When Fate Dictates

by Elizabeth Marshall

  The tiny oval gem sparkled brilliantly in the gentle candlelight, its ancient mysteries straining to be freed.

  “What do you think it is, Simon?”

  “It looks like an oval crystal to me.”

  “Yes, I can see it’s an oval crystal. What I meant was what, do you think is so special about it?”

  He shook his head. “I have no idea, but I wouldn’t pay too much attention to my ma.”

  “That’s not very nice. Why do you say that?” I said sharply.

  “Because, Corran, she has always been one for a good tale. I wouldn’t be surprised to find that this wee crystal is nothing more than what it looks to be, a tiny crystal ball.”

  “She seemed very sure that it was something special though, Simon.”

  “Aye, but as I said, she is one for a mystery.”

  “What do you think she meant when she said that Angus had used one to find you?” I asked, quietly.

  “I have no more idea than you, Corran. More fanciful ideas, perhaps, I just don’t know.”

  “Why are you so hard on your ma?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Corran, I love her. She just has some strange ideas about life.”

  “How do you mean, strange?”

  “The things she sees and believes; they can be dangerous.”

  “Simon you are talking in riddles. Your ma seems like a perfectly lovely lady.”

  “Aye, she is a lovely lady, most of the time. But don’t be fooled, Corran, there are many she would choose over me, living and dead.”

  “Living and dead? How could she choose a dead person over you?”

  “Because, Corran, like a witch, she believes that she can talk to the dead.”

  “That’s not so strange, Simon. My grandmother could see things, that other people couldn’t. That didn’t make her a witch.”

  “Aye, so you have said, but to my mind that sort of goings on are not normal.”

  “And you think being shot through the heart and living is normal?”

  He shook his head grimly. “No, I don’t think it’s normal. It’s not normal at all.”

  “Shall we see if we can find out how your ma thought Angus had used a crystal ball to find you then?”

  “Well I don’t suppose it will do any harm. Let’s have a good look at this little ball then shall we.”

  “Pa, would you like me to light another candle?” Duncan asked.

  “Aye lad that would be a good idea. The light in here is dreadful this morning.”

  Eilidh turned toward the bed and retrieved another candle, handing it to Duncan; he removed his flint from his pocket and lit it.

  “Where do you want it pa?”

  “Just put it on the table next to the other one.”

  “Where do you think Angus is now?” Eilidh asked as Simon moved his hand slowly toward the box.

  “I have no idea, but I am sure he will find us soon us enough,” Simon replied, dropping the tiny crystal into the palm of his hand.

  I moved closer to Simon, sliding my hand toward the sparkling ball. It caught the light of the flame. A thin thread of silver hung between the gem and the light. A thunderous roar erupted as my hand was slapped hard against the warmth of the crystal in Simon’s hand. The room swam fiercely around us, objects merging into an unfocused blur of color and then it stopped and we were in a street, with people, and buildings. I blinked, trying to focus on an unfamiliar world.

  ******

  CHAPTER 31

  “Hey, do you know where Barley Hall is?”

  My hand tightened on Simon’s. I could feel the warmth of the tiny ball sandwiched between our palms.

  “The what?” Simon asked.

  “Barley Hall, the brochure said it was around Stonegate,” the man in the unusual clothing said.

  “Stonegate? Is this York?” Simon asked.

  “Well, yes,” the stranger said, shaking his head.

  “Err, sorry... I don’t think I can help you,” said Simon, moving his eyes frantically from one side of the street to the other.

  “Come on love, these two are pathetic. I don’t know which two bit company has hired them but I don’t think they are going to be good for much more than their fancy dress,” the odd man said, ushering his female partner hurriedly away from us.

  “Simon, where are we?”

  “According to that man we are in York,” he whispered.

  “Yes, I heard him,” I snapped, lifting my eyes to the sky, “Look, there is the Minster. But Simon this is like another world.”

  “Aye, Corran, I can see that,” he said, as a woman with almost no clothes on pushed roughly past us pushing a strange cart with a child in it.

  “What do we do now?” I asked, as panic tore through me.

  “I don’t know, Corran. I have no idea. This is nothing like the York I know.”

  “What about the house? We could go back there,” I suggested.

  “Aye, if we can find it. These streets are so different.”

  “Why don’t we just ask?”

  He smiled down at me. “I seem to recall you suggesting that once before.”

  “Aye and it worked, but this time I think we could do without the attention.”

  “I think I could find it by following the Minster.”

  “Simon, look at those big carriages. How do you think they move? They don’t have any horses to pull them.”

  “I don’t know Corran. This place is as much of a mystery to me as it is to you, but look, I think there may be some of your kin here,” he said, pointing to a sign above a large shop that read ‘McDonalds’.

  “They must be doing very well. There are a lot of people in the shop,” I commented.

  “Aye, there are. It seems to be some sort of tavern. Shall we go and see if Mr. McDonald can shed some light on where we are?”

  We pushed through the large glass doors and hustled our way toward a long queue of people.

  “Where do you suppose we will find the owner?” I whispered, hanging onto Simon’s hand, terrified of being separated from him in the crowd of people.

