Chase (ChronoShift Trilogy)

by Zack Mason

  "I have this horrible, recurring dream. Seven times now I've dreamt the same thing, and it seems so real...I just don't know. It's taking a toll on me."

  "What's it about?"

  "There's this village, and a lot of people...and these Indians are attacking. All the people are dressed kind of like the Pilgrims, and there's this girl. It's always the same girl. Maybe she's a woman, I don't know. I just see her for a moment before she's killed by the Indians. I keep seeing her die over and over again, night after night, and I don't know why. Maybe she's calling to me, or maybe the dream is calling to me, like I'm supposed to find her or something."

  "That's ridiculous," Hardy chuckled.

  Mark didn't hear him. He was lost in thought.

  "Do you think this is something that actually happened?" Savannah asked.

  "I do," Mark replied, "I think I'm supposed to go find these people."

  Hardy shook his head, scoffing. "You think the universe is calling you, Mark? C'mon."

  "Ain't the universe, my friend," Ty interjected. "Things can't think."

  Hardy scowled.

  "I don't know what it is," Mark mumbled, "but something's telling me I'm supposed to go."

  "What about that boy back in England?" Hardy asked. "Did you forget about him?"

  "What boy?" Savannah queried.

  "Back in the Middle Ages, Mark and I ran across this boy they were going to hang."

  "I haven't forgotten," Mark asserted.

  "Oh, I see. Can you describe the village to me in more detail, Mark?" Savannah gently prodded. She'd took a pen and began scribbling notes on a pad.

  Mark described everything as best he could and answered her questions about the buildings, the villagers, their clothing, things they said, what the Indians looked like.

  "Well, I doubt they were Pilgrims, Mark. It sounds more like a Puritan village."

  "Isn't that the same thing?"

  "No, not really. The Pilgrims were Separatists while the Puritans believed in reforming the Church of England from within...anyway, no, they're not the same thing. They did share a number of similar customs and beliefs, but the Pilgrims had a distinct form of dress, usually more colorful than the Puritans. Plus, there weren't that many Separatists, their settlements were usually on the coastline. Puritans migrated much further inland and had settlements throughout Massachusetts."

  "So, how do we find out where this village is?"

  "Not sure. There was an Indian uprising in the late 1600's and a number of Puritan settlements were attacked. I can't remember many of the details though. I'll have to do some research."

  "Could you please?"

  Savannah nodded.

  "You guys want to come along?"

  "Sorry, Mark, I've got a couple of things I'm working on," Ty said.

  "That's fine. Hardy?"

  "Yeah, I'll go later if you need me."

  "All right. Savannah, when will you know something?"

  "Couple of days, maybe?"

  "Good, I'll shift ahead and meet you then."

  March 14th 1674, Swansea, MA

  The mourners had left. She was alone now. Alone in the humble home where she'd grown up under the caring hand of her father, and she felt scared. She had never known life without him.

  Unlike her mother, it had not been sickness that took him, but a bullet. He had gone to check his rabbit traps and not come home. She'd found her dah on the trail the next morning, dried blood encrusting the large wound on his cold body.

  How lifeless he'd looked.

  Yet, how at peace.

  He'd had no known enemies. The general consensus in the village was it had been a lone Wampanoag armed with a rifle traded to him by settlers.

  She could feel the anger and bitterness encroaching deep within, trying to possess her heart. It would be so easy to give in to it.

  But that would not please her Dah. He had raised a decent daughter, a daughter devoted to forgiveness and the gentle ways of his Savior. He was happy now, at peace by his Lord's side. Surely, he now enjoyed the company of her mother once more. He had missed her dearly over the years.

  How easily the hatred came to her surprised her. Hatred for the savagery that had so violently ripped him from her life, hatred for the savage who'd borne the gun. She could hate the savagery, but she must not allow herself to hate the man possessed by it. Were not all men savages at heart? Did not all men stand guilty before their Creator?

