“Lydia?” Her father’s eyes were widened expectantly.
“Yes?”
“I asked what you plan to do?” John planted his hands on his hips more like a parent reprimanding his child than a person speaking with the village physician.
“I plan to treat his injuries.”
“We know nothing about this man. Clearly he is from another land.” John picked up the black jacket they had removed from the stranger. He pointed to the unfamiliar insignia embroidered beneath a symbol that appeared to be wings. “I believe he is a warrior. Levi is right—he could be dangerous.”
“What do you expect me to do?” Lydia lifted her chin when her father did not immediately answer. “I’m committed to help any person in need of medical assistance, whether resident of Good Springs or traveler. I cannot—I will not—speculate the danger any patient may pose or allow anyone else to interfere with my care. Is that understood?”
John nodded to Lydia. “Fine. Treat the man’s injuries. But please, be cautious when he awakens.” Levi blew out a heavy breath in protest and turned away. John stood and studied the man on the cot.
Lydia plunked down in the chair at her desk and took out a piece of blank paper to start a patient chart. She grabbed her pen and drew a line across the top of the page where she anticipated writing the man’s name, once she learned it. Realizing she was gripping the pen with such force her fingertips were turning red, Lydia laid the pen down, closed her eyes, and drew in a breath. Whoever the man was and wherever he came from, he was her patient and she would help him—with or without her family’s approval.
Hours passed and the man remained unconscious. Long after midnight, John rubbed his hands over his face. “I am overcome with fatigue and I must preach in the morning. Levi, will you stay?”
“Yes.” Levi sat in the chair beside Lydia’s desk. He still appeared alert, though Lydia noticed his usually clean-shaven face was shadowed with whiskers.
John walked to the door. “Until we learn more about this man, do not mention his arrival to anyone. If I am asked, I will simply say Lydia is treating an injured traveler.” He pointed at Levi. “Do not provoke the man if he awakens.”
Levi glanced up at his father but gave no reply. John paused for a moment and looked at the man on the cot, then he walked out the door. Lydia understood her father’s caution and even her brother’s suspicion, but she was determined to treat the man like any other patient. She remained in her office with her patient through the night, and when she checked on him she found little change in his condition. Her curiosity about him and his circumstance grew with every passing hour. She expected him to regain consciousness, and, though it was beyond her work as physician, she already had a long mental list of questions to ask him. She wanted to know who he was and where he came from and if there were others like him. But her most pressing question was in regard to the cloth. The memory of him floating with it to earth replayed vividly in her mind: how did he do it?
Levi stayed in Lydia’s office and stared at the stranger most of the night. He sat with his arms folded tightly across his chest and his head leaning back against the wall behind his chair. He left the cottage only once, and that was at Lydia’s request for food shortly after sunrise.
* * *
Lieutenant Connor Bradshaw needed to gather as much information as possible before he opened his eyes. He could tell he was not aboard the carrier—it was too quiet. He smelled the faded scent of burnt wood and knew an unlit fireplace was nearby. He heard the occasional turn of pages as someone read. By the sound of light, steady breath he guessed the person was female. His fingertips rubbed the cot beneath him and felt a wool blanket. Maybe this was a Red Cross facility. One could only hope. He reminded himself in war one must keep hope in a delicate balance.
He took a deep breath then winced at the gripping pain in his ribs. His lips drew tightly together. They were dry and he felt grains of sand between them. He opened his eyes, but it took a moment for his vision to focus.
As the double vision cleared, he noticed the dim sunlight filtered by frilly curtains on the windows and knew it was early morning. The woman in the room sat at a desk with her back to him. He wondered if she were a naïve enemy or an unconcerned ally. She turned her head and looked at him, and he saw she was young and plain, but pretty. At first she neither spoke nor moved but only stared. He waited for her to make the first move.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“You’re American.” Connor cleared his dry throat.
“No.” She stood and stepped toward him in cautious increments.
Connor scanned the room and wondered if he had been captured or rescued. He was sure she sounded American but guessed again. “British?”
“No.” She reached her hand to his head but seemed hesitant to touch him. She pulled her hand back and tilted her head to the side. “What is your name?”
Connor ignored her question. “Are you with the Red Cross?”
“No. My name is Lydia Colburn. I am a physician. What is your name?” She stared at him, expressionless. When he did not respond, she questioned again. “Who are you?”
Connor turned his aching head and stared at the ceiling. “Lieutenant Connor Bradshaw, Unified States Naval Aviator, nine three zero six—” The physician hovered above him. He studied her face. She looked like a dozen young American women he knew, except she wore no makeup and was dressed like a Civil War nurse. He wanted answers. “Where am I?”
“You are in the village of Good Springs.” She gently pressed her thumb into his eyebrow, lifted his eyelid, and examined his eye. She repeated the process on the other eye and asked again, “Who are you?”
“Lieutenant Connor Bradshaw, Unified States Naval Aviator. Nine three zero—”
“I’m not sure what you mean.” She walked back to the desk and wrote something on a piece of grayish paper. “You have a concussion and three cracked ribs.”