  “I would imagine we wait with all these other people.”

  “Do you think all these people are waiting to talk to the owner?”

  “No, Corran, I think they are waiting for food.”

  Eventually, we reached the bar, where a young girl in man’s trousers scowled miserably at us. “Yes?” she said, as if the word were too much trouble.

  “I would like to speak with Mr. McDonald, please?”

  “Are you trying to be funny?” she barked.

  “Well, actually, I didn’t think that was a funny request at all. If you could just let Mr. McDonald know that some of his kinsmen request a moment of his time, we would be very grateful.”

  “Look mister, if you want a meal, then order it, if not, get lost.” she shouted.

  “We have no need of a meal, thank you, but we would like to speak with Mr. McDonald,” Simon tried again.

  “Get a life, will you. There is no Mr. McDonald, so just go before I call the cops.”

  “Simon, I think she wants us to leave,” I whispered, turning to leave.

  “Well that was a waste of time. I wonder if Mr. McDonald knows how rude his workers are,” Simon said, as we left the smelly confines of the building for the fresh air of the street.

  “I am going to use the Minster to find our house, Simon. Apart from the fact that it seems to have changed color I still recognize it as the Minster,” I said, turning toward a square off which several streets appeared to fork. “Look Simon, there’s a sign for Stonegate,” I said, as the neat writing came into focus.

  “Indeed it is.”

  “Well this looks nothing like it did seventeen years ago,” I moaned as we moved onto what should have been familiar territory.

  “No, lass, you are right there. Do you remember the last time we were on this street?”

  I shot him a look of anger. “You think I would forget that night?”

&nbs
p; “No, I don’t suppose you would.”

  “I think this is the snickleway to the house. Coffee Yard?” I said, reading the name on a sign above the entrance to the alley. “It seems the name has changed, look, it says it was formerly Langton Lane.”

  “You are right, Corran, but it looks very different I think that is where the print shop used to be.”

  “It’s not a print shop anymore. It looks like another tavern of some sort,” I said.

  Moving through the courtyard and into what should have been the narrow brick alley to our home, we were greeted on our left by three large windows.

  “It looks like someone’s home,” I said, peering through the glass.

  “Don’t stare, Corran, it’s rude,” Simon said, pulling at my arm to move me along.

  “No, wait Simon, it doesn’t look right.”

  “What are you on about, woman; nothing in this damn place looks right.”

  I shrugged. “Aye, but don’t you think that room has a look of something that should be old. But when you look carefully at it, everything is newly made.”

  “I don’t care, Corran, honestly. I just want to find the house and then figure out where we are and how we came to be here.”

  I followed Simon swiftly past the glass windows, following the alley as it veered slightly left. I glanced up at the eaves above us. They looked a lot older than I had remembered them, but then it was many years since we were last here. The door to our home stood in the same place as we had left it, although it was almost certainly not the same door that Simon had put back on its hinges the night we had fled York.

  “Simon, what does that sign on the door mean?”

  “I don’t know, but it seems to be some sort of direction to the place ‘Barley Hall’.”

  “Who do you think changed our door and how do you suppose we are going to get into the house now?” I asked as we both stood in the cramped little alley, staring at the door.

  “I will find a place that sells tools and take it off, if needs be,” Simon replied forcibly.

  “We could ask someone for directions to a blacksmith. I noticed some people dressed quite sensibly back in the yard. I think they were outside the place that sign is pointing to.”

  “No harm in having a wander back there, I suppose,” he replied, turning to go back down the alley. Turning back to the yard, we stopped outside the doorway to the place called ‘Barley Hall’. A young girl, also wearing men’s trousers, rushed over to us. “Oh, thank goodness you two are here,” she said, breathlessly, “The agency said you were not able to make it today.”

  “Err... we, we were wondering where we could find some tools?” Simon said.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that, you will find everything you need inside. Most people just want to wander around, but if they ask questions, then feel free to share what you can,” she said, extending her hand toward Simon, in offer of a handshake. He took it, shaking her hand politely. “I’m Rose, by the way.”

  Then, turning to me, she offered the same. I smiled, awkwardly, never having shaken a woman’s hand before.

  “I will be downstairs at the desk if you need me. Oh and by the way, really nice costumes.”

  “Err... thank you. I’m Simon and this is my wife, Corran,” Simon replied.

  “Have you two worked here before?” she asked.

  “Worked...? Err... no, I don’t think so,” I said, wondering what the girl could possibly mean.

  “Oh. It’s only I am sure I know your faces. Anyway, good luck and welcome to Barley Hall,” she finished.

  “What do we do now?” I whispered to Simon as I followed him through the large doors into the hall of the building.

  “We go and find some tools, I guess. She said we would find what we needed in here.”

  Moving purposely through the entrance hall and into the main body of the building I recognized immediately where we were.

  “Simon, it’s... our... house,” I said, stumbling over my words.

  “Aye, Corran, I can see that.”

