Chloe's Guardian

by Cheri Gillard

  “We can go to the church now. If you must. But, I tell you, you can pray here as much as there.”

  Even if Horatius could get into the cart, it would be impossible for the slight boy to move him. Maybe he could roll the wheels himself like a wheelchair. There were no other options. He had to get to Sanctuary and find out what was going on. He had to talk to Mebahel.

  “Bring it over, next to me here.” The boy maneuvered it surprisingly well. “You stand on that side. Wait. Take the torch.” The boy did and propped it upright among a pile of stones, then returned to the cart. “Try to hold it steady. Hang on. Here goes.” Horatius jostled and wrestled until he somehow got himself up into the cart. His legs dangled off the back and they were as heavy as wet cement.

  The boy grinned his baby teeth at Horatius. “See? It worked.” He swept up the torch and handed it back to Horatius.

  “We are not anywhere yet,” Horatius said. “Can you lift the tongue? I am going to try to roll it.”

  “You dinna have to roll it. I will.”

  “You cannot possibly move it with me in it.”

  “Move it every day full of stone,” he said proudly. “Earn my bread hauling for the masons at the wall. You dinna look any heavier than a load of rock.” And to prove it, he lifted the tongue and leaned against the weight, bending almost parallel to the ground. He froze there, straining and his feet slowly slipping away from him on the grass.

  Horatius was just about to say never mind when the axle squeaked. First by hairs, then finger widths, the wheels revolved. The boy turned to grin at Horatius but immediately lost ground, so he abandoned the effort and put all his attention back on pulling.

  Once he got the cart off the grass, it moved easier. After a stretch, they turned off the road onto a side path that divided two fields. When through the fields, the cart picked up speed as the path went downhill. Louder it creaked the faster it rolled. Facing backwards, Horatius trusted the boy would guide him safely down the hill.

  That was until he saw the boy’s silhouette standing between the cart’s tracks at the top of the hill. The moon reflected in his eyes as he watched Horatius in wide-eyed astonishment. The boy shrunk away in size while the cart continued to plummet.

  Horatius swiveled in the wagon. The torch dropped out of his hand. It bounced behind on the hillside, sputtering and spitting until it came to a stop in the road. And Horatius, with the cart, continued down the slope. He prepared to jump out, or at least try a controlled fall, just when the cart lurched and crashed into something very immoveable. It stopped all at once.

  But Horatius did not.

  He landed with a great splash in some black pool of smelly water. He surfaced with a mouth full of bitter plankton, coughing, spitting, and cursing, covered in slime and stagnant goo. He floated with his head and feet out of the water a moment while catching his breath and gaining his bearings.

  “Are you all right?” the boy yelled as he scurried down the steep hill in an uneven, sidestepping shuffle. He grabbed up the torch and held it high again. “Are you all right?” He rushed past the overturned cart and came to the edge of the water hole, holding out the torch that cast yellow light over the green sludge and Horatius. The boy stared a moment then said in a quiet, calm voice, “I suppose you are all right then?”

  Horatius snorted. He was not about to claim he was “all right.”

  “Altogether benumbing! You should have seen that. You were practically flying.”

  “That was not flying.”

  The boy thrust his tiny arm out toward Horatius. “Here. Let me help you.”

  “You better move away from the edge.” Or I might be tempted to yank you in here with me. “Step back before you end up in here, too.”

  Reluctantly, the boy stepped back. A baffled expression compressed his face. But he would not be deterred. He scrambled over a pile of downed trees at one bank and dug around until he found a long stick.

  “Here. Grab this. I will pull you out.”

  Horatius snorted at the boy and propelled himself to the opposite bank and crawled out of the pond. He picked chunks of dark slime off his head and shirt and chucked them away, cursing under his breath.

  The light increased on his soaked, filthy tunic. The boy stood with the torch, staring down at him.

  “It got away from me. Started to run me o’er so I had to let go.”

  Horatius’ anger softened at the regret in the boy’s voice. The expression on his face alone could melt a pharaoh’s hardened heart.

