“Aye.” Matthew sat down beside her and pulled the comb through his damp hair. “It is enough to make a man feel most humble, and very small.” He froze with the comb halfway through his hair and hissed a warning.
Alex followed his eyes to the other shore. One by one, a group of Indians were coming out of the forest. Matthew stood up, raised his hand in a silent greeting and bowed. The men facing them returned the greeting, filled their water skins and melted back into the surrounding woods as silently as they had come.
*
“Indians?” Ian sounded jealous. “What did they look like?”
“Like men do in general,” Alex replied, earning herself six – nay, eight if one included Fiona and Jonah – disbelieving looks. “They did, right?” she said, turning to Matthew.
Matthew concentrated on his food, drank and wiped his mouth before sitting back to answer. “They did. Less clothes, most of them only in leather breeches, but aye, much like men in general.”
Two of them had carried muskets and that worried him, as did the fact that he now had a band of a dozen or so Susquehannock braves close to his home, on his land. Should they choose to attack, there was nothing he could do to defend his family – they would easily overrun whatever defences he, Ian and Jonah could offer. He swallowed noisily, disguising it as a cough attack. Occasionally, there were stories of Indians attacking homesteads such as theirs, but they were rare, he reminded himself, and anyway the Susquehannock were allies, a tribe that traded with white men.
Just in case, Matthew insisted on leading the livestock into the stable for the night and took an extra round to ensure all his doors were safely fastened. He gave Ian one of his muskets, placed a loaded pistol within reach on Alex’s side of the bed, and leaned a musket against the wall on his own.
Alex didn’t say anything, but he could see in her eyes that she was disconcerted by his behaviour, and she spent far longer than usual in their bairns’ rooms before joining him in their bed.
“Do you really think they might attack us?” she said in a small voice.
“Nay, not really.” He kicked off the quilts. It was hot in their little room, and with the shutters closed it was worse than usual. “It doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”
*
The Indians came into their yard next morning: twelve silent men that stood waiting until Matthew went out to greet them. It took some effort to stand at ease in the half-circle of braves that surrounded him. His hands itched for the weight of a musket or a sword, but he’d decided that to go out armed was too much of a provocation, keeping only the dirk that always hung on his belt.
He stood still under the leader’s appraising inspection, meeting the dark eyes of a man of an age with himself. The man’s hair was streaked with grey, his face the deep brown of a ripe hazelnut, as was his lean torso, the strong arms and long fingered hands. The supple leather of his leggings clung to him, and round his waist was wrapped a decorated band from which hung an axe and a long, evil-looking knife. He radiated no overt animosity, more a wary curiosity towards these strangers who were encroaching on lands that had for generations belonged to his people, his tribe. The Indian adjusted his quiver and plucked at his bowstring, eyes straying towards the river.
“I was born here.” The Indian spoke good English, surprising Matthew.
“Here?” Matthew indicated the ground at his feet.
“No, over there, in the ruined village.”
“Ah.” Matthew nodded. “I’m Matthew, Matthew Graham.”
“I am Qaachow – of the Susquehannock.” The Indian bowed; Matthew followed suit.
“What happened?” Matthew asked. “To the village.”
“Smallpox.” Qaachow grimaced. “They all died – including my wife and my little daughter.”
“I’m sorry. It’s a terrible thing to lose a child.” He met Qaachow’s eyes and smiled ruefully. “My daughter died in Scotland, five years ago, and not a day goes by that I don’t think of her.” My lass, my Rachel. He raised his eyes to the sky like he always did when he thought of her, hoping for a glimpse of his angel child, somewhere way up high.
He shook himself, recalled his duties as a host, and invited Qaachow and his men to share his table. He was somewhat relieved when Qaachow declined, saying they preferred to stay outside.
“Alex!” Matthew called. “Will you be so kind and bring our guests some food?”
His wife appeared so quickly she must have been waiting behind the door with the heaped platters and jugs of beer that were now carried outside. Once the food had been distributed, Alex served the beer, curtseying in the direction of Qaachow before handing him a mug.
