The Messenger: Mortal Beloved Time Travel Romance, #1

by Pamela DuMond

  I tossed and turned in the black of night while memories of her flooded my brain. Until I told myself, enough, and looked up at the iridescent, nighttime stars that Dad had painted on my ceiling. I frowned. “Thank you for my beautiful book, Mama. But you shouldn’t have left. I will never forgive you for leaving,” I whispered, closed my eyes, and eventually fell asleep.

  Chapter 5

  “Now, you’re beyond hot,” Chaka said as she leaned back away from my face, holding a plump, blush brush in one hand.

  It was the next day. I looked at my reflection in the huge, brightly lit bathroom mirror at Chaka’s parents’ zillionaire condo in Trump Tower. I was dressed in a miniskirt with leggings, and wore skinny leather above-the-knee boots with sky-high heels. My top was an expensive skanky thing that sunk low on my chest and barely covered my butt. Hookerville, here I come.

  “I know you’re trying to cheer me up, but I don’t think this makeover works for me,” I said.

  Aaron thrust a black, leather bomber jacket at me. “Put this on,” he said. “It completes your bad girl look.”

  “I look like a cross between Amanda Seyfried, Amanda Knox, who I always believed was innocent, and a Miley Cyrus transvestite,” I said. “I want to go home.”

  “Not until you have some fun.” Chaka squeezed my arm. “My dad’s friend is having an invite-only party for his new art exhibit. His sons are smokin’. They’re twins, seniors at Latin School. I bet they’ll be there.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not feeling the party vibe.”

  “Hot twins and an art exhibit?” Aaron said. “Oh yes, you are.”

  “This is the best idea I’ve had in weeks.” Chaka rubbed her hands together.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Aaron, Chaka, and I were on the L train platform waiting on the train to go to a private party that probably had cute, smart guys that might change my mood from rotten to okay. I never rode the train; I hated it. The bus with its creepy overpass was bad enough.

  The L platforms towered high above the streets. They were completely fenced in so supposedly, you couldn’t fall off them down onto the sidewalks and onto the streets below. There were people of all ages and attires waiting to go somewhere. A few peered into the distance looking for their trains. Some sat calmly on the skinny benches under the thin, ugly, metal overhangs.

  Chaka wore D&G and looked stylish, as always. Aaron hadn’t changed clothes, just jacked upped his attitude. That seemed to work for him.

  I teetered on the too-tall boots, and smelled something sweet that I realized was the makeup slathered on my face. I blinked and tried to see past the false eyelashes Chaka had glued on my lids. There was no way this would be my new, standard, party look.

  A bunch of gang kids with tats, ratty clothes, and too many piercings bolted up the stairs to the platform, punching each other, swearing, talking trash, and laughing. I covered my ears with my hands.

  I didn’t make eye contact with them, but walked away toward the tracks. Other commuters did the same. Chaka and Aaron were debating something, and didn’t even register that I had slipped through the crowd, until I was fifteen feet down the platform.

  Two of the gang kids—a girl and a guy—started screaming at each other. A third kid, a tall guy pulled a knife and told them to knock it off, and save it for home turf.

  I looked around and saw three suits hitting 911 on their cells. The L train roared toward our station. Jeez, what had I gotten myself into? I should have just gone home.

  “Hey, it’s you isn’t it? Dressed a little differently, but it’s still you,” an older guy said. “I think I’d recognize you anywhere.”

  I spotted a glimpse of a man wearing a leather bomber jacket slipping away through the crowds. Right then, the gang dispute moved toward me, and suddenly, I was in the middle of it.

  “Oh, is she your biyatch, now?” A gang girl with spiked hair said and knuckle-jabbed me in the arm.

  “I don’t even know him.” I tried to back away. But someone yanked me from behind, and stopped me.

  The gang guy fighting with the girl leered at me, “She’s a finer piece than you.” He ran his finger across my cheek.

  My heart raced, and I felt my throat starting to close off. Please no, not another panic attack. Not two in two days.

  Chaka noticed. “Madeline! Just walk away from them.” She pushed her way through the crowd toward me. “You leave her alone!”

