Keeper of the Black Stones

by P. T. McHugh

  Plus it was a piece of Doc–and my dad–traveling with me.

  Traveling.

  I slammed the drawer shut on that thought and rotated the swivel chair, searching the room for other potential hiding places. The place was pretty stark–a bed in the center of the room, with two nightstands at the sides. A large chest rounded out the room’s décor, but I’d been through that before, and knew that it held only socks, boxers, and old shorts. If I was Doc, and I wanted to keep things organized … I stood resolutely and walked toward the closet. I didn’t think he was hiding anything under his bed, and this was the only other option.

  I threw open the door of the small walk-in closet and glared around. Long-sleeved shirts and dress pants hung along one bar, evenly spaced and organized into color blocks. Above the racks, stacks of sweaters and t-shirts, many still wrapped in their original plastic packaging, lined the wooden shelf that stretched the full length of the closet. In the back of the small room, dozens of skirts, blouses, and dresses clung to their familiar corner. My grandmother’s clothes, kept in their place despite the fact that she’d passed away years earlier.

  Nothing that looked remotely like a sword, shield, or suit of armor. No boxes of research, either.

  I walked quickly into the closet, muttering. It was here, somewhere–I could almost feel it calling to me. “Come on, Doc, throw me a bone,” I mumbled.

  I moved his clothes from side to side and pawed my way frantically through an old leather briefcase and two cardboard boxes filled with record albums from the ‘60s and ‘70s, searching aimlessly for something that looked important. Then I dropped to my knees and began pulling the lids off the shoeboxes. After two or three boxes, I slowed down and started paying more attention. Most of the shoeboxes were clean, and starkly empty. Even the tissue was gone. On the sixth shoeless box in a row, the would-be home of size 13 Timberlands, I found what I was looking for.

  The box held a stack of neatly typed, paper-clipped, and labeled papers. Doc’s handwriting stood out in bold red ink at the top of the first page.

  “Fifteenth-century living,” I read. “Oh my God.” My knees went weak and I collapsed abruptly, unable to support myself anymore. This was what I’d been looking for, but looking and finding were two completely different things. Finding research like this brought the whole thing into bright, startling reality. A reality that even the stone hadn’t encouraged.

  Still, I didn’t have time to back out now.

  I pulled the papers out of the box and leaned over them, running my hand over the Table of Contents. It was the organization of an academic mind, and no mistake. My eyes ran down the list, looking for a place to start.

  “History, Traveling, Hygiene, What to Wear, The Law, The People, Currency, Dialogue, Basic Essentials, Royalty Protocol, and Pray, Work, and Fight,” I read quietly. Doc had left me everything I needed, right here.

  I turned to the first page and glanced at the material. The text read like a tour guide to Medieval England. Each page was meticulously spaced and typed out, with generous margins. Doc’s handwritten notes filled the empty spaces. The breath caught in my throat at his familiar, well-spaced printing, and I swiped at the moisture that appeared suddenly on my cheek, thinking that I needed to mention to Doc that he had a water leak in his closet. Leaning forward, I began to read.

  The War of the Roses 1455 - 1485 (circa)

  • England is caught in the middle of a power struggle between the York family (led by King Richard III), and Lancaster family (led by Henry VII).

  • Named for the white rose of York and red rose of Lancaster. Both houses descended from royalty.

  • At the start of the period, the York family is in firm control, with Edward IV on the throne. Henry Tudor–distant Lancaster relative–lives in France.

  • Richard of Gloucester (York family, Edward IV’s brother) takes power in 1483, after Edward’s sons, Edward V and his younger brother, disappear. Common belief is that Richard killed both boys. Richard is crowned King Richard III, but not without controversy. Many powerful families are unhappy with this turn of events.

  • Richard III does not make friends during reign. Continued movement of Lancaster family for reins of power.

  • Henry Tudor is descended from royalty. Mother is a Lancaster heiress, grandfather was a bastard son of Henry V. His mother, Margaret Beaufort, has sent him to France for his safety. She now begins to insist he come home and take the crown.