“You can go back inside now,” Matthew said.
“I’ll stay,” she replied, pouring him some beer. “What do they want?”
“We speak your tongue,” Qaachow said, making Alex go so bright red Matthew smiled.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, “that was impolite of me. I’m Alex.” She extended her hand.
Qaachow backed away, staring at her hand. “I am Qaachow.” He gave her a little bow. “We must be on our way,” he added, directing himself to Matthew. “We have a long way to travel.” He inclined his head, swivelled on his heel and led his men due south.
“What did they want?” Alex slipped her arms around Matthew’s waist.
“He grew up here,” Matthew said into her hair. “In the abandoned village. He wishes us to respect his dead, I reckon.”
“His dead?” Alex reared back to see Matthew’s face.
“His people – they died of the smallpox.” He uttered a quick prayer and looked down at her. “We’ll not to disturb them: his wee daughter and his wife – we’ll leave them to rest in peace, aye?”
“Of course,” Alex said. “His daughter?”
“Aye, a wee lass. Like our Rachel.”
Chapter 5
Edinburgh, 2016
Magnus Lind rarely talked about his daughter anymore. Not at all, actually, except with Isaac, his grandson. But not speaking didn’t mean not thinking, and not a day passed without Magnus throwing at least one thought in the direction of his lost girl, gone now for almost fourteen years.
He poured himself a cup of coffee, grabbed a bun hot from the oven, and stepped outside into the garden. June twilights were purple moments of time perfumed with lavender and honeysuckle, roses and the heady scent of the mock-orange that grew by the garden shed.
He sank down into his rickety garden chair and stretched out his legs. He felt lonely and abandoned, with his woman, Eva, in London and Isaac away for the weekend with some of his friends. Even more abandoned after his late afternoon appointment with his doctor, but that was his own fault – he hadn’t told either of them about his resurfacing headaches.
“It’s back,” his doctor had told him straight on. He liked that about her: she never prevaricated. He’d nodded, not at all surprised. Almost five years since last time, a long period of grace for a man diagnosed with brain cancer.
“So what do we do?”
“Three this time,” the doctor informed him. “At least one of them sits so deeply imbedded it will be impossible to operate. So we’ll start you on chemo next week.”
Magnus hadn’t said anything then, but now in his garden he made up his mind. No chemo, no radiation, no months of constant nausea, of seeing his hair fall out...This time he was going to refuse all that – he had another plan. He bit into the bun, but it grew in his mouth, swelling into something that threatened to choke him, so he spat it out, drawing a shaking hand across his mouth. His little idea obviously scared the shit out of him, he thought sarcastically.
A few minutes later, he was standing in the studio at the top of the house. Once a place full of Spanish music, cigarette smoke and his mysterious Spanish wife, nowadays this was the territory of his grandson, seemingly as talented as Merce
des. On a nail hung the cardigan Mercedes would wear when she was cold, a paint-spattered black wool that smelled of her, even now, seventeen years since she’d last used it.
Magnus did what he always did when he entered the studio: he prowled through cupboards and the stacked canvases, ensuring there were none of Mercedes’ magical pictures lying about. More out of rote than necessity, because by now he’d gone through the room so often he knew there weren’t any postcard-size canvases heaving in greens and blues, horrible little maelstroms of paint that swallowed you and spat you out elsewhere.
“Vilken djävla underlig familj,” he said, once he was done. What a strange family! Understatement really; his family was more than strange, it was bloody weird. His wife some sort of repetitive time traveller, born into a family of magically gifted painters in medieval Seville. His daughter yanked through a time funnel, and his grandson... Magnus grimaced, looking over to where he kept the special picture Isaac had painted for him last time he was ill.
“A return ticket,” Isaac had said at the time, holding up two small canvases. “One to go and see her; one to come back to me.” Except that now there was only a single, seeing as John, Isaac’s dad, had since then destroyed one of them.
