Connor glanced around the room and considered the possibilities of the situation. Maybe this was a trick of an enemy, or maybe his head injury was causing a hallucination. The basic room had a primitive quality, as did the physician and her brother. Maybe this was a remote settlement and the people here were secluded from a world at war. With decades of advanced technology, satellite images, and constant monitoring, Connor thought it was safe to assume nothing was hidden from the global powers.
He decided he could not trust the physician, but he could test her. “Where is Good Springs? Is this an island?”
Lydia pressed her palm to her stomach. “Father was right. Last night he said he thought you were from another land… I have never left the Land... I don’t think anyone has. I know there are other lands, of course, but I have never thought much about it. I suppose that sounds juvenile to you.” She knelt in front of him and put a hand on his leg. “Did you mean to come here? Are you lost?”
He wanted to answer her, and that surprised him. If she were a pawn of the enemy, they had found a talented actress. She effused selfless concern. Her choice to send her brother away to help Connor proved her dedication to patient care. And her brother had been right—a warrior’s job was to be dangerous. Connor rubbed his chin out of habit and felt a day’s worth of stubble. He drew a deep, painless breath and chose not to answer Lydia’s question.
“What did you call the medicine you gave me?”
“It was tea made from the gray leaf tree.” She motioned with her hand to the window. “The gray leaf trees grow throughout the Land, but they are most abundant in the forests around Good Springs. We use the leaves for medicine.”
“So it numbs pain?”
“In a sense. And it accelerates the healing process.”
“How?”
“We don’t know for certain. We have used the gray leaf medicinally for generations, and we know that it works, but we have little knowledge as to how it works.” Lydia smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “That question is the basis of most of my research.” She glanced at a microscope on the counter, and Connor followed her line of sight. The microscope looked like it belonged in a museum. “I believe the gray leaf works by restoring cells to their proper function because—” She stopped herself and looked at Connor. He wanted to hear more about her research and the gray leaf tree, but instead she asked again about his parachute and where he was from. He realized she had gained his trust with little effort. He felt suckered by his humanness and was ashamed at how easily he had been manipulated.
Connor put his head in his hands and said no more. He could tell Lydia stood watching him for a moment before she returned to the tray of food on her desk. He looked up and watched her use a silver knife to spread butter on a thick slice of bread. She turned and offered it to him. He ignored her offer and reclined on the cot. With the discomfort of his injuries removed, it felt good to lie still and close his eyes.
* * *
Connor did not realize he was asleep until the sound of the door opening mixed into his dream and jarred him awake. It was late afternoon and he had slept hard—much harder than he had in months. He lifted his hand to rub his eye and realized he was far too comfortable for a man at war. He decided it must have been a side effect of the medicinal tea.
A middle-aged man walked in the door carrying a picnic-type basket. He sat on the chair across from the cot and lowered the basket to the floor. An august man with a calm demeanor, he crossed his legs at the ankle and grinned as he looked at Lydia. She sat at her desk writing and had not acknowledged the man’s entrance until he spoke. “Lydia?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She smiled and gave the man her attention. “Hello, Father. How was church?”
“Just fine.” He folded his hands in his lap and gave her a paternal look. “I visited the Fosters after the service. Roseanna sent plenty of food home with me.” He motioned to the basket on the floor. “I thought I might share some with your patient. Aunt Isabella is waiting for you in the kitchen. She was told you have been treating a wounded traveler and will join her for dinner.” He began to take food out of the basket without waiting for Lydia’s response.
Connor sat up slowly and expected someone to protest his movement. When they did not flinch, he felt less like a prisoner. Lydia stood and straightened the papers on her desk then left. She was her village’s physician and this was her home, but her father was clearly in charge.
Once Connor was alone with Lydia’s father, he wondered why the man wanted Lydia to leave. Her father looked like an older version of Levi, but with blue eyes, a trimmed beard, and gray at his temples. He also seemed less threatened by Connor.
“I am John Colburn, Lydia’s father.” He unwrapped their dinner and glanced at Connor. “I am the overseer of Good Springs. What is your name, son?”
“Connor Bradshaw, sir.”
“Levi told me you are a warrior.” John handed Connor a large sandwich of meat between slices of artisan-quality bread. “What army?”
“Unified States Navy, sir.” Connor took a bite. He was too hungry to pretend otherwise. The bread was fresh and soft; the meat was tender and flavorful but not a taste he immediately recognized. “Am I a prisoner here?”
“No, Connor, you are not a prisoner.” John scratched his bearded cheek. “Lydia saw you arrive on the beach last night. She came to her brother and me for help so she could bring you here and treat your injuries. No one else in the village knows about you, and since we have never had an… outsider such as yourself, I prefer to have an explanation before the villagers start asking questions. You are not a prisoner, but I believe it is best for everyone if you stay here for now.”
Connor nodded. The room was small and he hated feeling like a shut-in, but the last thing he wanted was to have curious villagers poking sticks at him. He took another bite and studied John while he ate. Connor had no reason to doubt the man. John appeared to be forthright. Connor recognized John’s authority and appreciated it.
