by Zack Mason
His words, of course, were completely unexpected. Her eyes dropped, her expression pensive, contemplating.
"This is no joke, Abigail. I would not tease you in such a way."
"I've no doubt of yer sincerity, sir, tis clear in your eyes."
"My name is Mark."
"Well...Mark. If what ye say is true, what good does this omen do? Do you not believe in the sovereignty of our Lord? If he wishes to take me, should I doubt His judgment?"
"If my dream is from Him, might not His intent be one of forewarning?"
"Might be at that," she acceded.
"In a few months, Indians will attack a village near here. You'll be killed trying to save a baby. You must either stay away from that attack or we must find a way to save you."
"There be a third choice, to die in the noble act of saving a life."
Mark bowed his head, shaking it. "You don't save the baby. That's the worst part of the dream."
She was visibly shaken. "Tell me, sir. Do you ever see the face of my killer in your dream?"
Mark nodded, eyes glued to the ground.
"Can ye not find a way to kill him before he kills me?"
"I can try," he muttered half-heartedly.
"There is something ye have yet to reveal. The Spirit has graced me with the gift of discernment, an' I sense you hide something still."
"Spirit? Gift?"
"From the Colony, ye are not. Am I correct, sir? Yer clothes are right, but your speech be off. An' any man raised in New England would know of the gifts of the blessed Holy Spirit."
He blushed, caught dead to rights, yet still not wanting to tell all.
"Mark, how do ye ask me to trust yer words when ye are not fully truthful?"
"Fine. There is something I haven't said, but you'll never believe me."
"Ye cannot know if ye do not try."
"I will have to show you. Understand, what I am about to do is not magic, it's science."
"Science?"
"Yes...uh...science...it's...well, does your village have any tools now that did not exist when your parents were young? Or have any of the common tools in use been improved upon since you can remember?"
"Of course. I know what science is. It means ’knowledge'. I do not understand what ye mean when ye say ye will ’do science'.
Mark moved toward her and held out his hand. "I'm going to put my hand on your shoulder."
She recoiled. "Ye shall not, sir! A chaste woman am I, an' shall remain so till I be wed."
"Okay, relax." He withdrew his hand. "Look, I mean you no disrespect, but there's no way for me to show you without physical contact. How about you lay your hand on my shoulder? Would that be acceptable?"
She pondered, then nodded, hesitantly lifting her hand to his shoulder.
Once she had done so, Mark lifted his sleeve, revealing the shifter. Her eyes widened at the sight of the strange material and the glowing display. Before she could react further, he pressed the red button shifting them eight months into the future and at night.
Suddenly, they were enshrouded in the darkness, the only light being the blue glow of the full moon overhead. Biting, cold air stung their exposed skin and white snow blanketed the forest all around.
She reacted violently, throwing herself back and away from him. "Tis magic, to be sure!" She screamed. "What have you done?" The shock of the moment reverted her back to informal speech. He realized that he had forgotten to be using the more formal "ye" throughout their conversation.
"I told you. It's not magic. It's science, a tool that has been invented."
"A tool that gives you power over the sun and weather! Change it back! How many people must be freezing right now, caught outdoors, unprepared!"
"I cannot control the weather, Abigail. It's not that. We have moved eight months into the future. It's winter now."
"What?"
"This device can move a person through time, just as we move through physical space with our feet. It is a device that God has provided."
That might actually be true, he ruminated. Though his cynical agnosticism would not allow him to believe such a thing wholeheartedly, he saw the need to present things in her language.
Falling silent, she stared at him, then glanced around. Reaching down, she plucked some snow up and rubbed it between her fingers until it melted. She pinched herself lightly, then harder and harder until she'd obviously hurt herself.
"Abigail, it's real."
"What day is it?"
"December 16th 1675."
"Can you take me back?"
"Put your hand on my shoulder again." She did and he shifted them back to April.
Clearly, she was flabbergasted, and not used to being so.
"How does that...thing work?" she asked.
"I'm not sure."
"What do you mean ’you're not sure'?"
"I mean...I don't know how it works."
"You cannot explain how it works yet you wish me to believe it's not magic?"
"Uh..." She had him there.
"Follow me."
"Where are we going?"
"To my cottage."
"Is it close?"
"No. I was leading you away from it."
"What profit has the worker from that in which he labors?
I have seen the God‑given task with which the sons of men are to be occupied.@
- Ecclesiastes 3:9 - 10
"You claim Metacomet is going to begin an all out war on the Christian settlements in Massachusetts colony within the next few months?"
"Well, yes. Everybody from my time calls him ’King Philip'. They call the war ’King Philip's War'."
The warmth of the fire she'd made in her small hearth to make some tea created a cozy ambience in the cottage in spite of the hot spring weather outside. Her cottage was small and quaint, yet surprisingly well-made considering she'd built it herself. Being on her own, she hadn't been able to lift some of the heavy logs necessary for normal cabin construction. To compensate, she'd made the exterior walls out of two thinner, parallel walls built with medium-sized logs. She'd then filled the gap between them with earth, stones, and other insulating material, which made the cabin even warmer in winter than traditional construction would have. Since she could not lift heavy beams up to the roof line, she'd had to make do with smaller logs once again, using rope and vine to support the roof's weight by tying the narrow roof supports to large tree branches above. It was a very interesting and creative construction technique.