  But a look would not clean and dry a filthy tunic. Horatius didn't have the patience to pamper the boy. Nor did he think it would do any good to coddle him and treat him less than the man he pretended to be.

  “Is the cart intact?”

  The boy rushed over to it and tilted the torch near its parts. He spun the top wheel and kicked the bottom. “Looks to be.”

  “Might as well bring it over here and get back to our task.” They had come this far. Sitting around would not clean him or get him closer to a church. The sooner he got to Sanctuary and spoke with a Guardian, the sooner he would get changed—not only out of his wet clothes, but out of his human skin.

  The boy handed him the torch then with a lot of effort, righted the cart.

  Horatius dragged himself back into the cart. He hoisted with his arms while the boy shoved from behind. To Horatius’ surprise, the boy actually had unseen strength in those spindly arms of his.

  Once they got him settled back in the cart, the boy lay against the weight of it again and got it rolling, though it clunked in a new way when the wheel came around and hit the side, and it rocked a lot worse.

  “You can count on me,” the boy said. “I will have you there in no time.”

  Horatius hoped he was right. Because that was just what he had—no time. The girls had been with Panahasi too long. If he didn’t find them soon, it might be too late.

  CHAPTER 31

  The woman obviously in charge of the castle let the servers bring more food after their captor waved them over. She must have been satisfied with the arrangements.

  Kaitlyn took a loaf of bread from a wooden platter and a bowl of some chopped chunks of something. She must have determined it was meatless because she dug in like a fourteen-year-old boy. Chloe was hesitant, but her resolve melted when the aroma of stew wafted into her face and made her stomach rumble. The stew had greasy chunks of tender meat and potatoes, and it tasted something like Nana would have made if she still knew how to use the stove without burning down the kitchen.

  That thought petrified the bite halfway down her throat. She had to find Horace and get back. No matter what this guy suggested about Horace, he was their ticket out of there. They had to find him and make him take them back. Too much time had already been wasted.

  “Kaitlyn, we have to go,” she whispered.

  “Go where, Cello? This is really good,” she said around a mouth of potatoes.

  “To find Horace. Back home. We can’t stay here.”

  “What are you two whispering about there?”

  “You know,” Kaitlyn said to their captor, “we don’t even know your name yet.”

  “You can call me Pan, dear one.” He stroked her cheek with a brief touch. Chloe wanted to knock his hand away. He had no right to touch Kaitlyn like that.

  But Kaitlyn didn’t seem to mind at all. Her eyes twinkled at him and she took another bite of bread. “I’ve never heard of that. Oh wait. Peter Pan. Is it like that?”

  He made a strange face. “Never heard of him.” He motioned a servant over, changing the subject. “Ah, he found your instruments already.”

  Chloe scarfed down three more bites of the stew as Pan lifted her by the elbow from the bench. “I just started eating.”

  “You need to start making music if you want to eat again.” For a second he seemed angry, but then she couldn’t read him. He was impossible to figure out. “You play and then we will talk about getting you home.”

  “It�
��s not that simple.”

  His eyes twinkled like he knew a secret. After he bit an apple he said, “See that fat man up there joining the lady? That is George Gordon. He will enjoy the music. And he will appreciate your fine beauty, even with those ridiculous clothes you are wearing.”

  Her stupid, weird dress again. She’d been able for forget about it for the past five minutes while no one was laughing and she fed her hunger.

  “Aren’t these crazy?” Kaitlyn said. “Horace dressed us in these before he passed out and we left with you.”

  That snapped Pan’s full attention around to Kaitlyn. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes encouraged Kaitlyn to elaborate.

  “He said we couldn’t go home. And Chloe really needs to get home to Denver. Do you know—”

  “Kaitlyn,” Chloe warned. “We probably need to go play now.” She didn’t know how much they should tell Pan, but she was sure it wouldn’t be a good idea to tell him they were from the future and Horace was only half man and had flown them through some crazy dimensional alter-reality with demons and angels and then marooned them in the wrong century.