“Terrific.” Connor groaned and his hand instinctively covered his aching ribs. He wondered where he was and how he got here. The memories began to flood back—his mission, his aircraft, his co-pilot. There was a malfunction or they were shot down. The aircraft’s computer systems went haywire. Before he could react, the emergency eject was initiated somewhere over the South Atlantic Ocean. The next thing he remembered was waking here.
Connor watched the physician as she moved around the room. She reached into a cabinet on the wall and pulled a glass jar from a shelf. Then she took several dry, gray leaves out of the jar and began to grind them in a stone mortar. She eyed him continually as she worked, and he sensed her suspicion.
He looked around the room for any clue to his location. It was a medical office of some sort, but in a world war there was no way to tell who controlled it. He noticed a lot of wood in the room—wood walls painted white, wood furniture, wood floor—and no plastic, wires, or electronics. There was only one door. It appeared to lead outside and stood between two curtained windows. The cot he lay on was pressed firmly against the wall. He saw a high-backed chair across from him and another at the desk. A narrow staircase was on the other side of the desk. “What is up there?” He motioned to the stairs and noticed his hand felt weaker than it should.
“My private rooms. You are in my home.” She gave a small smile and he wondered if that was supposed to comfort him.
He kept his expression neutral and looked away. There were no decals or signs, no computers and no modern equipment in the room. The silence afforded by a lack of electronic buzz reminded him of his grandmother’s home. He pushed aside the comfort brought by sentiment and focused on the door as it opened.
A man walked in holding a tray of food. He looked young but wore trousers held up by suspenders. The man glanced at the physician as he came through the door, then he settled his gaze on Connor. He set the tray on the desk, moved past the physician, and stood firmly between her and the cot. The only sound was the stone mortar and pestle she used to grind the gray leaves.
Connor held still with one hand covering his broken ribs. The man turned and picked up a heavy-looking wooden chair. He held it with two fingers and set it within inches of the cot. It appeared to Connor his interrogation was about to begin. He felt relieved—maybe he would finally get some answers.
As the man sat in the chair across from Connor, he folded an open palm over the fist of the other hand. His eyes held the threat of aggression, and his every movement appeared calculated. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. While staring at Connor, the man turned his face slightly toward the physician. “Does he have a name?”
She did not look up. “Lieutenant Connor. I could not make sense of the rest.” She set the mortar and pestle down and reached to the food tray, took a small kettle of steaming water, and poured it into a glass. The powdered gray leaves tumbled from the pestle as she tipped it into the glass. She stirred the concoction with a silver spoon and strained the liquid as she poured it into a teacup.
“Lieutenant?” The man’s voice was low and stern as he questioned Connor. “Are you a soldier?”
“No.” Connor’s head was beginning to throb. “I’m a naval aviator.” He dragged out the words. “I am a pilot in the Unified States Navy. I fly aircraft.” He thought he was speaking their language, yet they both stared with brows slightly lifted. “Airplanes.” He stretched both arms out to mimic the act of flying. The movement shot pain through the cracked ribs on his left side. He made his next breaths short and shallow.
The physician took the tea she had made and walked to the cot. “Move away, Levi.” She waved him back as if shooing a fly. “I can’t work with you hovering.”
She held the teacup out to Connor. He looked at it and back at her. “Look, lady—”
“Lydia,” the man corrected.
Connor glanced at him and then looked back at the physician. “Lydia. I appreciate the effort you went to by making a cup of tea for me, but if you are the doctor here, can’t you give me something for the pain or at least wrap my ribs or something? I’m here for medical attention, right?”
Connor heard the man snicker. Lydia knelt by the cot. Connor noticed she had the same grin as the man she called Levi. They had the same hair and eye color, too. Connor saw the family resemblance.
“This will remove your pain.” She offered the cup again. “And I don’t wrap broken ribs. It might make you feel better but you will only take shallow breaths and could end up with pneumonia.” Connor did not move and she continued offering the tea. “It’s still quite hot, but that will only help it work faster. It’s tea from the gray leaf tree.” She held the teacup closer to him as if trying to lure a frightened animal. “It will remove your pain and help your body heal much faster.”
“Leave him in pain, Lydia. If he can’t move, he can’t hurt you.” Levi barely moved his mouth as he spoke. He stood then rubbed his unshaven face and set the chair back against the wall.
Connor lifted his head and looked past Lydia. He leveled his gaze on Levi. “I’m not going to hurt her.”
Levi glowered at Connor and then looked at Lydia. “Do not give him the gray leaf. He’s dangerous.”
She snapped her head toward her brother. “Levi, you should go.”
“I will not leave.”
“Stand outside my door and keep guard if you wish. This man is injured and it’s my duty to help him. You won’t keep me from it.” Her voice sounded tight; it mirrored the tension in the room.
Levi turned and moved one degree at a time until he was finally outside. He closed the door but did not step away from it. Connor watched Levi’s silhouette through the gauzy curtain. Apparently there would be no interrogation after all—at least not conducted by the physician’s brother. Connor noticed Lydia watching Levi and wondered if she regretted sending her protector outside.
Lydia looked at Connor and tapped her fingertips on the teacup. “Lieutenant Connor, this tea is our pain medicine and if you drink it—”
“Connor.”