  A gentle knock broke through her thoughts. She did not want another sympathetic ear today. She wanted to sleep. She went to the door and opened it.

  It was Clemency Bradford, a fine young man to be sure. He was the same man her father, till recently, had wanted her to marry, and who she particularly did not want to see at this moment.

  She tried her best to appear ladylike and patient. "Yes, Clem?"

  He held his hat in hand. "Abbie, I uh..."

  "Spit it out, Clem." She could probably do better with the patience part.

  "Abbie, it's not safe for you to be living at the edge of the village like this...especially after what's happened."

  "This is my home, Clem. Where would I go?"

  "Father and mother have said you can live with us for a time."

  "And then?"

  "Well...I thought we could be married. I'd build us a house of our own."

  "Clem...no. It's a nice offer, but I'm sorry, no."

  "Wait, Abbie. I know you're grieving, but tis really what's best."

  "I've said what I have to say."

  "But...the ladies of the village will start to talk if you live out here by yourself..."

  "Let them!" She slammed the door in his face.

  Aaarrgh! He had another thing coming if he thought she'd marry him out of necessity. He was a nice boy, but too naive. That was for sure. She had no idea what she would do, but marrying Clemency Bradford would certainly not be one of her choices.

  May 23rd 1674, Swansea, MA

  Now that she'd packed, the house looked emptier, though she wasn't really taking that much with her. Perhaps the emptiness she sensed was more from the absence of her father than the few essentials she'd removed.

  Much of the larger furniture she was forced to leave behind. There was no way she could transport that stuff to where she was going. She'd have to rebuild it along with a new house.

  Clem had been right about one thing, it wasn't long before tongues started wagging.

  They were good people. They just couldn't conceive of a young lady of her age being anything but married. A girl who refused to follow convention was to be suspected. The gossip and rumors grew like festering weeds. She'd decided it was time to leave.

  Her father had taught her how to hunt and trap. In the wild Massachusetts woods, she could get along on her own as well as any village boy. The tunic she'd chosen was dark green. She'd sown it herself and could make whatever else she needed. All the other changes of clothes in her knapsack had dark greens and browns woven into them. Those colorings would help her blend into the forest as she hunted.

  A bow and a quiver full of arrows graced her shoulder and hung low across her small back. In addition to the clothing items, she'd packed a knife and a few other basic necessities in the knapsack. She threw it over her other shoulder.

  Setting the fire was hard. This was all she'd known.

  In this cottage were a thousand warm memories of her father and the simple life they'd led, memories that would never again be triggered by the sight of this home. A lump tightened in her throat as flames licked up the side of a wall.

  She turned without a word and went out the door for the last time, melting into the woods.

  September 3rd 1674, Massachusetts Woodlands

  The boy was young and innocent.

  John Wilshire's youngest child had no idea he was being followed. He'd been gathering kindling in the forest, no doubt to take home to his mother. He'd strayed a little farther than he'd needed to because he was also checking his father's traps, hopi
ng to find a rabbit.

  The stalker intent on destroying the boy was a powerful male of the Wampanoag tribe. Lightly tanned buckskin leggings were laced around his thighs and calves with rawhide strings and looked very similar to a pair of pants. Those together with a breechcloth and a fringed buckskin shirt with no sleeves completed his attire. Each item was adorned with small seashells dangling from the ends of braided leather strips.

  His skin was bronze, his stature muscular. He'd covered his skin with a mixture made of animal fat and a reddish pigment, a practice common to the Wampanoag which added a maroon hue to their golden skin.

  This warrior had also applied bright scarlet paint to his forehead and cheeks and shaved the sides of his head, leaving a long, raven-black mohawk down the center. This hair was braided in the back.

  A tattoo of a wolf was visible on his right cheek and another round design had been tattooed onto his right breast. The more unusual designs created from yellow and black paint that adorned the length of his torso indicated he was on the warpath.

  Stealthily, the warrior had tracked the boy, having come across his sign about five hundred feet back. Once he'd spied the tracks, he had changed course to pursue.