  “Oh. Okay,” Kaitlyn said. “What should we play? Do you have the Corelli memorized?” she said over her shoulder, already on her way to the platform.

  It took a few minutes to figure out the strings of the instruments and tune them like they wanted. And it took some adjustment for Kaitlyn to figure out how to play with her arms restricted by her dress. Chloe positioned her cello between her pink bloomers. After an uncomfortable delay, they finally started making music.

  In spite of the need to adjust to the different cello, playing soothed Chloe and helped ease her fear and tension. For even a brief moment, she didn’t think about anything but the music. It transported her to a place reminiscent of the passageway Horace had taken them where the music had flavor and aroma and seeped into her skin.

  A loud ruckus swelled from the doorway and opened Chloe’s eyes. The man with the eye patch, accompanied by a cluster of other men, were running into the hall yelling and gesturing like the building was about to be bombed. Kaitlyn said, “Uh-oh. We better cadence,” to Chloe and they moved to the tonic of the piece and came to a close.

  Mr. Gordon jumped out of his seat, spilling his cup and tipping his chair. He yelled while his wife yelled, while everyone in the room yelled.

  The man with the eye patch reached Mr. Gordon and with the help of his companions, they grabbed the fat man’s arms and propelled him out of the hall through a door behind the platform.

  “What’s going on?” Kaitlyn asked.

  Chloe had no idea, but it seemed a good time to escape while everything was in upheaval.

  Chloe put her cello down, grabbed Kaitlyn’s instrument and put it on a table, then grasped Kaitlyn’s hand. Pan was no where to be seen. “Come on. We have to go. Now!”

  They went out the way they’d come in, past people running and paying them no attention, and came again into the courtyard surrounding the castle. People ran in every direction, and everyone carried horrible medieval-looking weapons, like maces and hatchets and giant swords.

  A beam the size of an oak tree held the main gate closed. Armed Highlanders crouched on the towering wallwalk above them, peering out toward the land beyond.

  “What’s happening?” Kaitlyn called up to them. Chloe pulled her away before anyone heard her over the uproar and guided her along the wall looking for another gate. They ran along as fast as Kaitlyn’s strange skirt would allow, sticking close to the inner curve of the outer wall. They ran through the dusty dirt yard between the castle and the defense wall until they came to what would be a backyard at home.

  Pan and another man in a dirty tartan kilted around his dingy yellow shirt were partway up a ladder of sorts—a thick beam with pegs sticking out the sides, which was leaning again the tall wall surrounding the castle grounds. They were pushing and prodding the barrel-shaped Gordon up the ladder, trying to get his rotund body over the wall. Pan yelled profane sounds each time the fat man’s bare foot landed on his face.

  With a final heave, Gordon disappeared over the top. The other Highlander followed him. Pan twisted to jump after him and saw Kaitlyn and Chloe.

  “What are you doing here?” he exclaimed. “Get back inside. The Queen’s army is coming on fast and I have to go with Gordon. If I stay and am captured, I won't be able to help you. Go inside! You'll be safer here than on the run with me. You don't understand this warfare. Just remain inside. I will be back for you in less than twenty-four hours. I promise.”

  “An army? You can’t leave us here. No one else understands us. They’ll kill us,” Chloe said.

  Kaitlyn whimpered.

  Pan jumped down from the ladder. He laid a hand on each of their shoulders and spat out something foreign.

  “I cannot take you. But I will be back. And then I will take you back to your home.” In a quick leap and two steps, he disappeared over the wall.

  Kaitlyn rounded on Chloe. “Did you hear what he said? He’s going to help us get home!”

  CHAPTER 32

  The ruts and holes jerked the cart left then right as the boy hauled it forward with the force of an ox. At least the hill was behind them. But Horatius lurched back and forth, trying not to fall out, even on the level road to the village.

  “Do you have to go so fast? This crate doesn’t seem overly solid anymore.”