“I assume you are obligated to return to your army.” John paused as though he expected Connor to fill him in on the details, but Connor kept silent. He ate without speaking another word. John did not push him for answers, and it increased Connor’s respect for him.
Connor decided he would stay in Lydia’s cottage until he healed—which Lydia had said would only be a couple of days because of their medicine. And John was correct: Connor was obligated to find a way back. He would use his downtime to plan his return to his squadron.
Connor took a drink of water, and John refilled his glass with a ceramic pitcher. Connor looked down at the pure, precious water and thought it was a good place to start. He pointed to the glass. “Where did this water come from?”
John swallowed his last bite then brushed the crumbs from his hands. He looked at the water pitcher then back at Connor. “Our well.” John arched one eyebrow. “Is there something wrong with the water?”
“No. It’s perfect.” Connor wondered how people who behaved generously and courteously could live as if the biggest problem facing all of humanity had no effect on them. “Most of the world is engaged in a deadly war because there is not enough of this.” He raised the glass. “And somehow I am sitting here drinking glass after glass of it.”
“It is water. I cannot imagine a world at war over a lack of water. The wells, springs, and lakes in the Land are full of fresh water. Our largest river flows deep and pure a matter of miles inland from Good Springs.” John looked at the water in his glass. “Which nation is without water?”
Connor sensed John’s honesty and realized these people had no idea what was happening in the rest of the world. Somehow they really were isolated from civilization. Connor wondered just how isolated they were. “Which nations are near Good Springs?”
John cleared his throat. “Good Springs is a village in the Land. Our founders brought a few maps and books of world history with them when they settled here, so we are familiar with other nations, bu
t our people have not had contact with an outside nation since the founders left America, and that was a long time ago.”
“How long ago?”
“The founders arrived here in March of eighteen sixty-one.”
Connor found himself caught not only by John’s gaze, but also by the intensity of what he said. This man was no enemy and could perhaps even become an ally. Connor considered the possibility of a completely isolated society hidden from the modern world. He pulled his focus away from John and looked around the room. The beauty of craftsmanship and old-world artistry was evident in everything. Most of the objects in the room looked antiquated, yet they were pristine and still in use.
Connor looked back at Lydia’s father. John Colburn was the leader of his community and a protective one. If Lydia was any indication of the rest of their village, Connor agreed they had something worth protecting. During the war he had watched every nation react—many with violence—to the water shortage that affected the human race. Connor considered what was in store for these people if the world learned of their unspoiled resources. The global powers would act here as they had elsewhere—the strong would invade and the weak would sabotage.
Connor thought of his squadron, his weapons system officer, and their mission. Whether or not he agreed with every position of his country’s leadership, he had taken an oath of allegiance. And like everyone else in the war, in addition to his duties as an aviator, Connor had standing orders to report any potential resource.
As an experienced and professional aviator, Connor trusted his clear head and controlled decisions. He frequently had to squelch his opinions to carry out missions. This situation felt different, and the rush of emotion inundated his mind. He was overwhelmed with concern for John and Lydia and their village. Connor felt dizzy. He touched his forehead with his fingertips and felt a lump where his head injury swelled.
“It looks better than it did last night,” John said while he looked at Connor’s head.
“Huh?” Connor grunted. “Oh, yeah. Lydia said I have a concussion.”
“You need to rest. The gray leaf provides quick and painless healing, but the body requires rest.” John dropped his napkin into the food basket and gathered up what was left of their dinner. He set the water jug on the side table next to the patient cot. “Drink all you want. We have plenty… for now.”
The heels of John’s boots thumped the floor as he walked to the door. He stopped at the window and peeled back the curtain. “Connor?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I believe it is best that you and I keep these details private for now. My people are not prepared for a world at war… though I suppose no one ever is.”
“Yes, sir.” Connor understood. He also needed time to think. He thought of Lydia’s curiosity from witnessing his arrival and knew she wanted an explanation. “Your daughter… she has questions, sir.”
John nodded. “When she asks them, tell her to speak to me.”
* * *
Sweat beaded across Connor’s forehead. He panted as he sat straight up, trembling. His eyes shot open and he searched the space around him with frantic dread. It was dark, but he recognized the room. He was in the medical office in the physician’s house in a village called Good Springs on an unnamed land in an unspecified location in the middle of the South Atlantic Ocean.
The abject feeling from the nightmare saturated Connor’s mind. In the dream, the world’s end approached, and he was surrounded by chaos and fire. Then a limpid stream in a lush, green forest appeared in the distance. As he walked to the stream, the noise of the battle lessened, as did the stench of burning flesh. He knelt on the stream’s bank and watched water run pure and clear across his fingers. Cupping his hands, he brought the fresh water to his lips, and as he began to drink it, the sounds and scents of the battle erupted again. He watched the water in his hands turn to ash.