  I stared at the bare white walls, the oak paneling stripped from its surface, and the dark wooden floorboards replaced by a hard cold grainy substance. A tiny, magic light hung from the ancient beam of the ceiling, illuminating a glass cabinet. Bizarre and seemingly random objects lay displayed behind the glass. On the wall above the cabinet was a sign which read ‘Stonegate Voices, Medieval Discoveries’. Four statues, two of them without heads, were propped in a corner, dressed in garments so old even my grandmother would not have considered them for work wear. A green and red door, with the word ‘Gentlemen’ and ‘Ladies’, stood along the wall where the fireplace had been and a new, significantly sturdier staircase rose up from the floor to our bedroom.

  “Where do you think they have put our table?” I whispered.

  “The table?” Simon asked.

  “Aye, our table, where do you think it is?”

  “Corran, our home is bare walls, in a world we do not understand and you are worried about a table?”

  I stared up into the hole in the ceiling where the stairs broke through to the next floor. ‘Plague, Poverty, Prayer’ loomed down on me from a dark poster, lit by another magic light. I could see the high beams of the ceiling as I slowly climbed the staircase and then as I reached the top and turned to my left a body dressed in a green gown and red bonnet guarded our fireplace. Someone had been thoughtful enough to fill the hollow with logs, but it appeared no one had bothered to strike a flint to finish the job. The wall to our bedroom had been cut through to make one large space.

  “Simon, where did that other room come from?” I whispered, taking hold of his arm.

  “It would have been another house, Corran.”

  “I didn’t even know it was there,” I said, quietly.

  “Excuse me?” said a young girl, looking expectantly up at me.“Could you tell me what this room would have been used for?”

  I stared at her, wondering if she was being deliberately facetious.

  “Aye, lass, of course I can tell you,” Simon intervened. “This would have been a bedroom, a place where a family would sleep. You see, over there?” he said, pointing to the outer wall. A grand bed would have stood over there, and at its end would have been a chest; a glorious, beautiful, old chest, filled with the family treasures.”

  “That’s awesome. Did the family have any children?”

  “One family did, aye,” replied Simon. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “I have a baby brother. Mum can’t bring him upstairs because he is in a pushchair.”

  “Where is your daddy?” Simon asked.

  “Daddy doesn’t live with us anymore.”

  “Is your daddy away in battle?”

  “Oh, no, my daddy has another family. Mommy and him are divorced.”

  “Divorced? Why is that?” Simon said.

  “Mummy and daddy would fight too much, so they can’t live together anymore.”

  “Right, so where does your daddy live now?”

  “Daddy is married to another lady. Tell me about the family who used to sleep in this room?” she said, her eyes filled with expectation.

  “Well there was a mummy and daddy and a little boy called Duncan. Duncan’s mummy and daddy were from Scotland.”

  “Like you?” she asked.

  “Aye, lass, like me.”

  “Why did they come and live here?”

  “Now that is a tale,” Simon said.

  “Please tell me?” the little girl asked.

  “A long time ago, in Scotland, in a place called Glencoe, the King of England ordered his soldiers to kill all the people in the village under the age of seventy. Some of the soldiers did not want to do the King’s work, so they broke their swords and fouled their rifles and fled. A young girl from the village died on the mountains but a magnificent highland stag came and saved her. She made her way back down the mountains to her village and there she met a soldier who had hidden in a crevice in the moun
tains. Together they escaped from Scotland and made their way here to York and lived in this little cottage. One day, they found a baby on the banks of the river Ouse. They named him Duncan and raised him as their own. Until one day, a bad man called Angus found them and shot Duncan’s daddy. But the highland stag came and saved the little boy’s daddy and the family fled the city and went back to Scotland.”

  As the story progressed a group of people started to crowd around us, hanging intently on to every word Simon spoke. As he finished the story, several of them called out for more and others patted him on the back in congratulations.

  “Fabulous story pal,” said one enthusiastic listener.

  “Well now, You couldn’t script it,” said another.

  “What a movie that story would make,” boomed another loud voice.

  The little girl looked up at Simon. “Thank you for the story,” she said.

  Simon knelt before her. “It was my pleasure wee lass. What is your name?”

  “I am Libby,” replied the child.

  “Well I am very pleased to know you, Libby. Tell me something, Libby. When were you born?” Simon asked.

  “In 2005. When were you born?” she asked.

  “I was born in 1666,” Simon whispered.

  “That’s the same year as the Great Fire of London,” she said. “You don’t look that old.”

  “That’s because I’m not really that old Libby.”

  “Libby, come on, I can’t keep your brother down here forever,” shouted a woman from downstairs.

  “I am sorry but that’s my mummy, I’ve got to go. Thank you for the story. I will remember it forever,” she said, running toward the stairs.

  “Be careful going down those stairs,” I called to her as she disappeared through the hole in the floor, “they can be dangerous,” I whispered to myself.

  When the crowd had subsided and we were once again alone in the space that had been our bedroom I turned to Simon with worried eyes.

  “Where are we Simon?”

  “I can’t be sure, Corran, but sense tells me we are a long way from where we should be.”

  “What do you think that little girl meant when she said she was born in 2005?”