“And the Noah Fallam who’s interrogating me is the same Noah Fallam who’s going to go to colonial Virginia and disappear somewhere in the mountains?”
“The same, but he may not have the same experiences.”
“You said we may be in a parallel universe, not the same one we left?”
“Anytime you travel through time you also travel through dimensions,” he said.
“Explain that,” Lydde said.
He shook his head. “I can’t. The only way to explain is to follow the story and see what happens to this Noah Fallam and Mary. And John and Lavinia and Lydde. Then maybe we’ll start to see how things connect. That’s the key to the puzzle—the connections.”
Lydde was laughing softly to hide her bewilderment. Uncle John put his hand on hers. “Relax. It’s a fancy way of saying God is in charge.”
Lydde stood up. “No, Uncle John, don’t give me that fatalistic stuff you were talking about before. If God’s in charge, He’s doing a lousy job of it, because all kinds of bad things happen.”
“If people have free will, then bad things are going to happen.”
“But if everything is plotted out like you say, then people don’t have free will and we’re just a bunch of automatons.”
“Not so. I don’t mean the same thing Fallam and these Puritans think, with predestination and all that. Yes, bad things happen and maybe they’re built into the fabric of reality, maybe set in motion since the Big Bang. But what’s important isn’t what happens to us. What’s important is how we respond. We’ve still got free will to make decisions. But sooner or later we’ll see the connections too.”
“Connections,” she said. “You keep using that word. So why did the wormhole send us here? Why England in 1657? What’s the connection?”
“I have no idea. It may seem like pure chance. But it’s not totally random, you know. You lived in Norchester once. And Noah Fallam went with his brother to the mountains of western Virginia. Maybe that’s part of some divine plan.”
“That’s crazy,” Lydde said.
He spread his hands. “And the rest of this isn’t?”
Several decades in England had insulated her from the religious language of America, and to her ears Uncle John was sounding like a tent preacher. The idea of wormholes and dimensions was fascinating, but she decided to dispense with the connection part, especially if Noah Fallam was involved.
Night was falling and Mary appeared with a lantern, dispatched by the ever-watchful Mother Bunch, to lead them to the house.
“What about tomorrow?” Lydde asked.
“I think,” said Uncle John, “that you and Noah Fallam will be very interested in one another. Because somehow he’s part of all this.”
“Too bad, because he’s such an asshole. Although it’s interesting that I’m going to be threatened and bullied by a man who, if I wanted to, I could inform of the year he’s going to vanish.”
“Which of course you won’t do. Because none of us should bear the burden of that kind of knowledge.”
“No. But it’s weird to have that power. So what if things go bad? What if I’m in danger?”
“If worse comes to worst, you can go back to West Virginia anytime you want. As long as the passage stays clear.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning we have to be able to get to the crypt of St. Pancras Church and drop into the cistern. The cistern room is locked and you brought back the key that John Soane took with him. The Reverend Smythe lets me keep charge of it. He thinks I do medical experiments down there.”
Lydde felt a thrill of alarm. “Didn’t you tell me once that St. Pancras burned down?”
“Yes, the authorities will burn it and that will probably close off the wormhole. But not until after the New Year. Hindsight is pretty damn helpful, isn’t it?”
Thank God, she thought. She doubted she could stand more than a short time in the seventeenth century. Although, as she followed Uncle John and Mary into the house and up the stairs, a spring in her step even though she was tired, she pondered the delicious possibilities of possessing a fifty-five-year-old mind in the body of a twenty-year-old.
When she undressed for bed she felt further proof of her rejuvenation, a shiver of desire as she imagined the invisible hand of a man running the length of her naked body. Then the man materialized briefly in her mind’s eye—Noah Fallam as he had stood close at the end of her interrogation.
“God, no!” she cried aloud, and with a shudder of disgust, threw herself into bed and pulled the quilt over her head.
