The Messenger: Mortal Beloved Time Travel Romance, #1

by Pamela DuMond

  Every single day I had to wrap my head around the crazy fact that I was still here, living in a freaky, colonial garrison during a war I’d never even heard of. Although I did get an earful about King Philip and his family.

  His dad, Massasoit, was the Wampanoag Native chief who welcomed the colonists to America years earlier. He even celebrated the first Thanksgiving with them. He managed to keep the peace with the colonists for years, and apparently handed them a lot of land during that time.

  When Massasoit died, his eldest son Alexander became chief. He was young, strong, and the colonists didn’t trust him to keep the peace. They captured and questioned him. But by the time they released him he was terribly sick, and died on his way back home. Just about every Native on the east coast believed the colonists had poisoned and killed Alexander.

  His brother, Philip, became chief. But after that, there really was no peace. Just compromise and suspicion.

  Elizabeth and her crew made me do Abigail’s regular chores: churning butter, spinning wool and making candles. When it quickly became obvious I had no talents in all these departments, (although the butter churning thing could be a great upper body sculpting work-out if properly updated,) I was demoted to simpler tasks—like carrying firewood, stirring stews, feeding the chickens, and sweeping floors.

  On the days Elizabeth taught the children, I was supposed to help out by keeping an eye on them. Considering everyone in this garrison thought I was whacked from the attack, apparently I was supposed to keep my crazy eye on them.

  Thanks to Angeni, I could now stir a fire and keep it going. Slamming! If I were really lucky, my upcoming SATs would include questions on all these subjects.

  I’d been at the garrison for about ten days when my “sick girl” reprieve was over, and I had to be interviewed by the Reverend Wilkins.

  Elizabeth made me put on a very proper dress (translation: the ugliest dress ever) and marched me down through the village across the commons to the church.

  A couple of townspeople stared at us because I was still the subject of local gossip. I’d already guessed that Abigail wasn’t the nicest person in the world. So they were pretty curious to see what had become of her. And what became of her was, unfortunately, me. Sorry Abigail. (Note to Self: Karma’s a bear.)

  Elizabeth and I stood in front of the church. It was a wooden structure, bigger than the garrison’s houses and huts. It was located close to the commons, not too far from the stocks and other tools of punishment.

  She leaned toward me and tucked a few wisps of my hair back under my white cap.

  “Do I have to do this?” I whispered.

  “Yes. The Reverend keeps asking everyone I know about you,” she said. “’Has Abigail recovered? Is she still righteous? What if the demons claimed Abigail’s soul during the Endicott attack?’ The questions are exhausting.”

  “Tell him to stand in line, and take a number. Lots of people have asked about me before,” I said. “What’s the worst they can say?”

  Elizabeth frowned. “They can say the only reason you are living is because you are a spy for King Philip or that you are a witch. They’ll hang you for both.”

  “Oh.” It seemed being labeled different wasn’t trouble-free in any year. People would make your life a living hell in the year I came from. But in the year 1675, they would torture and kill you.

  “So if I tell this Reverend guy what he wants to hear?” I asked. “Will this make life easier for us?”

  “Yes, absolutely,” Elizabeth replied. “I know things have not been simple for you since the attack. Reverend Wilkins is very smart. I do not ask you to lie to him.” She looked me in the eyes. And then glanced quickly away.

  She totally wanted me to lie to him. Assure the Reverend I was Abigail. After ten years of having panic attacks, and awful anxiety, the white lies came a little easier.

  “Miss, you’re on the floor of a Bloomingdale’s dressing room. Do you want me to call an ambulance?” the store clerk asked when I was twelve and lying smack-dab on my stomach after a panic attack.

  I looked up at her and didn’t blink an eye. “Oh gosh, no. I’m just looking for my contact lens.”

  Now I peered at Elizabeth. She bit her lower lip, just like I did when I was nervous.

  “Do you think you can do this, Abigail?”

  I thought about Stanley Preston and what a tool he was. I would deal with the Reverend. “Piece of cake.” I squeezed her hand.

