by D. L. Koontz
Tripping. Grabbing. Moving.
Over an incline, then down into a ravine.
Stopping to gulp a breath. Clinging to the girth of a young tree, then a protrusion in the rocks.
A slight breeze activated the sounds of the forest. Branches clacked together, loose leaves and vegetation rustled. Spooked, she moved on. Up, down, around, wherever the moonlight illuminated a path.
Over an incline, then around another.
Was she running to, or from? She wasn’t sure.
She stumbled to a halt and gasped, throwing her hands over her mouth, but too late. Three men stood in front of her and they’d heard her. They were dangerously close, and while two of them looked startled, the third one—a startlingly thin, scruffy-bearded man with a black eye patch over one eye—bolted to action, coming at her. She backed away, but was brought up short by the solidness of a row of wooden barrels. He closed the five yards of space between them before she could move.
Grabbing her arm, he dragged Libby toward the others and into the light cast from several torches. His clothes were disheveled, and he was thin, reeked of body odor and tobacco, and the mangy hair on his head reached his beard. It must have been greasy too because the firelight reflected off it.
“What’r you doin’ here, gal, eh?”
Libby noticed a mouth filled with crooked teeth and ruined gums before he turned his gaze to the other two, directing his next question to them. “Think the coppers sent ’er?”
One of the other two, a tall sinewy figure, spoke to the third man, his voice revealing him to be a young adult, and much older than his boyish features would suggest. “If she brung the law, we better git.”
By now the bearded man had dragged her closer to the other two. Instinct—or was it some sort of training—blipped through her mind; immobilize him in three moves or less, then restrain him, depending on available weapons or accouterments, or run.
She had no more strength to do any of that. Besides, how did she know about disenabling an assailant?
Behind them, firelight revealed the oddest contraption she’d ever seen. A large container made of boards and sheets of metal nailed together with tubes and metal arms protruding from it in all directions. Beside the contraption sat at least a half-dozen wooden buckets and several grain bags. A still!
Too late. She’d have been safer if she had not seen it. A renewed fear surfaced and she dropped her gaze to the ground, panic clawing at her insides and icy wisps of fear raising gooseflesh on her arms. Still, she struggled to maintain an outward show of calm.
The third man, a portly fellow with receding hair and alert, piercing eyes twisted his rotund girth to his side and spit something from his mouth, then turned back to assess her. His belly fell over his wide rope belt, holding up dirty pants that were too short. A leather strap ran diagonally across his wide chest. Attached to it was a crude holster in which rested a large handgun. The flickering firelight revealed a look of cold displeasure on his face, but as he studied her, she could see his worry melt to amusement. “She’s no copper. Probably one of them rich folks from the hotel.” He spit again. “Shame she seen so much.”
“What’ll we do with her?” the bearded man asked. “Maybe she’d like a little fun...” His eyes raked Libby from head to toe and back again, and he laughed with a disgusting, leering nasal sound that slithered down her spine as revulsion rose in her throat. Before she realized he’d freed one of his hands, she felt it at her thigh. Felt him yank up the bottom of her shift. She tried to jerk free, but he tightened his grip. She was too weak.
The portly man scowled. “Behave, Gil. Just tie her up. Blindfold her. Later, we’ll lead her outta here. I doubt she’ll ever want to explain how little she was wearing when she stumbled into our little party anyway. Besides, she’ll never be able to find this place again.”
“There’s no need for that, gentlemen.”
The voice, calm and distinguished, came from the darkness behind them, prompting the youngest one to reach for a rifle and the portly man to put his hand on his pistol.
A man stepped closer, into the torchlight and walked toward Libby, holding his hands up so the others could see he carried only a lantern. Moving with the agility of a cat, his gaze remained on the two with guns.
The stranger from the cave!
Once near her and the bearded creep, he placed the lantern on the ground and gave Libby an intense look. “Sweetheart,” he said in a pleasant voice. “You had me worried.” He turned to the portly man and smiled. “My niece, you see. She had a bit too much...” he made a hand motion of pouring a drink into his mouth, “...so I tucked her in her room early tonight. I guess she decided to take a walk.”
