The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1)

by Darrell Newton

  When Francisco returned from the barn, he found Uncle Bernat asleep at the table. Without a second thought, Francisco snatched the sack with the stone, grabbed the paste-sacks, tucked them into his bedroll, and ran out of the house, vowing never to return.

  Chapter 3

  Miyuki

  Miyuki

  Mountains of Kettei, Nippon

  May 12, 1184

  “TIME TRAVEL IS POSSIBLE, and it will destroy the universe.” Magistrate Angelo let his words resonate for Miyuki. They stood alone at the top of the Akio waterfall next to a modest Buddhist shrine. Cherry blossoms drifted in the sweet-scented breeze like snowflakes. The waterfall roared over the cliff’s edge, and skylarks sang above. The world was in complete harmony except for his words.

  “How?” Miyuki asked.

  “My people have traveled back and forth through time, but it comes at a great cost. Our footsteps could destroy the heavens and the earth.” His eyes measured her soul, but she held his gaze. He was more than an old man. He was ancient, older he claimed than any ancestor she knew, yet his hair still had a touch of dark brown, his skin was wrinkled but not blotchy or sagging, and his eyes! They were clear and as bright as a child’s. He had those wide eyes that marked him as a gaijin, a foreigner—not brown like everyone else she knew, but colored deep green as jade. “You don’t believe me,” he said. “After all you have seen, Miyuki, you still don’t believe.”

  “Please forgive me. I believe you, Angelo Tenishi-san,” she said, not wanting to offend her husband’s adviser. “I am a woman, barely twenty years old, and you are an honored elder, but would this walking in time not be confusing and rude?”

  He laughed. “How can time travel be rude?”

  “One should not walk into the middle of a tea ceremony,” she explained, “but experience the unfolding of the ritual’s beauty from beginning to end.”

  “Indeed,” he said, “traveling back in time is more than rude. It devastates.”

  “How is walking back to yesterday possible?”

  A mischievous smile tugged at his lips and eyes. “For my people, many things are possible.” He stepped to the edge of the cliff and looked down the waterfall. The shallow water rushed around his feet and over smooth rock before it fell in cascades to the forest below. Had it been anyone else, Miyuki would have reached out and urged him away from the danger, but she restrained herself.

  Angelo surveyed the landscape. In this early spring morning, a fog hugged the evergreens below, making Miyuki feel as if they were above the constant conflict and already leaving her homeland. She looked to her right to make sure they were still alone, and there stood a reminder of peace within the fray: the empty shrine with its multi-tiered roof shadowing a place of meditation.

  Angelo turned to face her. “We are traveling through time right now. Time rushes by like this river,” he said and took a step forward. “Forward time travel is … natural.” He took two more quick steps forward. “Even accelerated forward time travel is possible, but only the Avarians3 of old learned how to go back.” He took a step backwards toward the edge, his eyes locked onto hers. He took another step backward.

  Miyuki caught her breath. She had lost her husband in battle not yet a week ago. She would not let his most trusted adviser slip to a careless death.

  He took another step backward.

  She held out a hand, pleading. “If I have offended you—”

  He lifted his leg to step back off the cliff. She lurched forward, extending her hand; the frigid water rushed over her feet and between her toes. “No!” She screamed. Too late. He stepped off the edge. She pulled up short—a cowardly act—but there would be no saving him. The rock was slick, and she would perish with him. But no. He stood on the same level as she did even though his feet touched only air. Droplets lifted slowly around him only to drift away at arm’s distance and fall to the valley below.

  She realized she too had been standing in air. She jumped back to the cliff. Her heart pounded as she searched for breath. She had seen Angelo heal a man with a deep sword wound in less time than it took to dress it. She had heard him advise her husband of unseen enemies, and she had known him to appear in distant cities overnight when it would take the fastest horseman four days, but she had never seen command over the elements such as this.

  Angelo stepped back on to the cliff; the water fell from his feet. “If you take the oath of the Sittiri,” he said, “you shall jump forward in time with dozens of others chosen from this century from distant lands. You shall train with them to fight the Key’ari.”4

  Having found her breath, she asked, “Can I step back in time and save my husband?”