Chapter 10
Virginia Copperheads
AFTER THE QUIET of the Sabbath, Monday in Norchester was a bustle of activity. The town was famous for its oysters, and the first fruits of the day’s harvest were already arriving in the estuary, where women and men waited with brine and barrels for pickling. Alongside the fishermen, small boats in from France, Sicily, and Virginia were being relieved of an array of goods, from pelts to tobacco to spices, cheese, wine, and lace. Some of the merchandise would go straight to the market set up outside the cathedral precincts. Most would end up in the warehouses of the local gentry who would send it on to Bristol and especially London, at great profit to themselves.
But some of the money would find its way into the pockets of the poor people of Norchester and vicinity, thanks to the Raven and his gang of “roguers,” as Mother Bunch called them. It was a term she used without approbation, for she claimed that if not for the Raven and his band of thieves and smugglers, many a poor child would go without and many a poor woman turn to selling her body for food.
“Hanged they’ll be,” she said. “Or at the least transported to the Colonies. The Raven himself is a dead man and must know it, for he will be hanged for certain if he be caught. And he will be someday caught, as they all are. Yet he’ll go straight to his reward in heaven. For who is the greater thief, when poor folk are dying, than the rich man? Isn’t it so, good doctor?”
Uncle John had nodded over his morning libation of hot beer and said, “Mother Bunch, I do believe you are a Leveler.”
“Call me whatever you like. But you know yourself how hard it is on the poor folk hereabouts.”
“Don’t I treat the poor every day?” he agreed.
“And so kind of you,” she said, “to take nothing save what they can spare. And sometimes sending along an egg or two for those who have none. Mary knows, don’t you?”
Mary gave Uncle John an affectionate pat on her way to the henhouse to feed the chickens. “Lewis, you must come with me sometimes when I deliver medicines,” she said. “You shall see how sad the people are. And how well they speak of the Raven. There’s a price on his head, but they’d rather die than turn him in.”
Mary had turned out to be a storyteller, holding forth in the evenings before the hearth at Soane’s Croft. As they sat in front of the fire, she told tales of the Raven and his gang she’d heard around Norchester—how a widow with small children had waked one morning to find a milk cow thrusting its head through her cottage window, how a poor girl on her way to Bristol to turn prostitute had been showered with gold coins and returned to her family. Mary sat close to the hearth, her face golden in the reflected light, and spoke in a voice that seemed strangely familiar to Lydde, as though she had heard it before, telling her stories when she was a small child. As Mary recounted the Raven’s exploits, Lydde imagined a handsome man cloaked in black galloping through the night on his horse like Robin Hood or Zorro come to life, risking his life to defend the poor and the weak. And perhaps, she imagined, to sweep a woman off her feet.
“How long has the Raven’s gang been operating?” she asked.
“They put in their first appearance last Christmas,” Uncle John said. “Sacks of grain and purses of coins started turning up on the doorsteps of poor families. There were three landlords hereabouts ready to turn out their tenants, and glad to do it to clear and enclose the land. But they had to hold off when the rent money
showed up unexpectedly. They were pretty upset! Mother Bunch is right. It’s a dangerous undertaking and the Raven won’t last long, I’m afraid. They say Major-General Sitwell may come from Bristol to direct the pursuit personally.”
“I’m surprised our excellent Pastor Fallam hasn’t caught him by now,” Lydde said. “He seems as tenacious as a terrier.”
“Don’t think he hasn’t tried,” Mother Bunch said. “But the Raven is too smart for him. Isn’t he, Mr. Soane?”
“He’s a sharp one,” Uncle John agreed.
On Monday morning, Lydde was set to run errands for Mother Bunch. She carried a basket and a list of items to obtain: cheese, oysters, potatoes, carrots, onions, turnips, flour. They would be treated to oyster stew for supper. Then there were needles and thread to be purchased, along with a new paring knife, writing parchment, and ink. It would be all she could carry as she headed to her interrogation.