He reached her side and gently pulled her from the grasp of the bearded guy, wrapping his free arm around her back and resting his hand at her waist so that they stood side by side. He stood taller than her by at least four inches, and returned his gaze to the three men as he pulled her close.
Her uncle? No, the thought rang false.
This man, so confidant, so smooth, so dignified when compared to the three hooligans, acted so cocksure of himself. His ability to step into the scene and change everything scared her. Would she be safer with three fools than this smooth-tongued intruder?
“Who the buggar are you?” the youngest man demanded, voicing the very question that swirled in Libby’s mind.
As he answered, the stranger pinched the tips of his fingers into her side, a universal warning to play along. “The name’s Grey.” He turned his gaze to Libby and with commanding eyes, elaborated, “Andrew Grey. We’re guests at a local hotel. Leaving tomorrow.”
Startled, Libby sucked in her breath as warmth flooded through her. That name was familiar. But, why? And how could he know it? His fingers poked into her side again.
“Sorry...Uncle,” was all she could manage, fatigue and fear making her voice weak and rough.
“Now gentlemen, if we can all agree we saw nothing, then we’ll be on our way,” he said, as he steered Libby around and began to lead her into the darkness. “Oh, and,” he said pointing to the lantern, “keep this for your troubles. Have a good day.”
He pushed Libby’s back gently. “Keep walking,” he whispered as they disappeared into the darkness.
And she did. For as long as her legs held her. Which, as it turned out, wasn’t long. After about fifty steps, exhaustion and pain hit again, and she began panting desperately for air. Her legs felt weak and boneless before they surrendered, and she felt herself falling.
Everything went black.
This time, the return to consciousness involved a steady collection of pains: a pounding ache in the front of her head, soreness in her arms and legs, severe cramps in her stomach muscles, a dull lethargy throughout her body.
Still, the aches were less acute and much more bearable.
Smells were familiar from before—the dank odor of earth and stone walls, the scent of writhing earthworms, the fragrance of burning oak. The cave again? Wherever it was, Libby’s stomach didn’t like it. A tightness gripped her chest and disorientation washed through her. After a few minutes of concentrating on breathing, she opened her eyes and stared into the darkness, trying to determine where she was.
She tried to sit up. Her arms were so numb, it took three attempts. As the blood began to course again, she inched upward, attempting a sitting position. Her vision swam and pain seared in both her head and stomach. To her dismay, she began to gag. As she turned to her side so that she wouldn’t vomit on herself, a hand thrust a bucket in front of her.
“Use this,” the deep timbre of a familiar voice urged.
She spilled the contents of her stomach into the metal container as the man returned to the fire and poked it back to life. It was the same figure Libby had seen in the cave earlier. The one who saved her from the three grimy men.
Something roared outside, like a cannon boom that echoed over the mountains. Next came a hissing sound and a flash of light. She
heard rain, growing in intensity, and the whooshing of wind through the trees. A storm.
But that’s not right. When Andrew and she arrived the forecast was clear. Andrew! She remembered him. This man had said his name.
What else did she remember? Taking the water! She closed her eyes and mentally hunted for more. But, the answers capered out of reach.
She dropped the bucket to her side.
“Rinse your mouth with this.” The stranger returned, handing her a metal cup with a clear liquid in it, as he hunkered down beside her, close enough that she could feel his heat, and see the outline of his firm chin and the stormy darkness of his eyes. Her hand shook and her throat burned as she drank a gulp, rinsed, spit it out, and repeated the process.
She noticed a large object, like a cloth duffel bag about a foot to her right and the opposite direction of the stranger, so she inched over, rested her back against it, and assessed her surroundings. The blaze of a torch’s light cast a wavering circle around the stone walls, revealing a high ceiling with narrow cracks and fissures through which the campfire smoke could escape. Bags and assorted containers perched nearby. It appeared to be a basic cave, if such a cavity in the earth could be considered basic. It didn’t appear to lead farther into the earth.