  “No. That would cause great evil. Our master Minamoto no Yoshinaka is dead. Going back is what has caused the rifts we Sittiri try to mend.”

  A flood of emotion almost overwhelmed her: the desire for revenge and justice. She held back tears that would show weakness, but her trembling lips betrayed her. “Are these the same Key’ari who started the Genpei War?” she asked him.

  “Yes, and by their aid your husband is dead, his father’s lands forfeited, thousands have died, and we enter a new era of warlords.”

  She nodded. “But please pardon my ignorance. You say the Key’ari create wars to make a better world?”

  He held up a finger to clarify. “They believe they’re creating a better world. They not only use wars, but whatever it takes to change history to create an elusive golden age. Sadly, in trying to remake the world, they are destroying it.”

  Miyuki realized she stood on a precipice, not only for the water, but for her life. She would forfeit the way of a Samurai to become something more. Was it truly a sacrifice? Yoshinaka’s enemy now led her late husband’s clan. In good conscience, she could not stay to fight for his honor. She looked up into Angelo’s deep green eyes and made a binding oath:

  “This day I walk away from my life.

  I forfeit my family, my clan, my nation,

  that I might save them.

  Today I become a sacrifice.”

  Chapter 4

  Francisco

  Toledo

  Summer, Year of our Lord 1211

  388 Days on the Streets

  FRANCISCO KNEW THE SOUNDS all too well, quick and sharp: fist to flesh, flesh to stone, boot to gut, grunts. He cringed. He felt each blow as if it was to his own body. The Matóns had jumped a boy about his own age, demanding coin. Francisco watched, hidden in the deepest shadows with his hood almost covering his eyes.

  Why are they so cruel this time? Is it the moon? Did the Matóns lose a fight with another gang? Was it something this boy did or said? No. I watched him walk into the alley. He didn’t get into their stash. He was only in their territory … at night. The fool.

  Francisco wanted to do more to help the boy, but the Matóns were older and larger, and outnumbered him. Francisco could run to get help from the alguazil,5 the one who was supposed to catch the criminals, but he and the alguazil were on bad terms since some bald butcher accused him of stealing. Francisco could either walk away and forget about the boy, or he could heal him after the Matóns were done. That’s what Papa would do, and the only danger in healing was if the boy saw the stone or asked questions.

  Lingering in shadows, he waited for the chance to set things right. Even though he had never seen the boy before, Francisco felt compelled to help him. Why not? Francisco had survived on the streets for over a year, keeping to the shadows. How long would he stay hidden? He had inherited the healing stone, and there may be only one in the whole world. He had never heard of another. If that was the case, then he would be selfish not to heal. And what would Papa say about me then? He bent down and pulled the stone from his boot. Rubbed it with his thumb, feeling its rough surface for an indentation. None. He held it up in the dim light. No hungry mark. A tepid breeze wafted through the refuse-covered streets. In memory of the sultry day, the stone walls radiated heat like a blacksmith’s furnace. The meager glow of the wan
ing moon, the fading twilight, and a handful of second-story windows cast the only light in this back alley. It was a narrow corridor, walled on each side by buildings with irregularly placed windows and doors. The alley sloped down sharply behind Francisco, and in front of him it intersected a wider alley where they beat the boy.

  Stupid boy.

  The Matóns were led by Ramon, who was two years older than he was and had a round, flat face with lazy eyes that watched for weakness. His only skills were the size of his fists and his insight into vulnerability.

  Francisco could have joined the Matóns—could have hid among them or used their strength to scare Uncle Bernat when he came looking for him—but he didn’t like what they did: the jumping, thieving, and threatening. He couldn’t see himself doing that no matter how ravenous or scared he was. So, he watched them from the shadows and kept the stone hidden in a slot in his boot. The edge of the stone stuck out so when he tilted his foot and pressed, the stone would touch the arch of his foot, and he could heal himself by reciting the Hebrew prayer.