The shift from feeling like the world was ending to feeling like he was at the end of the earth left Connor’s mind reeling. He shoved the sweaty blanket away from his body and moved his feet to the cool floor. Poised on the edge of the cot, Connor wiped his face with his hands and felt the smooth flesh where a lump had once protruded from his forehead. The wound was gone. He touched his ribs and noticed they too felt normal. The tea Lydia had given him seemed to be more miraculous than medicinal. Now that he was healed, he was tired of sleeping, tired of wondering, and tired of being stuck inside four walls. He had to get some fresh air and—hopefully—some answers.
Connor rose and walked to the window. Moonlight illumined the space around the cottage and revealed a quaint country yard. He grabbed his flight jacket from the back of a chair, but his boots were nowhere to be found. After sliding his bare arms inside the jacket’s sleeves, Connor shrugged it over his shoulders and stepped to the door. Before he opened it, he looked up the stairs to make sure Lydia’s door was still closed.
Once outside, Connor shut the door as quietly as he could. Lydia’s home was a matter of feet from the back of another house. By the size of the structure—and the fact that her home did not appear to have a kitchen—Connor assumed it was her father’s house. No wonder her family seemed ever-present—they lived next door.
The crisp air carried the scent of the nearby ocean. Connor zipped his jacket and stood facing the big house. The grass crunched under his bare feet as he followed a path away from Lydia’s cottage to an unpaved road. The road’s surface was a mix of smooth gravel, sand and shells, and it seemed barely wide enough for one car. There were no streetlights over the road or lights anywhere around the house. As Connor turned and looked back at the cottage, the sound of a cow’s moo confirmed the rural nature of Good Springs. He was not as concerned with the village’s topography as he was with its location. Connor buried his hands in his pockets and leaned his head back to take in the stars. He knew them well and—even though the aircraft he routinely flew navigated by far superior technology—he was confident he could fly from one continent to another by the stars alone. Connor blinked and rubbed his eyes then he looked up again. At first he thought the concussion was interfering with his vision. Then he scanned the ground, the yard, and the houses. There was nothing wrong with his eyes—something was wrong with the sky. The stars appeared to be spread farther than they actually were, and the full moon looked oblong rather than round.
Connor wondered if he were still dreaming or maybe even in a coma and none of this had ever occurred. He walked back to Lydia’s cottage and decided her father was right: it was best if he stayed in the medical office until they understood how he had come to this uncharted land.
Chapter Four
As Lydia opened her eyes, her first thought was of Connor. She rolled onto her back and pushed the bedcovers away from her face. The early light glowed through the curtains of her bedroom window. She wanted to snuggle back under the warm quilt, but her concern for Connor impelled her from her languor.
When she had checked on Connor during the night, her presence in the room startled him. She envisioned the mix of fear and fury that had lit his eyes and made him look dangerous. Though he had quickly calmed himself—and even apologized for his violent reaction—Lydia was worried about him. He was lost in a foreign land, so she expected him to be restless, but she sensed there were complications beyond her imagination.
The cottage was quiet, and Lydia assumed Connor was still asleep downstairs. She dressed and gathered her laundry to take to the main house. Her father had said they would expand her cottage into a home someday, but she was fine with it the way it was. She liked going into the family home throughout the day. She enjoyed sharing meals with her family and spending time with Isabella while her father and Levi were working and Bethany was at school.
Lydia unlatched the lock that Levi had installed on her bedroom door the day before. Levi had marched up her stairs and started hammering without an explanation, and she had been too tired to request one. Levi had always been protective of Lydia and Bethany, especially s
ince they lost their mother. Though only a twelve-year-old boy when their mother died, Levi had immediately armed himself with the notion of manhood. Adeline and Maggie were now both married and lived under the protection of their husbands, but Levi guarded Lydia and Bethany as if they were his charges. Lydia understood her brother’s intentions and had used the lock just as he had shown her.
As she descended the stairs, Lydia saw Connor lying prone on the medical office floor. His arms were spread out to each side and, with his hands firmly planted, he pushed his shirtless body away from the floor. He paused and then lowered himself back down. He repeated the motion over and over. Lydia slowed her pace when she saw his motions were deliberate. She watched him curiously as he let out his breath and, with a blast of energy, sprang to his feet. Lydia was not sure what to do. The spectacle left her grinning.
“What? Don’t you people work out?” Connor quipped, as he rubbed a palm across his bare chest.
“Work out what?” Lydia realized she was still smiling and forced herself to look away. Connor did not seem to notice when she immediately looked back at him. He sat on the floor, put both hands behind his head, and lowered his back to the ground. With his legs bent at the knee, he contracted his abdominal muscles and sat up, and then he lowered his body back down. He repeated the motion dozens of times and gushed out a breath each time he sat up.
Lydia lingered on the stairs with her arms wrapped around the bundle of laundry. When she realized she was staring at the clear definition of his well-trained muscles, she forced her gaze to return to his face. “I take it you are feeling better?”
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