  * * *

  We walked into the tiny church filled with a few hard, wooden pews, an aisle that ran up the middle, and a narrow, wooden pulpit about two steps up in the front.

  Reverend Wilkins was waiting to interview me. He was that tall, skinny guy with the silver, greasy hair I nearly took out during my escape attempt in the garrison’s commons.

  “Come here, young lady,” he commanded, and gestured briskly toward him.

  “Yes, Reverend Wilkins.” I looked at Elizabeth, who nodded.

  I walked up the short aisle. We stood face to face. Not good because he had really bad breath. Did they even have dentists here?

  He pushed my hair back and examined the pink scab on my forehead. “Hmm,” he said. “Your gash heals. What is your name?”

  “Abigail Endicott.”

  “What year is it?”

  “1675,” I said.

  He frowned. “Who is our sovereign King?”

  “Our King is…” Oh dang, I didn’t know that one. “King Simon Cowell the First.” The former American Idol judge was English after all.

  Reverend Wilkins glared at me squint-eyed. But I had answered two out of his three questions correctly. “King Charles II,” he said.

  “King Cowell, King Charles. I’ve been mussed up a bit lately. You are so smart, Reverend Wilkins. You knew what I meant to say.” And for some reason—I curtseyed.

  Elizabeth pinched my arm and covered a smile. Then she frowned and composed herself into a proper, uptight, colonial woman.

  The Reverend harrumphed. “I am keeping an eye on you, Abigail.”

  “Yes, sir, your holiness, sir,” I said.

  His eyes narrowed. “We are not those unholy Catholics.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes practically rolled back in her head. I’d screwed up again, as my parents raised me in the non-denominational church of God Loves You whoever your God is.

  “What’s a Catholic?” I widened my eyes innocently.

  Reverend Wilkins looked constipated and mumbled something. “I trust you will be attending services this Sunday?”

  Elizabeth and I answered in unison, “Yes.”

  “Thank you Reverend Wilkins,” she said and took my arm. “Thank you very much for your time.”

  * * *

  We exited the church ladylike and proper. We held our heads high and walked so slowly that all we needed was a casket to complete our funeral procession.

  As soon as we were out of his sight, Elizabeth grabbed my hand. “Follow me.” We tromped around the back of the church, passed some tiny houses, and entered an area lined with rickety, lean-to stables and small muck-filled pastures occupied by a few thin cows, chickens, and some goats.

  She dropped my hand and peeked around—there were no people in sight. She lifted the bottom of her skirt up several inches off the ground. “If there are no persons present, I usually lift my dress up a little when we go through this part of the village,” she said. “That way, I do not have to wash it soon thereafter.”

  “Got it.” I hiked my skirt over my knees and followed her.

  Elizabeth glanced back at me, looked horrified and stifled a giggle. “No! Not above your knees, above your ankles. You are not allowed to show your knees.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “No. Was all the sense knocked from your brain during that attack?”

  “Maybe some sense got knocked into Abigail’s brain,” I said. “You colonial people need to lighten up.”

  “Right now you are a colonial woman,
” she said. “I don’t know if the Abigail I knew will ever come back. But the Abigail that you are now needs a place to relax. Where you can think, breathe, and escape from all the eyes that stare upon you.”

  She led me to a dilapidated barn. A bigger barn door was closed and latched. She pushed open a short, tiny door next to it, and we ducked down to enter.

  * * *

  It was pretty dark inside, and it took a few moments for me to see clearly. The barn was a small, earthy, musty space filled with a few, thin bales of hay, some stalls, a horse, and a goat.

  She stuck her hand in a bucket and then walked over to a stall halfway down the only aisle in this shack. She petted the head of a large, chestnut brown horse with a thick, black mane. “Hello, my friend,” she said and let the horse eat from her hand. “Good appetite, Nathan. Are you feeling better today?” He flicked his tail while Elizabeth stroked his mane with her other hand.

  For some reason Mama had insisted I take riding lessons when I was young. Those stopped after the accident. These gorgeous animals seemed too tall, big, skittish, and made me nervous. I didn’t even volunteer at horse rescues. I stuck with the dogs and cats at the animal shelters.