  I tried to step away. But I felt a hard shove in my ribs, which catapulted me sideways. I toppled off the L platform, and dropped toward the train tracks that lay yards below. I had no air in my lungs to scream but others did.

  Through the chaos I heard a woman whisper, “Madeline.”

  She sounded so calm and familiar. But that didn’t matter when my butt hit the gravel next to the concrete wall and a shock of pain blasted up my spine. I felt a pop behind my right shoulder blade, and it took my breath away.

  The woman said, “Madeline. Come to me.” Her message was drowned out by the screech from the oncoming train.

  I lay on the gravel next to the tracks, as voices and sounds swirled around me. Time slowed down like freeze frames in a download that wasn’t tracking properly. This was nothing like my accident when I was six-years-old, and I blacked out.

  I was wide awake, heard a piercing whistle, and knew a train was approaching. I tried to swivel my neck to see how far away it was. Not a good idea. My neck and back muscles spasmed something awful, and fiery sensations shot through my back, arms, and legs. My body locked, and I couldn’t really move; I felt like I was caught within a cage. Out of the corner of my eyes I spotted the L train blasting down the tracks, headed straight toward me.

  Guess everyone had a time to die. Since I’d skipped death ten years ago, this was most likely my time. Maybe getting run over by a train wouldn’t hurt that much, if I was already numb from my fall. Maybe, I should pray for that to happen. So, I did. That’s when everything shot to black.

  Chapter 6

  I woke up feeling like death on toast. My head felt like someone had stuck a hundred tiny knives into my brain. Every inch of my body ached, and my eyelids were heavy—like they had been glued shut. I probably had the worst flu imaginable.

  I was on my stomach, lying on something rough and scratchy. I bet Dad had tucked me into bed with one of his favorite Mexican artisan woolen blankets. I loved the beauty of the patterns, as well as the devotion and care that went into their craftsmanship. But, I was allergic to wool, and they made me itch—which Dad always forgot.

  I wiggled my fingers, and opened my eyes: everything was blurry. A chicken high-stepped in front of me, and we made eye contact. Odd. First, ’cause I haven’t had a meaningful moment with a chicken unless it was seasoned with herbs de Provence’, baked and sitting next to some steamed vegetables on a plate in front of me. Second, because the hen and I were on the same level, both lying on an outdoor dirt ground interrupted with chewed-up pieces of grass. Well, I was lying, but the hen was walking.

  The chicken stared at me, blinked and clucked like a worried mom. She apparently had other pressing concerns to attend to, so she abandoned me and strutted past more people scattered on the ground.

  One was a thin, young woman collapsed on her stomach. A long skirt was bunched up over her knees, and her legs were covered in weird, white, puffy leggings. She wore a long-sleeved shirt, and a little white cap shoved onto one side of her head. White cap?

  I shut my eyes, exhausted. I couldn’t place this woman. I’d never seen her at school, or in any neighborhood I’d been in. Maybe she was a dream or a delusion. Possibly a character in an old movie I’d been watching before I fell asleep. I blinked, opened my eyes and the woman with the white cap was still in my peripheral vision. I turned my head toward her, and my vision focused.

  Her pretty face was twisted at an odd angle, and her eyes stared frozen into mine. Her shirt buttoned all the way to her throat was caked in dark red, drying blood, probably due
to the fact that her neck was nearly severed. She was dead.

  I hyperventilated, and my stomach heaved. I rolled onto my side, and vomited. I felt so embarrassed and wiped my mouth. I pushed myself up to my elbows, glanced around and spotted more people, probably close to ten total—children, adults—all dressed in similar, strange outfits lying twisted and torqued on the ground close by me. Where was I?

  Most of the men were dead with gaping holes in their chests. Several women and children looked like they were stabbed with knives or hatchets. An older guy even had crispy, burnt pants and sleeves. I caught a glimpse of his arm. It was red and blistered. He didn’t care because he wasn’t breathing. They all were broken, bloody, and definitely dead.

  I pushed myself to sitting, and winced in pain as my head throbbed. Something white and red hung in front of my eyes. I pulled the annoying thing off—it was a small, white cap covered in blood, just like the cap on the woman with the severed neck.

  But this was my bloody cap. Bile rose in my throat. I gagged, and flung it as far away from me as possible.