  • France backs Henry, who also receives assurances from many English lords. He crosses the Channel to make battle and take the throne.

  • The Battle of Bosworth, August 22, 1485. Richard is killed, ending the War of the Roses. Henry Tudor becomes king as Henry VII. Marries Elizabeth of York, Richard III’s niece and Edward IV’s daughter, to unite families.

  Well that was a particularly clean-cut version. I’d heard of the War of the Roses, of course, and knew the bones of the story. It was Medieval England’s version of the Hatfields and McCoys. The Yorks and Lancasters had warred for years, killing each other as often as they could despite the fact that they were cousins. When Richard III finally came to power, it was as a usurper and murderer. No one had complained when Henry took over. Of course, Henry VII had caused his own set of problems, and led straight to Henry VIII. We all knew how that turned out.

  But it had all started here. The Battle of Bosworth. Dresden would try to help Richard win the war, while Doc would try to balance Dresden’s influence by throwing his own weight on Henry’s side. Dresden sought to change history, and change the course of England itself, while Doc sought to maintain it.

  And in trying to maintain it, Doc was walking right into his own death.

  I sat numb for a moment, caught on that thought, then shook myself. I didn’t have time to doze off or get depressed. I had a window to catch, and time was sliding by too quickly.

  I pulled Doc’s watch out of my pocket and noted the time, then grabbed the research and moved to his bed. We had a little over an hour before the stone’s window opened. I had to get through this stuff, and fast. My heart raced as I skipped through the notebook to find the section on people. This is what we would need to know if we were going to fit in.

  I read the entire stack of paper as quickly as I could, memorizing as much of the information as possible, then moved to my room, where I shoved the papers into my printer. I hit the ‘scan’ function, and darted to the closet. I had packing to do. Downstairs, the door slammed shut and someone stormed into the house.

  “Where are you?” Paul shouted. I heard his footsteps tearing through the living room and racing up the stairs.

  “In here,” I called back. I threw open my closet door and started rifling through my clothes, searching for my backpack and sleeping bag. When I found them, I heaved them into the center of the room.

  “What were you doing?” Paul asked, appearing suddenly in the doorway. He glanced quickly around the room, taking in my lack of preparation. “Why aren’t you packed? We don’t have much time!”

  “Homework,” I replied. I tossed the sleeping bag and backpack onto my bed, then grabbed two pair of jeans, two rugby shirts, and a hoodie.

  “What did you find out, anything useful?” Paul asked. He yanked open my sock drawer and started throwing things haphazardly on the bed.

  “I think so,” I replied. I caught three pairs of socks and stuffed them into the side pocket of my backpack, then ducked to let another five pairs fly past. “Paul, cool it with the socks,” I snapped. “We’re not having a rummage sale here, and you’re stressing me out.”

  “Stressing you out? I’m stressing you out?” he muttered. “I’m just trying to help. Anyhow, I got a bunch of info too, all loaded on my phone.”

  I nodded. “And my grandfather?”

  “Yeah I found him, too,” Paul said. “You all done with this?”

  I folded up one last thick wool sweater and jammed it into the backpack, then stood back. “Yep, packed in less than two minutes. Th
at must be some sort of record.” I threaded the draw string of my sleeping bag through the strap of my backpack and dropped both articles on the floor. Then I stuffed the Swiss Army knife that my father had given me for my tenth birthday into my pocket, along with a flashlight the size of a magic marker.

  I glanced at Paul to confirm his readiness, and did a double take. He had on a pair of white Reebok high tops, dark jeans with a hole in the left knee, a short-sleeved Patriots jersey with the number ‘12’ printed on the chest, and a dark blue baseball cap with a large B on it. He’d brought a dark green backpack that appeared to be bursting at the seams, and a light blue sleeping bag. The sleeping bag was held together by two bright orange shoelaces.

  He must have noticed the dismayed look on my face, because he sighed in resignation. “We don’t exactly blend in, do we?” he asked.