  She guessed his intent was slaughter, but it could be kidnapping.

  Abbie didn't refer to the Wampanoag as savages like many of the others, but she did condemn a number of their practices that way. They were a people still enslaved to sin, as evidenced by their bloodlust which surfaced at times like these.

  As the boy was blissfully ignorant of his would-be assassin, the Wampanoag warrior was also unaware of her. She'd found his sign several miles ago and had moved ahead to intercept. This had been her fear, that his mission was not a peaceful one. He was far from his own village, and the war paint didn't bode well.

  She was perched overhead in the limbs of a tall tree. Her clothing was designed to blend with the colors of the early autumn foliage surrounding her. She would not be detected by either party before they collided, and that looked like it would happen almost directly below her.

  The Wampanoag drew closer, hunkering low behind brush as he advanced. His moccasined feet stepped lightly and silently as he swept through the forest toward his prey.

  The child stooped to examine an insect, distracted by a type he'd never seen before.

  Her hand was taught on her bowstring. She would wait until she was sure. She did not desire spilt blood, much less innocent blood. If it could be helped, she preferred to take no life.

  The Wampanoag had almost reached the boy's position now. So far, he'd made no motion to attack with either bow or hatchet. Maybe his purpose was kidnapping after all.

  Suddenly, he rose up, arm extended, a knife in his fist glimmering wickedly in the afternoon light. She could not allow a kidnapping any more than she could a murder. The penalty in Scripture for either was the same.

  Her fingers released the bowstring, a soft twang the only sound accompanying the launch of her arrow which soon found it's appointed place in the attacker's spine. The Wampanoag shrieked abruptly, then collapsed onto the path and fell silent, broken branches of a bush pushing up pointedly at his naked belly.

  Startled, the boy screamed at the sight of an armed, dying Indian falling toward him and ran off down the path back toward his home. He would be all right now. There weren't any other Indians around, nor wildcats for that matter.

  She would retrieve her arrow and lay out the dead man in a more respectful pose. The villagers would find and bury him before the day was over.

  ***

  April 20th 1675, Swansea, MA

  "Her? She's a witch."

  The boy looked alarmed to be asked about the woman. She was one nobody liked to talk about, and when they did it was in hushed whispers outside the ears of children.

  "A Witch? You're kidding, right?"

  "She be one, I swear it. Everyone knows it." The boy waved his hand around the village to indicate who he meant by everyone and ran off to some destination out of sight.

  Mark turned to a shoe cobbler who'd emerged from his tiny shop to sweep his front stoop.

  "What do you say about her, sir?"

  The cobbler paused, "I've not seen ye before, have I, sir?"

  "Tis true, I am a stranger to this town." Savannah had given Mark a brief dialect lesson before he'd left so he could make his speech sound more familiar to Puritan ears.

  "May I inquire as to the nature of yer interest in the lady?"

  "Nothing nefarious, I assure you, kind sir. She seems such a gentle soul, yet all I've been told so far smells of slander."

  She was oblivious to their conversation, being a good hundred feet away and fully engaged in a discussion with a man further down the row. She appeared to be trading some rabbit meat for a basket filled with a variety of vegetables.

  "Her name is Abigail Cooper."

  "Do you also say she's a witch?"

  "Ye will not hear me say that. No, sir. She's a godly woman. Kind-hearted, like her father and mother before her."

  "And they?"

  "The good Lord saw fit to take her mother when she was young, her father just last year. She's got no other family here in Massachusetts. Perhaps there be some back in England, I do not know."

  "Why do people call her a witch?"

  A>Cause she refused to marry Clem Bradford and lives by herself out in the woods. Truth be told, she refuses to marry at all. Folk just don't understand that kind of thinking. Keeps to herself. People attack what they don't understand. It's the sinful nature."

  "Tis a shame."

  "More so when ye know what she really does out in those woods."

  "What's that?"