  Sometimes the Matóns, or one of the other three gangs, found and stole his stash of food: biscuits, a little cabbage, never meat. If he was lucky enough to find meat, he ate it on the spot. Five times he wandered into their territory—with the shifting alliances, it was hard telling where their boundaries were day to day—and they jumped him, beat him half to death. Each time, this Ramon was there. Once their bloodlust was satisfied and they left him, he would shift his foot until it pressed against the stone and recite the Hebrew prayer, healing himself.

  Francisco wanted to do more than heal their next victim. He thought of himself running up behind Ramon and pushing him over. He saw himself kicking the Matón. Hard. Three, four times. The vicious thought fired off dark parts of his soul that both scared and thrilled him. He smothered the thoughts as quickly as they ignited. It would not honor his mother. Do no harm, lest you break the charm.

  Out of a second-floor window, someone spilled a pot into the alley. The fresh scent of urine told Francisco it was a chamber pot, against the rules, but common. At least the breeze wasn’t from the tanneries tonight. He never got a good night’s sleep with a west wind.

  They kept beating the boy. A bone cracked. Not a rib. Couldn’t hear that from here. A leg? No, an arm. Definitely an arm. At least the boy can walk. They would kill the boy. Francisco could wait no longer. He stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight to face the Matóns.

  “If you’re looking for someone to hit,” he said, “then hit me!”

  They ignored Francisco and kept hitting and kicking the kid.

  “Stop!” Francisco yelled. He couldn’t hold back. He would never hold back like his father did when he had let his mother die.

  The Matóns stopped and turned. The walls seemed to close in on Francisco. Run. Run now. Was this the voice of reason or cowardice? Francisco refused the voice. He could take the beating. The stone will heal me, but I cannot heal the new boy if they kill him.

  A door opened between Francisco and the Matóns, spilling amber light across the alley and giving filth definition. A head peeked out, saw the Matóns, and slid back. The door closed. It latched.

  Ramon stepped forward. He stood a head taller than the others and held a rock in his hand. It shimmered with something dark and wet in the moonlight. Whiskers protruded in splotches on his face in want of a manly beard.

  “Oh,” Ramon said, “it’s only you, Rat. You need another beating? Huh? Return to your hole. This is man’s work.”

  Running will draw them away from the boy.

  Francisco held up his hands. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was you, Ramon. With your little mustache, I thought you were your mother.”

  Ramon dropped the rock and came at Francisco.

  Francisco turned and bolted. He plunged through the streets, heart pounding, boots slipping in refuse, mind calculating the best turn. Daylight had given over to the power of the night. Details in shadows were seen only at the corner of vision. He knew the streets, but his good hiding spots were behind him. He hopped over a barrel, lost balance, and sprawled onto the ground. His breath knocked out, he turned to see Ramon running up with the two other Matóns.

  Francisco flipped over and scrambled, but a club-sized fist grabbed him by the collar. Ramon punched him hard in the gut. With strength fueled by desperation and rage, Ramon lifted Francisco off the ground and thrust him against the wall. Francisco’s legs kicked as his tunic dug into his arm pits. Ramon wrapped his fingers around Francisco’s neck and squeezed. Francisco’s first reaction was to kick Ramon in the ribs, but he easily suppressed the urge given his years of rehearsing, Do no harm, lest you break the charm. He mentally cursed the stone. One kick could free him.

  “Give me that thing you dropped last night,” Ramon demanded, “and I’ll let you go.”

  Francisco said nothing, but glanced through darkening vision at the other Matóns, who glared back at him with eyes greedy. Did he see me heal that man last night? Did he see the stone? Squeezing his eyes shut, Francisco prayed that the blow to his head would come swiftly so he could feign unconsciousness.

  Instead of striking, Ramon dropped him and cursed, “Que Hostia! Will you have us starve? Is that what you want? Huh?” Francisco huddled against the wall, curled up with his hands protecting his head. The Matón kicked him hard in the ribs. The others laughed.