Why had she left her village? Why did she insist on living out here by herself? It couldn't be an easy life.
"Yes, there are some who call him that."
She'd forced Mark to shift with her again into the future so she could see a burned-out town as evidence for what he was saying. It was hard for her to accept, but she couldn't deny her own eyes. She struggled with the concept of time travel itself more than the idea Indians would attack a settlement. She hadn't grown up on Sci-Fi movies like he had. Time travel was a novelty not generally conceived of by the 17th century populace.
"Philip will start the war. It will take almost two years before he's finally killed. In that time, there's going to be a lot of killing, Christians and Indians both. Many villages will be looted and destroyed."
"And I am killed in one of those attacks."
"Yes."
"Which one?"
"The first one. Swansea. I recognized the town from my dream. When I saw it, I hung around. I was hoping to spot you, and I did."
"Swansea? That's my village. At least, since we left Rehoboth."
Tears welled in her eyes. He'd just given her the grievous news that many people she knew and loved might be killed. She still cared about them in spite of the way they gossiped about her.
"I cannot abandon my people, Mark. God has charged me with their protection. Can we not stop this war?"
Mark was silent. He shook his head.
"Why not?"
"There are some things
in history that just can't be changed, Abbie."
"How do you know that?"
He looked directly into her tear-filled eyes, his own becoming watery. "I just do."
She saw his pain and tactfully probed no further. "How do you know this war is one of those things that can't be changed?'
"I don't, I guess. Not for sure. It's just that experience has shown me major historical events usually can't be avoided."
"I take it you're a Calvinist?"
"A what?"
"A Calvinist. You believe in predestination."
"Oh. No, of course not. I'm just a pragmatist. I know what works and what doesn't."
"But you don't know about this particular war."
"No, I don't"
"Then, you won't mind if we try."
***
June 14th 1675, Mount Hope, Rhode Island
Mark followed Abbie to Metacomet's village. She wanted to speak with the chief before he started the war to convince him to change his plans.
"If you really want to stop this war, the best way is to shoot Metacomet before he can start anything," Mark said.
"I won't participate in murder," Abbie scowled.
"It's not murder. It's called saving lives. How many Christian settlers is this guy going to kill? How many of his own people is he going to get killed with this bloody war?"
"He hasn't killed anybody yet."
"But he will."
"But he hasn't done it yet. I cannot kill a man whose hands remain unstained. He's committed no crime. Not yet."
"You've killed Indians before, Indians who were about to attack settlers, but hadn't yet. Didn't you kill them to prevent the taking of innocent life?"
"That's different."
"How is it different?"
"It just is."
They were entering the Wampanoag village now, so they ended their debate abruptly. A muscular warrior rushed them, halting their progress harshly before they'd gotten more than twenty feet inside the village's perimeter. Abbie communicated to him her desire to speak with the chief. This was not the first time she'd been here and the Wampanoag knew her. The warrior disappeared into the maze of wigwams.
Other warriors replaced him, forming a half-circle around them and preventing the foreigners from penetrating further into their village until he returned.
After a short time, the first warrior did return, his expression firm and stern. Shaking his head negatively, he spoke to Abbie softly, but forcibly, in his own language. The chief was not willing to see them.
They left quickly, conferring as soon as they were far enough away not to be heard.
"What's the deal?" Mark asked.
"Chief Metacomet wouldn't see us. Years ago, his brother, Wamsutta, who was chief before him, died suddenly while in Plymouth negotiating a treaty with colony officials. Since then, Metacomet has always been suspicious. He thinks the settlers poisoned him. I think he's decided now is a good time to avenge his brother."
"Any possible truth to the poison allegation?"
"Not likely. The people of Plymouth are very godly. It was an unsavory affair, I'll admit. Josiah Winslow, the governor of the Colony, is not nearly the godly man his father or William Bradford were. He was only elected because he was Edward Winslow's son."
"Wamsutta had started selling land to other colonies, so Governor Winslow sent armed soldiers to force him to come and negotiate the new treaty at gunpoint. It was not the most honorable moment for the Colony. Still, everybody knows Wamsutta simply fell ill while they were treating. Regardless, Metacomet is convinced his brother was murdered and does not want to talk with any whites now, not even me. He's obviously preparing something, as you've said."
"What's next, then? Should we go back in time and speak with Metacomet before his brother dies?"
The twisted expression on Abbie's face revealed her continuing struggle with the concept of time travel. "Would do no good. Metacomet wouldn't be chief yet while Wamsutta is still alive and the tribe wouldn't understand our wanting to treat with someone who wasn't chief. Plus, how would we explain foreknowledge of Wamsutta's death without making them more suspicious."
