated in our time. I remembered thinking it odd that the “nurse” had come to our house, then had tea with my mother afterward.

  Staring now at the crowds and the filth, I was suddenly and deeply grateful for the shots.

  Horses and wagons clogged the streets leading to the center of the city. The smell of wet horse and unwashed people grew thicker as we slogged ever forward through the straw-covered muck.

  “You don’t think about them having traffic jams in the Middle Ages,” I said to Phoebe when we stalled for an overturned cart.

  A beefy, red-faced baker doffed his cap to us as we jounced past. We both laughed when his equally rotund wife jabbed him with her twig broom.

  At the edge of the great market that packed the yard before St. Paul’s Cathedral, we parted ways with the family. Mud squelched under my boots as I gaped up at the famous church. In this time it wasn’t yet Christopher Wren’s elegant, domed marvel I’d seen in so many photos. That wouldn’t be built for hundreds of years. Still, the cathedral’s high stone walls and square Norman towers were imposing.

  Hundreds of tents and ramshackle booths crammed the vast area before the front entrance. People clogged the straw-strewn, muddy aisles, wrapped to the eyeballs in dark cloaks and nubby scarves. Somewhere, a hammer banged rhythmically on steel. Voices and laughter carried across the space as men tipped horn flasks to their lips and warmed their hands over fires set in iron barrels. Women haggled with vendors. Everywhere people had gathered into loose circles to watch the dozens of performers. Acrobats flipped a woman into the air. A monkey crept into the crowd to steal a farmer’s hat. A dwarf offered odds on any newcomer who’d chance wrestling with his burly partner.

  It was overwhelming and deafening. The most disgusting, the most beautiful, sight I’d ever seen.

  “Wow,” I breathed, trying to look everywhere at once. “I mean . . . wow.”

  Collum’s lips twitched as he and Phoebe exchanged a grin. “Aye,” he said. “I know.”

  I jerked as something damp and wooly brushed against my fingers. Glancing down, I saw a dingy sheep nibbling at my cloak. The smell of moldy, wet blankets floated in a cloud around us as a young boy smacked the animal with his crooked staff. It ambled on, unconcerned, joined by a dozen bleating cousins.

  “It’s like a flea market,” I said in wonder, “except instead of tube socks and cheesy artwork, they’re selling armor and live sheep.”

  Phoebe’s eyes flicked from one ramshackle booth to the next. “Ohhh, would you look at all this stuff.”

  “Oh no.” Collum snatched the back of Phoebe’s cloak as she darted away. “I know that look. Don’t even think about it. We’re going straight to Mabray House.

  Lucinda, Mac, and Moira’s previous, unsuccessful trip to London a few months earlier had provided us a place to stay, a rented house, not far from the square. And Moira had tracked down the merchant who’d brokered the deal for the tapestry. For a few coppers, he’d given up the nobleman’s name. Unfortunately, the merchant told them, the baron lived far out in the country, nearly to Wales. They’d had no time to get there before the Dim came to take them home.

  My mother had last been seen at the massive Baynard’s Castle, near the Thames. Historically, Baynards—a private residence of that noble family—was the most elegant castle in London, shadowing even the Tower and Westminster Palace, which had stabled horses and barracked soldiers during the recent civil war. Research claimed Henry and Eleanor had taken it over upon their arrival, gathering their nobility there, while the roya
l palace of Westminster was made livable again.

  Yet the man who’d commissioned the tapestry was named Babcock. Not a member of the wealthy Baynard family at all, as far as we could tell.

  Why some stranger would commission a tapestry of my mother in the first place, we didn’t know. But with the king and queen’s arrival, it was a good bet he’d be back for the coronation. No nobleman would take the chance of snubbing his new monarch.

  The big problem was getting inside. Our first choice, posing as the children of a wealthy merchant, held less risk but might open fewer doors. The backup plan involved forged papers that proved we were the children of a minor lord from the far north of England. Moira’s intensive research had located a real baron who did indeed have three children and was known to have been something of a hermit.

  The second plan was dicey, though. If the nobleman had decided he’d better head down to London to meet the king, or if one of his neighbors knew him or his children by sight, we could end up in a crap-storm of trouble.

  “So this house Mac rented . . . ?” I squinted at the rows of two-story wattle-and-daub structures that lined the narrow streets. Each lane twisted and crooked off with little sense of direction. “Do you know where it’s located, exactly?”

  Collum ignored me as he squinted at one path after another.

  “I know we couldn’t bring the map,” I pressed. “But if you’re having trouble, I got a glimpse of it, and—”

  “I’ll find it.”

  Phoebe grunted. “Coll, you should listen to Hope. She’s got a bloody photographic memory . . . Hello. Then we wouldn’t have to spend half the day searching.”

  “Don’t say ‘bloody,’” Collum said distractedly. “It’s not yet in use. And I said I’d find the house, so quit gawking at me. Belongs to some Finnish merchant who rents it out by the year. Comes with a couple of servants to maintain the upkeep too.” He set off into the market. “Let’s go. We need to get settled. Seventy-two hours, then we have to be back at the clearing. Sunrise on the third day.” He glanced up at the smoggy sky. “And this one’s half done over.”