  But Nathan was stunning. I grabbed two handfuls of oats from the bucket. “Do you think he would let me feed him?”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Is Reverend Wilkins an arse?” We giggled.

  I held the flat of my hand out to Nathan who tickled my palm with his lips as he nibbled. When his huge tooth grazed my hand, I yanked it away. The horse looked at me and I swear, he rolled his eyes and quietly harrumphed.

  “Go on now,” Elizabeth said. “Nathan is a good horse. He will not bite you. Give him what’s left in your hand. Everyone deserves a second chance.”

  I held my palm out to the horse again, closed my eyes, and stiffened my shoulders as his lips grazed my skin.

  “I know you are still healing and have these outbursts,” Elizabeth said. “I realize this has been a difficult time. But I have been tough with you for a reason.”

  “Explain, please?” I asked.

  “When your mother decided to re-marry, and move back to England with your brother, you refused to go. You were thirteen-years-old but you declared you would not step one foot on that ship,” she said.

  This was definitely Abigail’s life memory, not mine. But I needed to know it. “Tell me the story, Elizabeth.” Nathan bumped my empty hand for more food and Elizabeth suddenly looked sad. “Please tell me the story, again,” I said.

  She lumbered back to the feed bucket. Seemed like her pregnant belly grew bigger every day. “You said you felt like you had important things to do here in the Americas. Things to learn, possibly even share with people some day.”

  She grabbed several handfuls of oats and returned to Nathan. “I told your mother I would look after you, school you, Abigail. I even promised her I would marry you off some day,” she said as Nathan nibbled the oats. “Everything was good until you left to live with the Endicotts over a year ago.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Why did I leave?”

  “You do not remember?”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  She sighed. “You met someone, you would not tell me who. This person encouraged you to be independent and take chances. This person said that you had the power to change things in the future.”

  “That sounds a little crazy,” I said.

  “I know. But you were always very strong-headed.”

  “Me?”

  Elizabeth smiled. “You used to love it here, in this barn. You told me you could think your thoughts and plan your plans without any of us worriers interrupting you. The animals calmed you. It was so quiet, you could even write in the pages of your book.”

  Whoa. Abigail had a book that she wrote in? Even the school kids Elizabeth taught, who I basically babysat, didn’t have actual books. “Where’s Abigail’s book now?” I asked and watched Elizabeth’s face fall from happy to sad. “I mean, where’s my book?”

  “I do not know. You always hid it.” She sighed, walked toward the door and opened it a sliver. “Stay here a while longer. Maybe this place will help you remember who you are, as well as where you left your book. But, you must return before nightfall.” Elizabeth ducked her head, squeezed under the opening of the short doorway, and left.

  For the first time since I landed in the year 1675, I was alone.

  Chapter 12

  I stroked Nathan’s mane and gingerly handed him an old apple I had pocketed earlier from a basket of withering fruit in Elizabeth’s food storage area. Abigail had a book. Was it like Mama’s book? Could it have clues to help me get back to my real life? My head was spinning, my brain raced.

  I needed to unwind. I needed to think. The only thing that did that for me back in Chicago was yoga. I looked around the stable. Yes, it was a little stinky, and the space was cramped, but why couldn’t I do yoga here?

  I realized I could. I could do things for myself in this foreign world. I would still be Madeline Blackford, who just happened to be transported back in time three hundred plus years—hopefully just for a short while.

  I spotted some blankets piled in the corner of the barn, grabbed one, and tossed it on the earth in front of Nathan’s stall. I put my hands flat on it and stretched my body with my butt up in the air, my face inches from the blanket.

  My nose twitched and I sneezed. Phew, this thing smelled horsey. (Note to self: pretty much everything smells horsey in the year 1675.)

  Technically, this yoga pose was Downward Facing Dog. Right now it was Downward Facing Colonial Girl. I stretched my spine, grunted, and felt a couple of lifetimes of stress roll off my shoulders.