“You’re shaking,” he said. She hadn’t noticed. He stood and walked to a large cloth bag several feet to her left, pulled out a blanket and draped it over her. Next, he picked up a jug and pulled a cork from it. He returned to her, crouched down and poured something into the cup. “This will warm you.”
Libby looked at the liquid in the cup. “What is it?”
“Whiskey.”
She ought to keep her head clear, but the pain was so bad she wished she were dead anyway, so maybe the whiskey, or whatever might actually be in the cup, might numb and desensitize her all the more, and help with the damp chill seeping into her. She clutched the cup with both hands, took a sip, sputtered and shivered, but managed to swallow the burning liquid.
“The worst is behind you. At least as far as your system is concerned,” he said, smiling with sad apology. He remained crouched at her side. His weight rested on the balls of his feet and his arms folded across his bent knees. “You’ve traveled considerable distance in time, but your body is still in a confluent span of hours. No surprise it’s fighting you back.”
So it was true. She had traveled through time. But, how could he know about it?
A crashing sound came again from outside, startling her. Thunder. Or, was it those three men? Were they hunting her?
She started to speak but it came out in a squeak. She took another swig of the whiskey and tried again.
“Those men...”
“Bootleggers. They won’t bother us.”
Libby closed her eyes and tried to think. The effort made the pain worse, so she opened them. “Bootleggers. So it’s...”
“Nineteen twenty-six.”
Startled, she stared into his eyes to discern his veracity, but was caught by the warmth and intensity she saw there.
He continued. “That’s what I wanted to know first, too.”
He’d traveled also? And, nineteen twenty-six? What would she do now? Panic washed over her, wondering about her place in this unfamiliar tableau. Overwhelmed, dread roaring through every part of her body, she rubbed her forehead against the dull ache that throbbed there, as a thousand more questions rioted in her mind. But first, she had to remember her humanity and the kindness of this stranger.
“Thank you...” she shrugged, “for helping me. Sorry about your lantern.”
Their eyes met and his attention lingered on her for a moment, providing a brief warm bond in the chilly air of the cave. “No worries. I have others.” He rubbed his chin. “What about you? From what year did you come back?”
“Twenty-sixteen.” Startled at her own answer, she sucked in her breath.
He twitched his lips. “I suppose we’re still dealing with famine, war, and terrorism, eh?”
She nodded.
He smirked. “Some things never change.”
Thunder rolled over the lamp-lit cave and bolts of lightning sent dancing shadows through the opening of the crude dwelling.
The stranger stood and returned to the fire, dropping onto a low-slung rock. Libby studied him in the flickering light. He looked to be around fifty. His clothes were tidy enough, but his brown boots were crusted with mud as was the hem of his woolen pants. The sleeves of his coarse cotton shirt were rolled up to his elbows. He looked lithe, perhaps athletic. The lines of his face were chiseled, but faint shadows hovered beneath his eyes and his hair was mussed as though he had raked his fingers through it time and again, during their stay in the cave. He must not have slept much. The thought hit her with a strange pang of guilt, and she regretted his lost rest. Despite his dishevelment, the only word she could conjure to describe him was distinguished.
His presence suddenly felt important. Significant. She should know him, shouldn’t she? But, the answer wouldn’t come. She recalled how he handled the three men, saying he was Andrew Grey so she would know to trust him. “Who are you?”
“Name’s Davis Whitaker.” He pointed to his left and her gaze followed to see dates and initials etched into the cave wall. “I’m the D.W., 1918.”
Libby stared at the wall, disbelief and dizziness washing over her. Another memory surfaced: Andrew mentioning initials in a cave.
“Were you FBI?”
“Forensic accounting. And you, FBI?” His features reflected polite interest.
She nodded, noting as she did that the pain wasn’t as intense as it had been when she awoke, and that memories were returning randomly. “When did you...” She couldn’t get herself to say ‘come back in time.’
“Travel? Two-thousand eight. I was Andrew’s first successful traveler.” He didn’t say it with pride or wonder, just matter-of-factly as he poked at the fire, prompting the flames to shoot higher. “We worked together. When I learned of my imminent death, I was devastated. While others offered condolences, Andrew took action.”