  “All the better to hurry, then, to get there afore it falls apart.”

  “I wish to get there alive,” Horatius said in a vibrating, unsteady voice.

  “I told you to pray from where we were,” the boy threw over his shoulder as he propelled them forward without lessoning his pace. “You said you had to go to the church. I am taking you to the church.”

  “I swear I will not pay you if I am dead.”

  The top slat of wood came away in Horatius’ hand when they hit a particularly deep hole. On the next hard bump, one entire side of the cart wall snapped off and cartwheeled through the dust behind them. He grabbed the edge of the floor with the hand not holding the torch, wondering how many more bumps before he’d be riding on just the axle.

  It took two.

  A loud crack accompanied the second bump and several pieces of the cart broke away and bounced off down the road. One plank of wood from the flooring was all that kept Horatius off the ground. The cart picked up even more speed now that it weighed several boards less.

  “Stop boy, stop,” Horatius yelled. “This is not Ben Hur, boy.” His voice jolted with each bump.

  The boy made a quick glance back and his eyes flashed wide. He tried to stop, but the speed jerked him forward with his hands gripping the tongue. His spindly legs sprinted with the momentum while Horatius held on and tried to keep his teeth from rattling out of his head.

  “Pull back, boy! You’ve got to slow it down,” Horatius yelled in a bumpy voice.

  The boy dug in his heels and created a dust cloud. The crazed flight finally started to slacken. Horatius’ head was only a finger’s breadth from the ground, his hair mopping the dirt. Bouncing on his back, he lay head-down on the one single plank left of the cart, with a fist over his head, clamped around a peg sticking up from the wood, which was all that kept him from sliding off. The end of that single plank dug a furrow in the dirt, snaking down the middle of the path.

  The cart slowed and at last they stopped, and Horatius lowered his leg that stuck straight in the air to rest it on the top edge of a wheel—and the wheel popped off, slamming down that side of the axle. The jolt threw him off and he rolled into the dirt. How utterly disappointing that they hadn’t made it to the church before losing their transportation.

  Horatius lifted his eyelids and found the boy bending over him, studying his face with the torch he’d picked back up.

  “You all right?”

  Horatius did not move. “Do you not find it a bit distressing that, once again, we are in a situation that requires your inquiry into the state of my wellbeing?
”

  He looked baffled and took a moment to respond. “You are all right then?”

  “Absolutely. I am fine.” It took much effort, but he managed to get to his feet. Dizziness forced him over, putting his hands on his knees to keep from toppling back over. “Have you any more great ideas?”

  He had not meant it, but the boy took off again, disappearing once more into the darkness, which was not quite as dark anymore. The black of night was giving way to the graying of a predawn glow.

  Horatius tried to straighten up. His legs didn’t feel like they were under his own command. Every three to four steps, he had to stop and take two deep breaths. After three cycles, his hands went back to his knees and he waited, bent over, for strength to continue.

  Chloe’s grandmother’s walker would certainly be welcome about now. Sure. He could just conjure it up. Or as long as he was at it, how about a limo? Yes, that would be nice. With champagne and Chloe in the back seat. But then, why not just transfigure and get out of this blasted mess and be done with it once and for all? He was sick and tired of the frustration and limitation. How would he ever be able to save Chloe if he couldn’t do something. I must get out of this godforsaken situation!

  The anger got him through four more cycles of step-step-step-breathe-breathe. He straightened up and started walking again. And from the darkness before him came a shrill bray.

  A distance down the path, the boy became visible as he strolled along with a mule walking at his side. And from all physical appearances, it was the mule he had abandoned.

  “She will help,” the boy said.

  Horatius could not believe it. The stupid beast meandered along the boy’s side without him even holding its bit.

  “How did you get it to do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Walk with you like that. I couldn’t beat it into moving.”

  “Beat her? I just talked to her. She is a nice molly.”

  “That beast is anything but nice.” But Horatius was relieved to see it. His legs were not going to hold him up much longer. “Okay, hold it steady and let me try to get on.”