It frightened the daylights out of Magnus to realise that Isaac had inherited Mercedes’ magical gifts. People shouldn’t be able to paint holes through time! Thankfully, it scared Isaac as well, the boy going pale around the gills whenever they discussed it – well, he would. Isaac had twice experienced what it was like to be sucked through one of Mercedes’ time portals, and had no wish whatsoever to repeat the experience.
Magnus looked about the room. Everywhere were Isaac’s paintings, fantastic paintings, but all of them normal. Normal? Magnus swelled with pride. These were the works of a budding genius, canvas after canvas of non-figurative art. Whatever; the important thing was that there was no magic in them, no sensation of vertigo if one got too close, which was not the case with the miniature painting that Magnus now extracted from its hiding place. He peeked at it. The picture hummed, vibrating in his hands. Hastily, he stuffed it back out of sight. Not yet; he had things to do first.
“But you can’t do something like that! It’s suicide!” Eva looked at him with an expression of absolute shock.
“No, it isn’t, I’m going to hang on for as long as I can, but not with all of me disintegrating.” Magnus wasn’t quite sure how to tell her this, so he went over to where she was sitting on the sofa and laid down, pillowing his aching head in her lap. “I was thinking of trying...”
Eva stiffened under him. “No, Magnus, please no.”
He twisted round onto his back and lifted one hand to cup her face.
“My little Eva, have I ever told you how glad I am that I went on that cruise all those years ago and met you?”
She smiled, covering his hand with her own. “Not as such. But I know.”
“I’ll die pretty soon,” Magnus went on, closing his eyes to avoid her pleading look. “If I’m with you one month or six months doesn’t really make that much of a difference, does it?”
“Yes, it does, that’s another 150 days.”
He smiled at her preciseness. “But they might be rather awful days.” He sat up beside her and took her hands in his. “I might have a chance to see her again. I’ve no idea if it will work – and anyone with a mind as rational as yours will of course scoff and say it won’t work – but I’m going to try.”
She disengaged her hands and hugged him. “How will I ever cope without you?” she whispered into his neck.
“You’ll have to learn, sweetheart. I’m going to be gone anyway.” He swallowed back on an urge to cry and hugged her back. They sat like that for a long time.
*
“I promised you several years ago that I’d tell you the truth.” Magnus bent down to extract the roasted chicken from the oven. “Breast or leg?”
“Leg,” Isaac said, “and more potatoes than carrots.
“So it’s back,” Isaac stated once they were both seated.
Magnus nodded. “Three. The size of walnuts. And if nothing’s done I’ll be dead within two to six months.”
“And if you do something?” Isaac’s voice wobbled.
“They don’t know. A year? Two years?” Magnus waved his chicken bone at him. “But I don’t want to. I hated it last time, and this time I’ve decided not to.”
Isaac shoved his plate away from him. “But that means you die.”
“I die anyway. It’s just a question of how quickly.” Magnus took a deep breath. “Last time I almost fell through one of your paintings by accident, remember?” He’d just been looking at it, holding the delicate canvas in his big hands, when it had begun to hum, to whisper and cajole. Moments later, he’d been sucked into a vortex of bright light, and even now, so many years later, Magnus had to fist his hands to stop them from trembling at the recollection of that horrible sensation of falling down an endless, narrow chute.
Isaac nodded, eyes wary.
Magnus gave him a lopsided smile. Yes, this was terrible stuff to talk about.
“Dad pulled you back. He says all he could see were your legs...”
Magnus shuddered. John had pulled him back in the nick of time, after which he’d demolished the canvas with a knife.
“Shit, it hurt! My head felt like it was about to explode with pressure. And next time I went to the doctor the tumour had disappeared.” He met his grandson’s dark eyes and pursed his lips. “This time I’m going to try and fall all the way.”
“No,” Isaac groaned, “no, Offa.”
“I have to, I...” He exhaled loudly. “I miss her so much. And if I’m going to die anyway, then why not? Who knows, the tumours might be zapped into oblivion this time as well.”