“And you tell that Noah Fallam,” said Mother Bunch, “you must be home soon with those oysters before they go off, or I shall send him a bill to replace them.”
“Mother Bunch commands,” Uncle John said, and winked. He was packing a saddlebag for a day-long trip to visit the sick in the surrounding villages. Lydde walked with him to the stable.
“Something I haven’t told you,” he said. “The Raven knows he has friends here at Soane’s Croft. Sometimes I’m wakened in the middle of the night and called out to treat one of his men who suffered an injury during some skirmish or other. So don’t be surprised if it happens again. I’ve always been discreet, so I’ve earned the fellow’s gratitude.”
“Good Lord,” Lydde said, “are you up to that kind of risk?”
“Hey,” he said. “I took risks in World War II. Anyhow, lots of people here give the Raven’s men secret aid. And what do you want me to do? Go back to Roundbottom Farm and watch TV every night?”
“Sorry. I can see your point. So, what’s the Raven like? Is he cute?”
“Is he cute! What kind of question is that?”
“It’s a twenty-year-old’s question,” Lydde said. “I can look out for cute guys, can’t I? I want to meet this Raven.”
“Cute!” Uncle John said again with a snort. “I hate to disappoint you, but he goes around in a black hood, and even his own men don’t know who he is. It’s how he survives. So if he’s cute, nobody knows it.”
“Who could he be?”
“My guess is he’s a former soldier who got bored. Probably not from around here, a rootless sort who got addicted to adventure. There are lots of thieves in England just now.”
“Yes,” Lydde said, “who keep their plunder for themselves. But this one is different.”
“He is,” Uncle John admitted. Then a mischievous look crossed his face. “Tell you what. Next time the gang is in touch with me, I’ll set up a blind date.”
She punched him in the arm. “Stop making fun of me,” she said, and headed down the garden walk with her basket.
“Lewis!” Uncle John called after her.
She stopped without looking back.
“Walk like a guy.”
She took a deep breath, shook herself as though loosening her limbs, and began to stride.
AT the market she went from vendor to vendor, buying the items on Mother Bunch’s list. She liked purchasing vegetables from the stalls country people had set up, pressing coins into the palms of hands still dirty, their fingernails cracked and broken from the labor of harvesting. Most of them were tenants, Uncle John had explained, like the sharecroppers in the American South, eking out a pittance after paying tribute to their masters. These poor would be the ones who most benefited from the Raven’s activities.
Lydde saved the perishable oysters for last, making her purchase from a thin girl about Mary’s age who cast an obvious longing eye on the boy Lewis.
“What’s your name?” Lydde asked, not wanting to lead the girl on but anxious to show some human kindness.
“Gen,” said the girl with a slight curtsy. “And thank you for buying from us. ’Tis a scrimpy harvest this year and ten hungry young ones at home.”
The girl leaned toward Lydde as though trying to impart some hidden meaning. Lydde backed away and wandered on, aware the sun would soon be overhead and she must present herself to Noah Fallam. She was about to turn reluctantly toward the cathedral when the word Virginia caused her to pause near a crowd standing outside an alehouse.
“Ha’penny to see the snake!” a sailor was crying. “Straight from the wilds of Vir-gin-i-a! Poisonous snake! Look but don’t touch! Ha’penny a look!”
When someone handed over a coin, the sailor looked it over and thrust it in his pocket, then said with a grand manner, “Step back, now, all but the gent that paid. Step back.”
The small crowd fell back and the paying customer leaned over while the sailor lifted the lid of the barrel and poked inside it with a stick. A moment of quiet, then the lid was clapped back on and the sailor was back to his chanting, “Ha’penny to see the Virginia snake.”
Lydde pushed her way forward, holding up a coin. Mother Bunch, she knew, would not be pleased, and she would not be able to explain why she felt so compelled to view the creature. She did not like snakes, had unpleasant childhood memories of cowering in terror while Aunt Lavinia killed a copperhead that had invaded her potato patch. Yet this snake was from home.