  “This feels amazing,” I said to Nathan. “I wish you could try this.”

  He flicked his tail and blew through his lips loudly.

  “Hah! Horse Breath! You’re good.” I blew through my lips, too. Horse breath was a great way to reduce stress.

  I segued into more yoga moves: planks, pushups, back bends, and sun salutations. Those were my favorites. You’d lift your arms as far as you could over your head and thank God, the stars, the heavens, or whomever you cared about that you were doing this practice.

  I tried to sweep out negative emotions, and pull in positive energy as I lengthened my spine and expanded my ribs. I breathed deeply. Inhaled. Exhaled. I knew each breath could help wash away my anxiety.

  I broke into a sweat, my endorphins kicked in, and I felt great except for the fact that the ugliest dress in the world was squeezing me half to death. I looked around. No one was here; only a few animals. Elizabeth had said we could do things a little differently, if no people were watching. I made the decision.

  I finagled my way out off my long, ugly dress, and tossed it across the barn.

  I was in my pilgrim underwear. These were definitely not Victoria’s Secrets—more like Victoria’s Rejects. They were hideous, fluffy pajamas with a big girdle around the middle. The girdle, called a corset, was most likely damaging my organs, and I was done with it.

  I reached behind my waist and yanked on the cords that kept this thing cinched around me. Loosened them enough that I pulled myself out of this torture device, swung it around my head and pitched it through the air. “See ya, wouldn’t want to be ya.” The corset landed in a corner of the barn with a thunk.

  I felt my ribs expand. Freedom. I closed my eyes, and took my first Warrior pose since I was back in Chicago. “Warrior One,” I said. My front knee was bent at a ninety-degree angle with my back leg extended, and my arms straight overhead. I breathed, held the pose then shifted my pelvis and stretched my arms out long in both directions over both my shoulders.

  I felt fierce and fiery. I breathed deep and guttural. For the first time in weeks I felt in control. “Warrior Two, Nathan. What do you think?”

  Someone started clapping. “Those are the scariest, warrior moves I have seen in years,” a young man said.

  I shrieked, and whip turned. Samuel leaned ag
ainst the far wall of the barn, his arms crossed in front of him, a grin on his face. He wore colonial pants, and a white shirt that was unbuttoned below his collarbones. His black hair was pushed behind his ears but a few thick curls fell above his shoulders.

  “How long have you been here? Are you following me?” I glanced around the stables to find my clothes that I had thrown, apparently, everywhere. Great. “That is just wrong!”

  “I was here before Elizabeth and you entered. I did not want to interrupt you. But since you are officially a warrior, what are you worried about?”

  “I’m not worried.” I jumped up, snatched the world’s ugliest dress off a bale of hay, and tried to pull it over my head. But got caught in it.

  My right hand was stuck in the left sleeve. I was pulling this stupid dress on backwards. I struggled to yank it off me, twisted it around, and dressed while my cheeks popped bright red.

  Samuel tapped me on the shoulder. “Let me help you with this.”

  “Back off!”

  He did. His hand flew off my shoulder like he’d accidentally touched a lit burner.

  I heard a loud rip as my arm popped out of the waistline of the dress that wasn’t sewn securely. “Don’t look!” I hollered and tried to pull my arm back in.

  “Yes, Abigail.” He covered his eyes, and sat back on the barn’s floor shaking in laughter. “Because you are so charming, I will do whatever you ask.”

  “Are you always a jerk? What are you doing in here?” I twisted the dress and pushed both my arms through the actual sleeves.

  “Actually I came to check on Nathan.”

  “Because you’re such a nice guy.” I smoothed my dress, glanced down and saw a hole in the waist about the size of a fist. Oh no, I looked like a complete idiot. I covered the hole with my hand, smoothed my hair back and looked at Samuel. But he wasn’t sitting in the aisle anymore.

  Samuel was in Nathan’s stall. He whispered in his ear and applied ointment from a jar, just like the one Angeni gave me, to a wound on his flank. Nathan whisked his tail and stomped his front foot. “Shhh,” Samuel said. “You are getting better.”