  “Not exactly,” I replied. “We’ll just have to get in and get out again before it becomes a problem.” I turned toward my desk and glanced at my computer, where the scanning software was showing an electronic copy of Doc’s notes. My iPhone was already connected, and I made quick work of the transfer, then yanked the phone off the connector.

  “How much time do we have?” Paul asked suddenly. He looked at his watch and I took Doc’s watch out of my pocket.

  “A little over half an hour,” I answered, winding the watch and checking the time against my computer’s clock.

  Paul sighed in response. “Where’s Reis? I’d feel a lot better if he was back,” he said. He walked toward my window and drew my curtain to one side, glancing down at the yard and the garden shed that awaited us.

  I grunted in response. I’d been so busy studying that I hadn’t even thought about Reis, but Paul’s words brought him quickly back to mind. A large knot began to form in my stomach. Paul was right, he had been gone for a long time. Was he really coming back? And if he didn’t, would the two of us be brave enough to go through with this on our own? I looked at Doc’s pocket watch once again and gulped.

  Less than thirty-five minutes left, and Reis was nowhere in sight.

  17

  Suddenly Paul gasped and plastered himself to the window. “Thank God. He’s here.”

  I shot to the window to stand next to him and watch as Reis climbed out of his car and made his way quickly toward the shed. He took the lock off and ducked inside, careful to close the door behind him.

  “What’s he doing? Leaving without us?” Paul whispered.

  I shook my head. “He wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t do that.” I turned and grabbed my sleeping bag and backpack, though. We needed to get down there, regardless of what the body guard was doing.

  “Wait, he’s back,” Paul muttered, interrupting me. “And he’s carrying something.”

  I turned back and stared out the window. He was right–Reis was carrying a long roll of paper under one arm.

  “He’s got Doc’s map of England,” I answered, already thinking ahead. The map would come in handy; I’d loaded a map of England onto my phone, but it was a modern map–none of the old cities or territories were labeled. I’d also have to look at it on the phone screen, which was less than ideal. The full-size map would give us a much better idea of what we were dealing with. Besides that, who knew if my phone would even survive the trip, or work when we got there? I shook my head at the thought. I could worry about that later. Right now we needed to finish preparing and get to the stone.

  I looked down again, willing Reis to move faster. He tucked the half-folded map more securely under his arm, closed the shed’s door behind him, and strode firmly toward Doc’s car, which was parked in the driveway. He glanced at the house across the street, and then down the street itself, scanning the block for anything out of place. He must not have seen anything, because he turned his back on the street and bent to the trunk of the car to pull out a dark green duffel back and a long black case, then slammed the trunk and quickly made his way to the house, glancing back once before opening the front door.

  “How much time do we have?” Paul asked excitedly.

  “Twenty-nine minutes,” I replied, looking at Doc’s pocket watch for the hundredth time. The watch was already making me feel more secure, though I hadn’t thought of this when I first nabbed it. It sat heavy and solid in my hand, reminding me of Doc’s usual solid presence. I slipped it back into my pocket now, running my thumb over the engraving before withdrawing my hand.

  Suddenly, Reis was standing in my doorway, looking like the cover of Tom Clancy’s latest Black Ops video game. He wore black cargo pants with at least a thousand pockets and a stern, almost formal black turtleneck sweater. A utility belt that would have made Batman proud was clasped around his waist, and a shoulder harness of black heavy-duty nylon held his 9mm handgun. A black knit cap covered his hair, and a dark green scarf rested loosely around his neck. He looked relaxed and confident, as if he’d done this a million times, and already knew exactly how it was going to play out.

  “I get the feeling we’re a little underdressed,” Paul muttered out the side of his mouth.

  Reis nodded solemnly at me, glanced quickly at Paul, and laid the duffel bag on the floor. He set the rigid black case gently on my bed, flipped the locks, and pushed it open.

  Paul gasped at what was inside. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked, awed.

