He turned to look at them, two rather apprehensive young people standing very close together.
“Strange isn’t it? First Alexandra goes missing – is apparently held somewhere against her will for some months – and on the day she reappears, her mother vanishes, never to be heard from again. Unfortunately.”
It had been one of the happier days in his long, long, life, the day Ángel called him to tell him he’d found her – not the witch herself, but her daughter, an Alexandra Lind. Was he sure? Yes, Ángel had yelled – well, he was almost sure, like ninety-nine per cent sure. So what did Hector want him to do? Well, that had been easy. At last; a golden opportunity to snare the witch once and for all, and if the daughter was somewhat battered as a result, well, so be it – blame it on the mother, not on him. Hector’s brow creased together; damn Mercedes! Somehow she’d evaded his elegantly baited trap, and in the process taken Ángel with her. How?
“You don’t really like her much, do you?” Diane said.
“Who? Mercedes? No, her I don’t like, but then why should I? She’s a witch. This is all her fault, she’s the one who started it, dragging me out of my time.”
“Oh dear.” Diane made a tut-tutting sound. “And why, one wonders. What did you do to her?”
“That, Ms Wilson, is none of your business. Let’s just say that she has utterly destroyed my life, and for that I would dearly want to make her pay.” She made a derisive sound that Hector chose to disregard. At times it was better to ignore than punish – the aftermaths could be so tedious. He did one last, slow turn, bidding Diego a mental farewell. And now who would share all his secrets? Hector sighed; years of companionship left one very vulnerable to the darker sides of solitude.
“We might as well drive back,” he said. “There’s nothing to see here, is there?”
“What were you hoping for? A neat little sign post saying Time Node? An open hole to another dimension in time?” Diane’s voice was loaded with sarcasm. “You know, something – anything – to corroborate your rather weird story.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” Hector sank his eyes into her.
“Yes, I suppose I am – or delusional, take your pick.”
“I am not delusional,” Hector said through gritted teeth. This young woman was beginning to annoy him. He forced himself to un-claw his fingers.
“None of this time travelling stuff is true!” Diane said.
“No, of course it isn’t,” John broke in. “There must be a logical explanation.”
“Of course,” Hector sneered. “I can’t wait to hear it. How will it explain the dry car in the middle of the downpour? Or her rusted phone? Or my poor Diego?”
“I don’t know,” John mumbled.
“No of course you don’t, because there isn’t one.”
“There must be,” Diane said.
“There isn’t; trust me.” Hector turned to look at a deflated John. “Get over her, she’ll never come back.” John moaned, and Hector gave him an irritated look; what did he have to whine about? It wasn’t him who had been thrown out of his time, was it?
She’d tricked him. Hector shoved his hands into his pockets. Fucking witch! Hector pressed his lips together to contain the rage that roared up from his belly, clogged his throat and filled him with the desire to rip someone’s heart out. Now.
He turned his back on them, struggling to calm down. The landscape rose and fell in soft swells around him, muted greens creating a soothing backdrop to the odd purples and pinks – so different from his homeland, a land of dusty heat, of faded browns and dull yellows. Sevilla, mi Sevilla… And the year was 1480 or thereabouts, and he was young, an up and coming man at the court of La Reina Isabel, handpicked by Her Most Catholic Majesty to help in that most sensitive of tasks – cleansing the new-born Spain of all heretics.
He followed them back towards the car, sunk into his memories. So much power; a bright future stretching before him, a life of wealth, of influence, a servant of the Inquisition, a man who came and went unhindered through the gates of the Alcázar of Seville – and then Mercedes ruined it. Witch! To stand there and curse him, to tell him she would make him pay and for what, hey? For doing his job! Was it his fault her father was a false convert? Benjamin ben Isaac became Benito Gutierrez only to avoid expulsion from Seville – everyone knew that. Well; not until he, Hector, told them so, nodding gravely as he described how Benito settled the prayer shawl around his shoulders.