  I’ve had lots of nightmares in my life. Dreams of the car chase that led up to the car accident where Mama disappeared, and funky, psychedelic dreams about those stained glass skylights at Preston Academy. The dreams didn’t usually make any sense, but this one had to be one of the worst ever: this dream felt so real.

  The broken earth rubbed against my skin, and penetrated my pores. The leaves and grass underneath my body were scratchy. The smell of burning wood made my nose twitch. I sneezed and coughed.

  I jammed my hands down the sides of my body searching for my anti-anxiety drugs, but couldn’t find the bottle. What happened to my pockets? I had no pockets. I hyperventilated and tried to remember to breathe slow and relaxed, like in yoga: calm, deep breaths in, soothing, deep breaths out. That’s when I spotted the fiery remains of a small, rustic cabin squatted on a low hill in the near distance. I started shaking.

  Flames flared through this tiny, wooden structure. Embers floated up into the air like fireflies twinkling just above my head at my grandparents’ place in the Wisconsin countryside during a late, Indian summer. But I didn’t think this was Wisconsin.

  I pushed myself off the ground, and stumbled like a drunken person toward the cabin. Maybe I could help someone in there. Maybe someone could help me. “Hello?” I said. But nothing came out of my mouth, and no one answered me.

  I wiped away a few tears, saw blood on my hands and realized the cut on the right side of my head extended down into my forehead. It had bled through my hair and was seeping into my eye. “Is there anyone here?” I yelled. Again, apparently I was yelling to myself.

  I put a hand to my mouth. My lips moved, but I couldn’t talk. No sounds came out of my mouth. Why? What the hell was wrong with me?

  There was a dark, dense forest about twenty yards from the rear of the torched, smoldering cabin. I squinted through the smoky air, and wiped my eyes. Where was I? Was I back at the Chicago Neurological Foundation where they tried to diagnose my anxiety after Mama disappeared? Was I heavily medicated on major anti-psychotics, and institutionalized someplace with locked doors, gates, and guards? Had I finally lost it for good?

  I closed my eyes, and sat back on the ground. Maybe if I took a moment to center and calm myself, this crazy show playing in my head would disappear. I visualized myself tucked into bed, looking up at my ceiling at the glow stars and iridescent maps of the world that Dad had painted up there for me to look at when I couldn’t sleep. After a few moments, I felt calmer and opened my eyes.

  The same dead people lay on the ground and the cabin continued to simmer. A frustrated cry escaped my lips, and I wiped my tears away with my bloodstained, muddied, long sleeve. Then I realized—I had a voice. It was bare bones basic, but it was a voice.

  In the distance I heard a worried, adult female shout, “Abigail?”

  I didn’t know who Abigail was, but I’d love to see a friendly person right about now. “Yes!” I said, but couldn’t quite get the word out of my mouth. Like, I still didn’t know how to work this mouth, this voice.

  “Abigail, we are coming for thee!” the woman said. Whoever she was couldn’t get here soon enough.

  That’s when I first saw him.

  He looked about my age, with strong cheekbones and black, shiny hair that swept onto his shoulders. He wore a long, tanned, animal hide shirt and loose pants. He was tall, muscular, stunning. He also looked very much alive. I really liked the alive part.

  He and another big, built, young man skirted the remains of the torched cabin and headed toward the forest. The other guy also had black hair, but his skin was caramel, and he wore old-fashioned pilgrim breeches and a plain shirt. They carried bows and arrows. The one clutched a knife. They both looked hard and tough like rebels or even the punks on the el platform.

  The young man with the strong cheekbones scanned the scene. His gaze was intense, especially when it landed on me. His hazel eyes regarded me with coldness, disdain. I had no idea why. He looked dangerous, but not like a killer. There was something different about him that I couldn’t explain. He nodded at me once, turned, and followed the other guy into the forest.

  And left me with all the dead people.

  Except for the woman who kept calling for Abigail. I spotted her. She was pretty, young, and accompanied by two men, one older and one younger. They were dressed in strange, colonial attire, and crouched low to the ground as they crept up the hill toward the cabin and me.

  The woman paused next to a body of a girl lying on her stomach. The woman bit her lip so hard I thought she’d draw blood. “Abigail?” she asked.