  “It’s an HK-416 assault rifle, complete with undercarriage grenade launcher,” Reis said sternly. He pulled the gun, shiny and black, from its case, leaned it against the bed, and looked at Paul. “Is that what you thought it was?”

  “Heavy,” Paul breathed. Suddenly he broke into a grin. “Do we each get one?”

  The corner of Reis’ mouth turned up in an answering smirk. “What do you think?”

  I rose from my seat, anxious to get started, and in no mood for jokes. “Do you think the weapons are a good idea?” I asked hesitantly. “Don’t you think they’ll … stand out?”

  Reis straightened. “I’ve been hired to protect you to the best of my ability. I’m not exactly trained in the use of a long bow or heavy sword, so…” He grabbed the assault rifle, popped open the chamber, and slammed a large magazine into its housing, then glanced back at me. “This will have to do. Now, how much time do we have?”

  “About thirty minutes,” I replied.

  “About?” Reis asked sternly. “I don’t think estimations are a good idea, do you?”

  I frowned and reached into my pocket for the pocket watch. He was right. We all had to take this more seriously. “Twenty-four minutes and thirty seconds,” I replied, snapping the case shut and turning toward the door.

  Paul spoke into the silence that followed. “Getting close then. Do we at least have some sort of idea what we’re going to do? Maybe even a plan?”

  Reis walked quickly toward the desk, unrolled Doc’s map, and pinned it down to keep it open. “Well we certainly don’t have a lot of time. Jay, where did you say we would land?” he asked sharply.

  “Doncaster,” I replied, moving over to stand next to him and peer down at the map. Paul moved to my side and looked over my shoulder.

  Reis jabbed his finger at the map. “Doncaster. And where are we going?”

  I shuffled quickly through the papers on the desk, looking for the history section. “The Battle of Bosworth. Takes places in Leicester on August 22, 1485.”

  Reis nodded, then traced the route with a yellow highlighter. “Looks like we’ll be traveling around 75 miles then.” He stopped and looked sharply at me. “How long will we have? Where will we find Doc? What do we need to do?”

  I paused as his rapid-fire questions hit, then pulled the map toward me and pointed to the south, where Abergavenny appeared as a small dot. “According to my research, Doc and his army will be coming from this area. Henry Tudor had Welsh blood, and used Wales as his staging point.” I quickly circled another city to the north. “Richard III came – will come – from the north. Both armies will move toward each other to meet here,” I circled Lei
cester several times, scribbling across the surrounding areas, “for their final battle.” My voice cracked on the last word. I dropped the pen and looked at Reis, gulping my panic.

  “We’ll get there four days before the battle starts. That means we have three days to find Doc. Without getting caught by either army.”

  Reis nodded. “So we’ve got less than four days to travel 70-plus miles in a time period where people will most likely mistake us for wizards. We’ll be on foot, hiding from Richard’s army, as well as Dresden, and trying to find the assassins who’re trying to find your grandfather. Should be … interesting.” He folded the map into eighths and shoved it into one of his pockets.

  “If either of you have to use the bathroom, I’d suggest you do it now,” he said, striding from the room. “I have a few more things to gather. We leave in nineteen minutes.”

  Paul and I were in the living room stacking our gathered goods when Reis returned, looking at his watch and barking orders. “Okay gentlemen, we’re almost out of time and I don’t think we can afford to miss our ride.” He unzipped his bag, pulled out three brown bundles, and threw two of them at us. “Put those over your clothes.”

  “What are they?” Paul asked, holding up the woolly robe.

  “They’re Snuggies,” I replied, grinning and pulling mine over my head. “Get into it, Paul.”

  Paul snorted. “I can’t wear this.”

  Reis, who had already donned a Snuggie of his own, reached over and shoved the robe over Paul’s head. “I’m no historian, kid, but I don’t think jeans and football jerseys fit in where we’re going. These look at least somewhat authentic.” He backed up and looked us over. “Besides, we’re going into Medieval England. It’s going to be colder there, and we’ll need blankets.”