  Francisco, with his eyes tightly shut and dreading the next kick, felt like he was living back with his uncle. The memories were so vivid that he half expected to hear his uncle’s drunken rant, an exaggerated reason for beating him, the smell of beer on his breath.

  Ramon kicked him harder. “Yield, you greedy little—”

  “Hold your wrath!”

  Francisco peered through trembling eyelids to see the new boy, his face and shirt dark with blood; his left eye swollen shut; and his right arm held bent at his chest. He stood half way down the alley under an arch, feet planted firmly and issuing commands as if he were the alguazil himself.

  Daft but brave.

  The alley was narrow with witnesses too few, too apathetic, or too timid to intervene. If this boy expected his defiance to draw sympathy or support this late into the night, he would not get it.

  With a nod from Ramon, the other Matóns pursued the boy, who, now realizing the quiet streets of Toledo were dumb as well as deaf, turned to flee, hesitated, then headed the other way into a blind alley. Ramon chuckled, grabbed Francisco by the collar, and dragged him toward the alley. Francisco’s collar choked him. He tasted blood and dust, and felt the grind of hard earth under his trousers. He tried resisting. He tried kicking, then tried tripping Ramon as he walked, but he lacked the leverage to make it effective. At the end of the blind alley, Ramon slowed down enough for Francisco to scramble to his feet, but Ramon’s grip was too strong, and he wrapped his other arm around Francisco’s neck. They stood before the new boy, who was pinned to the ground by the other Matóns.

  “Now,” Ramon said slowly. “Yield that thing you used, lest we dispatch your friend.”

  “He is not my friend,” Francisco gasped. In truth, he had never met the boy. Regardless, it felt wrong to say it. He cringed with a sense of betrayal, even though he hoped this denial would save the boy.

  “Liar!” Ramon’s arm tightened and Francisco’s vision grew dark.

  “It’s true,” Francisco gasped. Then his vision failed and darkness overtook him.

  Francisco woke to the rancid odor of the blind alley. Night had given way to the first light of day. Dazed and unsure of the hour, he listened for returning feet or nearby fights. Nothing other than the skitter-scraping sound of a rat running alongside a wall. Francisco knew he had to move soon. Shop owners living above their shops would be waking before long and discover him. His ribs hurt, he couldn’t breathe deeply, and his arm—is it broken? It feels like it. When did that happen? Before Ramon held me to the wall or after the boy—the boy, where is the boy? Francisco turned and saw
him on the ground not far from where the Matóns had pinned him. He wasn’t moving. Francisco pried off his boot. The effort must have applied some stress on his injured arm and he winced. He looked inside his boot for the healing stone. Relieved. The Matóns didn’t find it. He forced himself up with his good arm, staggered over to the boy, and felt for his breath. He was breathing, barely. He would need to be healed first. Using his tunic, and careful not to touch it with his bare fingers, Francisco withdrew the stone. If he touched it, then he would be healed first and the stone may be too hungry to heal the boy.

  With utmost care, he placed the stone on the exposed skin of the boy’s forearm and uttered the words, “Bekori aneini Elohei Tziddki batzar hirchavta li choneini u’shema tefillati.” A moment passed, enough time to take in two breaths, and the boy stirred. Francisco knocked the stone off the boy’s arm. It looked like any other rock on the ground. The boy’s eyes opened wide, he gasped, and sat straight up. He looked around and up at Francisco. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Francisco.”

  “The one on the wall?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you not fight back?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Cannot or will not?” the boy asked.

  “Why did you come back and defend me? They nearly killed you.”

  The boy blinked. “That is the valiant thing to do. That is what El Cid would have said.”

  “You’re no El Cid. He’s not daft enough to walk into their—” Francisco gestured with his hands, but reeled back in pain.

  “Ha, see? I am fine. You, sir, have a broken arm.”

  “What arm?”

  “That one, the one that has a bend in the middle.” The boy drew in a sharp breath, his lips curling back. “Oy! You are gravely wounded.”

  Francisco twisted to hide his arm. “Leave me for a moment, please.”

  “Why? They might return, and like El Cid, I shall vanquish—”