“A brave lad!” the sailor said. And he lifted the lid with a flourish.
Lydde leaned forward. A copperhead rested in a bed of bran. It was lethargic, head barely moving. The sailor prodded the snake with a stick and it flinched and fell back, tongue flicking, unable even to coil. Lydde knew then that the snake was dying, that it had come captive across an ocean without sustenance.
“It needs food and water,” she said.
The sailor shrugged and clapped the lid back on the barrel.
She turned away, suddenly and sharply ill with sadness, more homesick than she had ever been during her years away from the New River. She wondered where the snake had been captured, how close to the mountains it had lived. She fought back tears as she headed toward the cathedral. Over thirty years she had stayed away from home, decades of living alone, of failed relationships, shutting down memories of blue mountain evenings beside the roiling river by refusing to miss anything or anyone, even Uncle John and Aunt Lavinia. Not thinking of her family, like everything else too easily lost.
She paused as tears slipped down her face, and wiped her cheeks with the heel of her hand. Poor snake. Poor Lydde. She was outside the cathedral, now deserted since no one was allowed to worship there, the same cathedral where she had made a tentative rapprochement to God in the twenty-first century. Now she had been flung up here in the seventeenth, the cathedral door padlocked to forbid entrance. Was that her answer? When she had mastered her tears, she trudged on across the close with her basket and presented herself at the door of Noah Fallam’s fortresslike residence. A thin young man opened the door and ushered her into a waiting room just off the entrance, said, “I’ll tell Pastor Fallam you are here,” and left her alone.
She waited in the silence. Then she heard a sound that caused her to lift her head in amazement, for it was not at all what she expected to hear. Farther down the hallway, in the gloom of the old building, someone was laughing. It was the clear, relaxed laugh of a man who was at that moment relishing life. And though it did not fit, she was certain that the laughter belonged to Noah Fallam.
THE servant, if such he was, reappeared soon after and ushered Lydde farther along the corridor to a small room, bare except for a table and chair. A large flat cross hung on one wall was the only decoration. Noah Fallam stood leaning against the table, arms folded across his chest.
“Well, well,” he said with a smirk. “The Irish boy.”
She longed to give him a swift kick to the groin. She made up her mind then. She would take no bullying from this odious man, and if he pressed too hard she would say good-bye to Uncle John and go strai
ght back to West Virginia.
“Mother Bunch says you should not keep me long,” she informed him coldly, “or the oysters will go off and you must repay her.”
He threw his head back and laughed at that, and was at once confirmed as the source of earlier merriment.
“You are having a jolly day,” she said.
“Indeed,” he answered. Then he came forward and grasped her by the wrist so suddenly she nearly dropped her basket. But he had anticipated that and took it from her, placing it on the table in one easy motion. He continued to grip her wrist tightly.
“You’re hurting me,” she protested.
He ignored this and pulled her hand closer.
“And how is your finger?” He made a show of examining it. “I should not want you to suffer because of my clumsiness yesterday. But it seems to be healing nicely. Good Mr. Soane will have seen to that.”
She glared at him for answer.
He dropped her hand then and sat himself behind the desk.
“You are unhappy with me,” he said. “Perhaps it was my sermon. I noted yesterday that you did not seem pleased by it. I wonder why.”
She thought he was simply baiting her, but he waited as though expecting an answer, so remembering her earlier resolve she said, “Your so-called sermon was nothing but narrow-minded fanaticism.”
“Ah!” He seemed not at all put out. “People do not speak such truths as I did in…Where did you say you were from?”
“Gloccamorra.” It sounded foolish now even to her, and she had to fight not to look away.
He nodded. “Gloccamorra. And what in particular did you find objectionable?”
“Your views of women, for one thing.”
He waited with eyebrows raised.
“Women are not weak,” she said in a rush. “They are not foolish, they think as well as feel, their minds are every bit as fine as a man’s, and they can do anything they set their minds to.”
Fallam's Secret Page 12