  The older man kneeled in the dirt, and turned the girl’s body over. “She’s dead, Mistress. They’re all dead,” he said.

  The woman grimaced, leaned over, and smoothed back the blood-caked hair that covered the dead girl’s face. She looked relieved, then embarrassed. “’Tis not Abigail.” She gently shut the dead girl’s eyes with her hand. “Go to God.”

  “Mistress Elizabeth.” The older man pushed himself back to standing. “I pray that your cousin is alive. But you are in grave danger here. Daniel will escort you back to the garrison. I will look for Abigail.”

  Elizabeth jutted her chin out, determined. “Most of our men are days’ journey away fighting this war. I am not a foolish woman, and do not for one second believe we are that much safer at the garrison, either.” She stood up incredibly tall and stared down the man who challenged her.

  “But we are in the middle of a war, as these bodies and burnt buildings attest to.” He gestured broadly. “I swore an oath to King Charles II, whom I have never met, to fight this war and protect this land. I promised your husband, General Jebediah Ballard, whom I have fought next to in battle, dined with and respect deeply, that I would keep you, his wife, safe from harm.”

  “Abigail is my cousin,” Elizabeth said. “Dead or alive, I will find her. Only then will I return to the garrison.” She scrutinized the area. “Abigail?” she hollered.

  Elizabeth looked so nice, so sweet, and I really needed a friend. Even if this was only a dream, I wanted a friend. So I made a decision.

  “Yes,” I said and the word came out of my mouth garbled. I lifted my arm off the dirt, high up in the air to get Elizabeth’s attention. But she was already turning in my direction.

  Her hand clasped her chest and she froze for a second. And melted just as quickly. “Abigail!” Elizabeth raced toward me, maneuvering around dead bodies, singed grass, smoldering bales of hay, a small, wooden wagon that was tipped over on its side. “Abigail!” She skidded to a stop, and awkwardly fell onto her knees next to me.

  “It is a miracle you are alive!” She burst into tears, and threw her arms around me. “I knew it. I felt it in my soul. God wouldn’t let you die. You had to be here.” She hugged me tight.

  Her embrace filled me with joy, but practically killed my back and my ribs. I winced.

  Elizabeth understood a
nd released me slowly back to the earth. She frowned and fussed over me. “Your head is bleeding. I need to see your wound.” She smoothed my bloody hair back from my forehead. “It is deep, but I believe if we use the doctor’s medicine, it will heal just right,” she said. “Where else do you have pain?”

  I tried to shrug my shoulders, but that hurt too, so I stopped. “I’m okay, I think.” I didn’t tell Elizabeth that this moment only existed in my dream; that the next minute we might be wearing tutus, eating cupcakes at some cute bakery, and dishing about guys. This definitely wasn’t the time to tell her that.

  Elizabeth’s male guardians arrived and stared at me, relieved but worried.

  “William.” Elizabeth pointed at the older man. “Give Abigail water.” He did. Elizabeth propped me up, as I sipped from a small metal cup. “When I heard the rumors that Philip’s warriors attacked the Endicott settlement, I went mad with worry,” she said. “Dearest cousin, I prayed you were alive.” She blinked, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “My prayers are answered because here you are, Abigail. You are the only one alive. God has plans for you.”

  Even though this was a terrible nightmare, Elizabeth was kind.

  “Thank you for rescuing me,” I said and stopped talking, because even I heard those words exit my mouth. They were quiet words, but sounded normal. At least I wasn’t some daft mute in this dream.

  “I’m really sorry, but…” I put my hand to my head where it throbbed like crazy. “I’m not sure where I am.”

  “You have been through a distressing ordeal. I cannot imagine what you have seen.” She motioned to the young man behind her. “Daniel hand me the medicinals.” He gave her a flask.

  She leaned back toward me with the tin cup re-filled with water. “Drink this. You are safe for now,” she said. “But we need to leave here quickly.”

  I glanced around; saw all the dead, twisted bodies and the burning cabin. I looked up into the sky that had puffs of smoke and birds flying through them cawing to each other, like old friends saying hello. How could all these birds be so calm during this bloodbath?