Talk of Andrew made her heart pound. She swallowed her sorrow and loneliness. And, her confusion. Andrew hadn’t even mentioned 2008. She didn’t want to share her feelings with this man, and she didn’t trust him yet. She turned her head slowly to the wall again. “Who are the others?”
“The E.S. for 1848 and M.L. for 1798, I don’t know. The Z.H. for 1922 is a man named Zachary Hayes.”
“Is he here, too?”
“No, after a couple weeks’ recovery, he left. Fancies himself the cowboy type.”
“Weeks?” She said it with such abrupt dismay that her hand flew across her mouth.
He smiled, and his raised cheeks dwarfed his hazel eyes. “Yes... Miss...?”
She hesitated, flailing around in her head for her identity. She began to panic. But then it came. “Shaw. Libby Shaw.” After she spoke, she remembered her name was now Grey, but she said no more.
For a moment, he looked poised to ask her something, but seemed to change his mind. “Well, Libby Shaw, you’ve been here four days and nights so far. We can move you to the comfort of the Springs Hotel in a few days, and then in another week or two, you’ll feel normal again.”
“Is that possible, to ever feel normal again?” she asked and it came out in a whisper.
He studied her with such compassion, she found it hard to breathe. “Without patronizing you, I promise things will improve. But it takes time. To adjust. To restore your equilibrium.” He pushed his rolled cuffs higher and perched his elbows on his knees. “’Course, your memory may never be restored. Not fully. The body seems to heal more quickly than the mind. Your body’s way of protecting you. You’ll remember bits and pieces. More as time goes by. Far as I know, Zachary’s memory hasn’t returned fully. I suspect he left things behind he doesn’t want to remember. Your improving memory may suggest you left a time you don’t want to forget.”
Libby frowned and took another sip of whisk
ey.
He continued. “The water is a curative. Like any medicine, it seems to work differently on everyone. On some, it doesn’t work at all. No two experiences are the same. Sometimes I wonder if the loss of memory isn’t part of the healing too. What you can’t remember can’t hurt you. Sometimes it’s good to forget life’s heartaches and wincing failures.”
She thought about that. She remembered leaving Andrew, even recalled her parents and Aunt Isabel were gone. Those were her worst memories. Weren’t they? And yet, they remained with her. The water did indeed work differently with everyone.
She gazed at the wall again, wondering about the experiences of the others. “Why did Zachary Hayes leave?”
Davis shrugged. “Said he wanted to see the wild west while there was still one to see. Acted disappointed he hadn’t gone back farther in time. It’s a shame he left, really. Would have been nice to talk about the future occasionally.” He waved a hand and his expression suggested nothing surprised him anymore, that he’d gotten used to people doing all sorts of things.
“So...you pulled me from the water, too. Brought me here?”
“I try to be here each solstice and equinox, but I’ve missed a few. Nineteen twenty-one, for one. It was a tough year at work. But,” he winked, “in all these years, I never thought I’d pull from the water a young woman with cinnamon hair and the most striking eyes I’d ever seen. Green, and one with a touch of blue. Fascinating. Highly unusual.”
Libby felt a blush heat her cheeks and she looked down, unable to hold his gaze. She had sectoral heterochromia wherein a small portion of one iris had different pigmentation than the rest. Heretofore, she couldn’t remember anyone ever describing her eyes as fascinating. Andrew had simply called them a mutation.
She looked back at Davis. “Do you miss it? Your old life, I mean?”
“At first.” He stared at something beyond her shoulder, perhaps nothing, perhaps memories. His voice had a hint of sorrow to it. “I was quite lonely. Missed my son and kid sister, what I remembered of them. You remind me of her. ’Course she’s at least fifteen years older. So yeah, it was lonely.” He shrugged. “But, we train for separation, don’t we? Once I accepted my fate, I moved on. Now I’m as happy as I was before. Perhaps more.” He smiled a private smile that excluded Libby.