"So, what do you want to do?" Mark asked.
Her face hardened. "How does this war start?"
***
June 24th 1675, Swazey Corner, MA
"You should know, I don't think you're going to be able to stop this," Mark stated flatly.
"Yes, you've made that abundantly clear," Abbie snipped, a light smirk lightening her tone as she checked and rechecked the loads in her rifles.
King Philip's war had begun with a scattering of Indian attacks on isolated homesteads. A few days later, a farmer by the name of John Salisbury and his son caught some Wampanoag slitting the throats of some of their cattle. Salisbury's son shot one of those Indians.
The next day, Salisbury and six other settlers were ambushed and killed by the Wampanoag in retribution. From there, the war escalated out of control.
Since there could have been hundreds of Indians involved in the original attacks on the isolated settlements, Mark and Abbie decided their best bet to stop the war was by preventing the ambush of the settlers.
They waited in some mulberry bushes a little off the main trail. They'd spied somewhere between ten to fifteen Indians hiding in various places along this section of the path so far. Their goal was to surprise the Indians enough they would lose confidence and flee.
After much waiting, the would-be settler victims finally made an appearance further up the path. They were seven puritan men, dressed for hunting, quietly conversing amongst themselves, unaware of their destiny to become part of history.
Once the settlers had inadvertently surrounded themselves with the unseen ambushers, chaos erupted. Shrill war whoops sparked instantaneous panic among the settler men. Frantically they turned, seeking emergency cover.
Three rifles lay ready at Abbie's feet. Calmly, she raised the first, setting her sights on a savage, and pulled the trigger. Her bullet missed. Mild surprise lit her eyes as she changed the first long gun out for a second. That shot also missed.
Her brow creased in frustration. She was a very good shot and could not for the life of her comprehend why she was missing. By now, one settler was already down. Blood poured from a horrendous head wound. He was probably already dead. A second settler had been wounded in the side, and an Indian sat astride a third man who floundered helplessly on his back, hatchet raised high for the killing blow.
Throwing down the second gun, Abbie snatched up the third and put this Indian in her sights. This time, it misfired. Panicked, Abbie drew it back and checked the powder, but it was dry. The flint was in place. As quickly as she could, she repacked the powder and wad. By now, the third settler was dead, and that Indian was moving on to other targets. She sighted him again, and again the rifle misfired.
Mark sat calmly beside her throughout the ordeal, his back pressed against a maple tree. When she turned his way, her look was frantic. Almost apathetically, he handed her his rifle which had also been loaded and primed.
She lifted it, took aim, and then threw it to the ground in disgust after it too misfired. Picking up her bow, she loaded it with an arrow from her quiver. When she drew the bow back, its string snapped suddenly with a hollow twang.
She whirled to Mark, tears flowing freely down both her dirty cheeks, leaving trails as they ran. It felt like someone had ripped her heart from her chest, watching her countrymen fall so mercilessly and being powerless to stop it.
Grabbing her arm, Mark shifted them both out of the scene, ignoring her sensitivities to physical touch. A battle was no place to be worried about chastity.
June 14th 1675, Massachusetts Woodlands
Secretly, Mark had felt his heart being drawn to this woman even when she'd been nothing more than a mirage from his dreams. Yet, his heart was as reluctant as it was foolish. Between Kelly and Laura, he'd had enough pain induced by females, or lack thereof, thank you very much. Still
, his heart was foolishly giving itself away again, even against his wishes.
Instinctively, he knew Abbie was too good for him. She was pure. She was the kind of woman a man was hard pressed to find in the 21st century, and even if he did, he'd wouldn't be the kind of man such a woman would want. She had great depth and dedication. Her religious speech unnerved him, yet it was oddly attractive. Still, if she could ever read his heart of hearts — if she knew the things he'd done — she would want nothing more to do with him. She would reject him, and rejection was a risk he did not want to take again.
So, he bolstered his defenses and did his best to harden his heart against the affection he might have otherwise begun to feel. That wall of iron he continued erecting around his heart kept melting away as it was besieged by the repeated mental image of those large tears running down her cheeks.
They were back at her cottage. She'd made some strong, black tea while they talked. She got up to refill his cup and paused before the stove. She stood motionless, her back to him, tea kettle in hand, but then her shoulders began to shake subtly from the sobs she was trying to hide.
"Abbie..."
"It's okay," she managed to choke out. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve before turning around. She refilled his cup and sat down.
"Did you know any of those men?"
"No, not personally. That's not why I'm crying."
"I know. You're frustrated for being helpless to stop it."
"Yes," she sighed, shoulders sagging as she exhaled deeply.
"You'll get over it."
She flinched as if he'd verbally slapped her. "Are you that cold-hearted, Mark?"
"Sorry," he repented, "I didn't mean it like that. I've just been through this before. That's all."
"I'd assumed as much. What happened to you?"
"I'd rather not talk about it."
"As you wish."
They sat in silence for a while, the blissful, outdoor sounds of the afternoon surrounding them as they took their tea.