  "She protects us. Watches for savages, wild animals, and other threats to the village. Tis not just a few villagers who've been miraculously saved from certain death on the trails since she took to a solitary life. We've not lost a soul since. She saved my sister's son. He narrowly escaped being murdered at the hand of a Wampanoag.

  "Tis not all either. She comes and trades, like ye see there, an' she always takes the worst end of the deal. I guarantee Mr. Tanner over there will come out ahead on the trade he's striking with her now. People don't see that though. They cannot stand it that she won't take the yoke they want to lay on her."

  "That's too bad."

  "People are odd. Some villages would have no problem with her choice. This one needs more teaching from the Scripture."

  "The Scripture? I would think teaching from the Scripture was the problem."

  "Blasphemy, man! Hold your tongue. I pray ye hold no base opinion regarding the Word of God!" The man shook his head.

  "No, sorry. That's not what I meant."

  "Then, ye be as ignorant as the rest. If this village were taught the Scripture well, they'd know God does not intend for all to marry."

  "I'm glad to see someone thinks well of her."

  "I try to judge correctly, nothing more. I shun gossip. Tis an evil that harms all involved.”

  Mark extended his hand to the man. "Thank you, Mr..."

  "Fuller. William Fuller." They shook.

  "Thank you, Mr. Fuller. You've been very helpful." Mark studied Abbie's quick smile and bright eyes as she conversed, his eyes lingering longer than necessary. She'd finished her business and would probably head home shortly, which he now knew was not in the village.

  There was no doubt about it, she was the beautiful woman from his nightmare. Somehow, he needed to turn that nightmare into a dream.

  April 20th 1675, Massachusetts Woodlands

  Mark could remain hidden for hours, for days really, if he needed to. He was in his element again, blending in with the vegetation, stalking prey.

  His prey this time was Abigail Cooper. He wasn't really stalking her though, just waiting for the right moment to approach.

  She squatted by a rabbit trap just off the trail, freeing her latest catch, which would probably be her dinner.

  Her attire was simple and rustic, yet it g
raced her form delicately. He marveled at the extraordinary mental strength she must have to survive as she did in the wild by herself. She obviously did well at it. She not only fed herself, but caught enough meat to trade with the villagers too. The fact she served as their unseen protector impressed him even more.

  Her lifestyle showed obvious strength of character and a tremendous amount of grit, yet she'd taken time to smooth her skirts beneath her when she'd knelt by the trap, a distinctly feminine gesture. Her nimble fingers worked delicately to free the rabbit.

  Stepping lightly from the woods, Mark called her name. "Abigail?"

  He'd feared she might startle, appearing so suddenly, but she didn't even blink. Just continued working on the trap.

  "I hope I didn't scare you."

  "Ye did not scare me," she said, not even looking up, "If ye had not emerged soon I would have come in after ye."

  "You knew I was there?" Mark was incredulous.

  "Ye first watched me back in the village. On the trail, ye were quite inconspicuous, I'll give ye that. Still, I always knew where ye were. Now, what do ye want? I pray ye art a gentleman. It oft portends evil when a man pursues a woman through the woods."

  "You weren't scared?"

  "I care for myself."

  "So I've heard. I mean you no harm, I swear it."

  "No need to swear, sir. A man's word should not require it. I've asked ye before, and I'll ask once more, what be yer business?"

  He hesitated. He'd prepared an elaborate speech for just this moment, but her forthrightness threw him off.

  "Ms. Cooper," Her propriety automatically evoked an unnatural formality in him as well, "I am here to warn you. There is a dream...a dream that I’ve had, not once, but many times. I've seen you in that dream over and over again."

  She blushed a deep shade of red. "Forwardness is not a virtue, sir."

  "It was not that kind of a dream. It was a nightmare, of the worst sort. It plagues my sleep, and in it, I see you die every time. Until today, I'd never met you before in my life, but there's no doubt you're the one I see. I had to find you, to warn you."