“Or not, and then what? No hospitals, no doctors...”
“I’m prepared to take that chance.”
“And what about me?” Isaac sounded much younger than he was.
Ah, shit.
Magnus leaned forward and tousled the dark mop of hair. “You? You’ll do fine. You have to. And you’ve got John and Diane and even Eva to help you out.”
“But not you,” Isaac said accusingly.
“I’ll be dead shortly anyway. But somehow I’ll be around. In your dreams and in your thoughts, I’ll still be there.”
Isaac didn’t reply. He just took hold of Magnus’ hand.
*
Over the coming weeks, Magnus said silent farewells to everything: his garden and his home, his family and friends. His favourite pub just off the Castle Rock, the bench he liked to sit on in the Botanical Gardens, the long walk up to Arthur’s Seat where he stood for a long time looking in the general direction of the north-east, towards his birthplace in Stockholm. Most of all, he spent his time with Isaac and with Eva – the days with his grandson, the nights with his woman.
Magnus had decided on a day in July, and when the final countdown began, he was unable to sleep. Instead, he sat through the nights in his study, taking down his leather tomes to study them for one last time. The last night he stood in the passageway between the kitchen and the front door, looking at the photographs that lined the walls. Alex, Alex, Alex – everywhere Alex; twenty-six years documented in fading colour prints. He stood before each and every one of them and wondered if he was totally insane to contemplate an attempted leap through time on the faint hope that he would find her again. Probably. He dragged a hand through his short hair and, for the last time, switched off the lights downstairs.
He had decided long ago that he would say no goodbyes – for his own sake. But he did, lying on his side while Eva slept to engrave all of her in his mind. She snored, she always did, and he brushed her hair off her face to see her better. In the grey predawn he kissed Eva tenderly on her cheek, stood for some minutes looking down at her sleeping shape, and tiptoed
out of the room. On the nightstand he left two letters, one for Eva and one for Isaac.
He hesitated on the upper landing before entering the studio. Jesus! What on earth was he doing? On the easel he had already placed Isaac’s little painting, and he hurried towards it before he should lose his nerve.
He was drowning in second thoughts, his brain buzzing with apprehension. What if Isaac’s painting didn’t work or, even worse, what if it did work but only partly, leaving him hanging in the in between? He was exhausted and, behind his brows, the ubiquitous headache swelled into an unbearable dissonance, with swirling, concentric circles dominating his vision. He squinted and shook his head. This was the way it was going to be; even the doctor more or less admitted that there was nothing much to do.
“Right.” He tightened the belt around the unfamiliar clothes he was wearing: scratchy breeches, woollen stockings and an old-fashioned linen shirt. “Magnus Lind, this is it.”
He stepped up to the easel, took a big breath and looked deep into the swirling blues and greens – a magical painting, a captured funnel through time, expertly executed by his grandson. He heard the painting whisper, and he wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore. He heard it sing, a soft humming that wrapped itself around his head. Where was she? Isaac said he had to actually see Alex to be able to go to her, and he couldn’t see anything but blue. He felt as if he was drowning and closed his eyes, gulping precious air when the pressure that banded his chest eased. Maybe this was a stupid thing to do… Yes, maybe he should go back to bed instead.
The picture sang, high sweet tones that made him open his eyes. Green; everything was green, spinning round him. And look... There! Haloed in a glowing light he saw her, a dark silhouette in long skirts. Was it really her? He heard her laugh, and there was the sound of a child as well. He leaned forward, his eyes on the elusive shapes. He stretched out his hand and the funnel closed like a vice around him.
Herre Gud! Magnus tried to rear back because something was tearing at his insides, clawing viciously through his head. He didn’t want to do this anymore, God it hurt, and what were all those terrible, terrible sounds? In his head, a chainsaw was digging into his brain, and he could swear he was on fire. He opened his mouth to scream for help but it was far too late, and with a final, painful wrench his body was sucked into the maelstrom.
A Newfound Land (The Graham Saga) Page 6