“Hmm?”
“I said, do you want us to drop you off somewhere, or is the office fine?” Diane twisted to look at him. “Are you alright?”
Hector strangled a guffaw. Alright? Of course he wasn’t alright! He was living a life he shouldn’t be leading, in a time he shouldn’t be in. Damn you Mercedes! He stretched his lips into a smile, told Diane the office was fine and sat back.
He’d lied. Benito was no false convert, and nor was his pretty youngest daughter, Dolores. But what was Hector to do, trapped in a mess that threatened to explode in his face? He had no choice! His biggest mistake had been to let Mercedes live – he should have dragged her before the Inquisition as well, and then she’d have been yet another woman roasted to death on the central plaza, and he could have gone on with his well-ordered, happy life.
His hands knotted together. Instead… She’d yanked him out of his time, the witch. Years – endless years – thrown from one age to the other in his desperate attempts to get back, to go home. Mercedes had cackled with laughter when she told him she’d cursed him – never to die, always to roam, unless he made it back to medieval Seville. He crossed himself; please let me die, strike me with a heavenly bolt and obliterate me, hang me upside down and slice me open, throw me into an erupting crater, but please, please let me die – don’t leave me to rot to pieces.
He cleared his throat, met John’s brown eyes in the rear-view mirror and busied himself finding a piece of gum. A painting; he needed to get his hands on one of Mercedes’ paintings. That was how it all began, with a picture the size of a postcard, and he’d looked at it, unable to tear his eyes away from the growing funnel of bright, bright light. So much noise, so much pain…he shuddered.
Hector leaned his brow against the window, and in his head danced Dolores, pretty, pretty Dolores. He wondered at times if, once he found himself at rest, he might see her again. It almost made him laugh. If Dolores got the opportunity, he was sure she’d tear his balls off and feed them to him. In his more introspective moments, he admitted he deserved it.
Chapter 7
On the seventh day of this her new existence, Alex walked downhill in the direction of the spring, compiling a list of things she missed the most from the twenty-first century in her head. As the effects of her concussion waned, the enormity of her predicament became increasingly clearer to her, leaving her with an urge to dig a hole somewhere and hibernate, sleep her way through this extended nightmare. Totally unproductive behaviour, the logical part of her brain remonstrated, and so instead she made lists.
“Lemon meringue pie, or maybe a cappuccino with a brioche?” She was constantly hungry, her stomach protesting in long, angry rumblings at this sudden and brutal change in diet. In the end she decided none of these made the shortlist – after all, she wasn’t starving. “Toothbrush,” she nodded, “toothbrush, soap, clean underwear, toilet paper and…” Hmm. Sanitary pads, she added some minutes later. Talk about inconvenient.
She hesitated by the road on her way back. Every morning she’d hurried to look at it, hoping that it would have resurrected itself in its modern form overnight. It hadn’t. So far, she’d avoided setting foot on the crossroads itself, having to ward off vivid memories of that churning hole whenever she got too close. But today she took a deep breath and shuffled to the middle, forcing her legs to remain straight.
She closed her eyes and raised her arms. Please; take me back. Nothing happened. Of course nothing happened! What had she expected, a revolving door through time? John. He swam before her, blond
hair flopping over his forehead. She folded together around his name, cradling it to her. She fell to her knees, clasped her hands as her grandmother used to do, and prayed, a gabbled stream of words in Swedish – the only language she’d ever heard used to invoke God. Maybe if she did this long enough something would happen, taking her back to her world and her people – Isaac, john and Magnus.
“What are you doing?” Matthew’s voice recalled her to the empty moor and the dirt track that went for a road.
“Nothing.” She stood, feeling ridiculous.
“You were praying, weren’t you? Begging the Lord to whisk you back to your time, I reckon.”
Alex shrugged. “I guess I thought it worth a try at least.” She made an effort and smiled at him. “If wishes were horses, hey?”