“Pardon?”
“My name is Connor.”
* * *
Frank Roberts drew a deep breath and spit out the soggy gray leaf he had been chewing for the past hour. Most men could not handle chewing the leaves, and he felt proud that he could. The gray leaf was the only thing that settled his nerves when he got this agitated.
Frank watched Levi close the door of Lydia’s cottage and stand outside. Frank thought of Lydia in there alone with the stranger and told himself it was a good thing the brother was keeping guard or he would go in there and put the stranger out of his misery.
Frank wiped his mustache with the back of his hand and then smirked as he looked down at his new boots. Black—his favorite color. When he had pulled them off the stranger on the beach the night before, he immediately slipped them on his feet. They were too big, but that did not stop Frank from lacing up the heavy boots and kicking the man in the ribs with all his might.
Frank had been following Lydia from a distance and saw the strange man float down from the sky. He saw her run to the stranger and promise to return to help. Frank’s lips tightened in anger and bile boiled up from his stomach as he thought of Lydia caring for another man. He reached up and grabbed a fresh leaf from the gray leaf tree he was hiding behind and began to chew.
Frank had hidden the rest of the stranger’s equipment in his cabin. He did not know what power the items held, but he saw the ability it gave the stranger to fly and Frank was determined to make use of it himself. He conjured the memory of Lydia’s face as she watched the stranger floating on the air. He had never known anything to capture her attention like that. If he could fly like the intruder, it would make Lydia love him.
After craving Lydia’s attention for nearly a decade, Frank was losing patience. She had confided in him once—expressing her pain over her mother’s death—and his longing to help her transformed into a yearning to have her. She was still a child then, and knowing he could not be with her had only fueled his desire. But now she was a grown woman and he saw no reason why he should not have her.
Frank heard people coming. His nostrils flared at the sound. The villagers were finished with their church meeting. He imagined they would all be full of their righteous judgments, especially John Colburn. The overseer kept a close eye on Frank, and Frank despised him for it.
The dried grass crackled under Frank’s feet as he moved away from the tree. He slowed his pace when he heard his footsteps. The boots were heavy and hard to get used to. He stepped lighter and lighter until he was satisfied with their silence.
* * *
Connor’s hands sank into the cot beneath him as he pushed himself up. He grimaced and fought the pain as he sat up for the first time since he was in the cockpit of his fighter jet the day before. He accepted the cup of medicinal tea Lydia held out to him but sipped it cautiously. It tasted bitter, yet still more palatable than the putrid drinking water on the aircraft carrier. He took another drink and swallowed hard. His throat was dry and disappointed when the cup was empty. “Got any more of this?” he asked her.
“Yes, but you will not need it.” Lydia smiled and took the empty cup. “Have you drunk tea from the gray leaf tree before?”
“No, I’ve never heard of—” Connor barely got the words out before he felt heat rise from the core of his being. It radiated in pleasurable pulses as if the tea had ignited a painless fire. While the sensation passed through his body, it melted away every other feeling. The warmth removed the pain from his ribs and he wondered if they were healed. It spread down his legs to his toes and through his arms to his fingers. He brought his hands up to look at them. He expected to see light beaming from his fingertips, but there was nothing. The pain in his ribs had caught every breath before he drank the tea, so he had not realized how badly his head hurt. He only had a moment to notice before the healing sensation reached the crown of his head. He briefly saw stars and felt light-headed, then nothing. It was all gone—the pain was gone and th
e warmth. He was not numb, but he felt nothing. And it felt wonderful.
Lydia handed him a glass of water. It was cold and pure and he quaffed half of it in one swallow. He had not noticed her fill the glass, and he wondered where the water came from. The water tasted better than anything since before the war began. “Thank you.” He moved his feet to the floor and began to stand.
Lydia put her hand on his shoulder. Her touch was light and pleasant. “Please don’t try to stand yet. The tea removed your pain, but your injuries will require time to heal completely. And with a concussion you really must take things slowly.”
He drank the rest of the water and raised the empty glass to her. Lydia began to take the glass, but Connor did not let go of it. He waited for her eyes to meet his. He did not want to frighten her, but he needed to show her he was serious. “Where am I?”
She let go of the glass and looked at the door. Connor knew Levi waited outside and if Lydia became frightened, she might call for her brother. Connor saw her fear and decided to change his approach. If she were as sweet natured as she appeared, she would respond better to warmth than severity. He smiled and gave his voice the most amicable quality he could muster considering he was a possible captive. “Lydia, where am I?”
“You are in the village of Good Springs. I’m the physician here. This is my medical office.” Her voice grew full. “I saw you float on the air. You fell from the sky last night at dusk. I saw you. How did you do it?”
Connor wrapped his fingers around the empty glass while he considered answering Lydia. She seemed honest and innocent, but the world was full of enemies with vicious tactics. He could not trust the young physician without knowing who controlled this place. Land was scarce in the middle of the South Atlantic Ocean—certainly beneath the aircraft’s location when he and his weapons system officer were ejected. Connor thought of Lieutenant Mercer and wondered if he had also survived.
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