“Ah well; I wouldn’t much mind a horse myself, but one has to make do with what one has, not yearn for what one doesn’t.”
“Easy for you to say.” She had absolutely nothing here.
“But true none the less.” He adjusted his bundle. “Ready?” They were leaving today, Matthew having pronounced her foot was good to go.
“All set.” She threw one last look at the crossroads before following him up the hill.
The sun was directly overhead by the time Matthew decided to stop. Alex sat down under a stunted tree and lifted her feet to inspect the soles.
“It’s been years since I walked barefoot. Look, I have bruises.”
“No you don’t, that’s dirt.” He handed her the water skin and tilted his head at the soft murmur of water. “Would you eat frogs?”
“Frogs?” Not if she could avoid it.
“They can be quite tasty, mayhap not the sort of food you’re accustomed to, but all the same.” He did a quick scan of their surroundings. “I don’t think we’ll find any – what was it? Chocolate? – anywhere close.”
“No, probably not.” All morning she’d been telling him of the food she was missing. Frogs seemed a poor substitute for hamburgers and tandoori chicken, and it definitely was a far cry from one of Magnus’ chocolate cakes.
“It’s food,” he said, a sharp edge to his voice. “Better than walking on an empty belly.”
“As long as you cook them.”
Alex tore into the frogs with determination. Chicken, pretend it’s chicken. She’d picked dandelion leaves and tried to convince him to try some. He did, but told her such green stuff was best left to horses and cows. But he ate more than his share of the raspberries she’d found, laughing at her when she tried to keep her own hoard safe from his raiding hands, laughing even more when she jumped him in a playful attempt to get her berries back. Matthew stuffed them in his mouth and flung himself down beside her.
“I haven’t laughed like that for many years.”
“Well, I suppose being in prison does that to you,” she smiled. He nodded and closed his eyes. Long, long lashes and she liked the way his eyes shifted colour, from not quite gold to muddy green.
She woke with a start some time later, her head pillowed on his chest, and sat up so fast she woke him up as well. How had that happened? He got to his feet looking as embarrassed as she felt, and they kept their distance when they resumed their walk.
“You said you were born in Seville,” he said once they were back in stride.
“Yes. I’m half-Spanish, half-Swedish, although Magnus insists I ended up French given my temper.” She smiled at the thought of her father. “I miss him, and I’m so sorry that he’ll never know, maybe he’ll think that I just took off, you know?”
“Why would he think that? You have a bairn, don’t you?”
“Yes, but still; what else is he to believe?” And now Magnus would be all alone; no wife, no daughter.
“Aye,” Matthew nodded. “So what’s he like then, your Da?”
“He’s the best,” she said, stooping to brush her hand over a cushion of pink moss campion. “He’s a botanist, like his father was, and his grandfather and his father before him…you get the picture, right? According to Magnus, one of his forefathers actually was a disciple of the great Linnaeus.” That drew an absolute blank, and she frowned, trying to remember when Carl Linnaeus was born. He wasn’t in the making yet, it was fifty years at least before he’d be born.
“He has a thing about roses,” she went on. “You should see his garden in the summer, at the last count he had over forty varieties, and in spring he’ll spend weeks cutting them back, talking to them in Swedish.”
“He talks to his roses?”
Alex laughed at his incredulous expression. “He talks to all his plants, he says it’s good for them.”
He laughed. “Fortunate he isn’t a farmer; he’d have a right dry throat.”
“He used to tell me stories when I was little, scary Swedish stories about trolls and goblins and fairies, and then I’d wake up crying in the night, and he’d take me down to the kitchen and we’d sit and talk over milk and cookies.” It had always been Magnus; Magnus who walked her to school that first day, Magnus who’d spend hours helping her with her science projects. And now she’d never see him again. She cleared her thickening throat; get it together, Alex Lind. But why the hell should she? She drew in a long, shuddering breath. Pappa, min Pappa.
The following days they walked more than Alex had ever walked in her life before. They rose at dawn, ate whatever they could find, and walked until late afternoon. Sometimes Matthew snuck down to isolated farmhouses, procuring an odd loaf of bread, some eggs or the occasional chunk of salted pork.
“Do you steal it?” It seemed an unnecessary risk.
“Nay, I buy it.” He held up a worn leather pouch and shook it, letting a soft jingle of coins leak through. “But this I stole.”
“Oh,” she said, eyeing the very small pouch. “I’m sure he doesn’t miss it.”
He looked at her sternly. “Of course he does. I took two months wages off him.”
*
He had never spent so much time with a woman before. Not only did they walk, they talked – long rambling conversations about this and that, although mostly it was about her life in the future, because Matthew couldn’t get enough of hearing about it. He bombarded her with questions, and Alex talked and talked, about everything from showers to television. This last had him fascinated; a wee box filled with people? Whatever for? And when she laughed and talked about entertainment he shook his head. How entertaining could it be to gawk at other people’s lives? Why not live your own? But most of all he liked all these new games she taught him – in particular as he consistently won.
“You cheat,” Alex protested one evening, giving him a sullen look.
Matthew grinned back. “No, I don’t. I’m just better than you are.”
“I taught you this. Of course you’re not better than me!”
“The tally board proves differently.”
“Huh; again.” She wiped the sand clean of noughts and crosses, handed him a stick. “And this time we have to get five in a row.”
“It won’t help,” he laughed, “but you get to start.”
“Of course I do. You won the last time. But this time I’ll win.” She shook her head, making her curly hair dance around her. In the light of the setting sun it glinted bronze and gold.
“Nay you won’t.” She committed the same mistake every time, but he had no intention of telling her that.
“And if I do?”
“Then you’ll get the last egg.” He shifted somewhat closer to her. “And if I win?”
“The egg?”
Matthew pretended to think. “No, if I win I want you to dance for me.”
“Dance?” She’d gone a very bright red.
“I saw you dancing yesterday.” She’d been singing something strange, doing dance steps he’d never seen before, many of them quite provocative.
“That was private!”
“You knew I was there, didn’t you?” He laughed out loud at the wave of pink that flew up her face, making her glower at him. �
�Anyway, if I win, that’s what I want.”
“I’m going to beat you silly!”
But she didn’t, and Matthew made her dance for a very long time. But he did give her the egg.
*
On the fifth day she insisted she had to wash. “Not only me, but my clothes as well.” Matthew sighed but found her a small pool, retiring further upstream to fish while she washed.
When he came back, she was sitting chastely wrapped in her blanket, and he kept his eyes off her bare shoulders and the soft hollow at the base of her throat where he could see the pulse thud. She was attempting to untangle her damp hair, and he followed the movement of her arms, her hands. Finally, he couldn’t stand it, and moved closer.
“Shall I help you?”
She just nodded, and Matthew kneeled behind her, sinking his fingers into all those curls. He took his time, and she sat stock still. Neither of them said a word.
“There,” he said when he was done. He got to his feet and turned his back on her while he adjusted his breeches. “I caught us some fish; hungry?”
“So, what is it today?” he said once they’d eaten. His ragged spare shirt was spread to dry, and his three stockings hung like garlands from the branch above him. He still wondered what had happened to the fourth stocking. He scratched at his beard, now somewhat less bristling after a long session with his knife, and looked down at her, lying half-asleep in the grass.
“Huh?”
“What makes the top five today?” He liked these lists of hers, yet another opportunity to hear about a world so different from his it made his ears want to drop off with incredulity.
“Number one is still the same,” she grinned.
“Toothbrush,” they chorused.
“Shower,” she went on, “phone, car and trainers.” None of them were new things and he settled back with his head pillowed on his arms.
“Who do you miss the most today?” He heard her sigh, and without opening his eyes he knew she’d be sitting with her knees drawn up to her chin, arms wrapped hard around them.
A Rip in the Veil (The Graham Saga) Page 7
