East

by Lizzy Ford

  “Moonbeam?” the voice asked again.

  I shifted onto my back and twisted my head to gaze at him. An older man with a head wrap, long white robe and warm brown eyes sat beside me. His beard reached mid-chest.

  I smelled food. Holy hell was I hungry.

  “We did not think you would awaken.” There was a light in his gaze, one I’d characterize as hope if anything. He looked briefly across the room at someone else before returning his attention to me. “Can you understand me?”

  “Yes.” My voice was hoarse and raspy.

  “Are you in pain?”

  I stretched my body and pushed myself up. A little dizzy, a whole lot hungry, I was again in a strange place. Fortunately, it was warm here and my surroundings appeared pleasant. Green tile lined the white walls around a hearth. The shapes of the windows and geometric décor were distinctly Islamic in style. “No,” I responded, looking around.

  He handed me a bronze goblet of wine. I sipped it, wanting water instead. No sooner had I swallowed than the urge to vomit hit me once more. Leaning precariously over the table, I had no time to thank the middle-aged man who caught me before I fell and instead, threw up again.

  More black oily stuff. I stared at it, my thoughts moving slowly. It looked a lot like the inky blackness of …

  Carter’s pills.

  Did I really survive his poor man’s stasis? I had all my limbs, too. As far as I could tell, I wasn’t missing any part of my body.

  Carter was brilliant, though a bit on the psychotic side to kidnap people and send them back in time. I was more relieved about his genius than his actions at the moment and hoped there were no lingering side effects.

  The middle-aged man lowered me to the table once more. “When you feel well enough to eat, I will feed you,” he said and then stood. Motioning whoever lingered in the shadows closer, he spoke in an excited voice. “Tell our master she has awoken.”

  The servant or messenger or whoever left fast enough that the door slammed closed behind him.

  “Can I ask … where I am?” I managed. My body didn’t quite feel right yet, so I remained where I was on the table. I was wearing different clothes. These felt like well-woven cotton – soft and light. A nightgown maybe.

  “Kharan, north of Baghdad by a fortnight and a week east of Baku and the Sea.”

  I really didn’t know where that left me. One of the Stans, maybe?

  “You are in the home of the only royal blood remaining after the barbarians destroyed the city of Baghdad,” he added in a sadder voice. “We fled here and have been hiding for seventy years.”

  I was at least seventy years in the future, then. For a moment, I was frozen between horror at being completely vulnerable in a coma for seventy years and realizing if Carter got me this far, he was able to get me farther. I could wake up every seventy years until I hit my year and resume my life.

  The realization made all the difference. My spirits lifted at the idea of seeing my home again.

  “Moonbeam, do you wish food?” my caretaker asked.

  This time, I almost laughed at the name. It was adorable, though I didn’t think the Mongol who gave it to me meant it to be.

  “Yes, I think so,” I replied and pushed myself into a sit. The edges of the room were a little wobbly still, but the world was starting to feel more solid. I was in a simple dress with no sign of anything else around me, like my phone. “Was there anything with me when you … wait. Did you find me? Hide me in the basement for seventy years? How did I get here?”

  He glanced up, giving me a curious look. “You were brought to us,” he explained. “We heard the myth of the Mongol goddess who fell from the sky and blessed the barbarian’s destruction of my world. We searched for many years to locate you and then, we hired someone to obtain you from the depths of the Empire.” He lifted cloth off a round breadbasket and withdrew a warm piece of unleavened bread the size of a small tortilla.

  I accepted it. “Oh. If I did that, why did you want me?” I asked. “Revenge?”

  “No, Moonbeam. So you can convince them to spare us.”

  The sobering response unsettled me. “You didn’t put me into the sleep or hide me. You just found me and want me to help you?”

  He nodded. “We paid someone to bring you here.”

  That’s terrifying. What if someone else had found me? What if I’d been tossed around from place to place like a sack of potatoes for multiple decades? There were days when I swore up and down I’d kick Carter’s ass when I met him again.

  And moments like this when I realized I wasn’t just out of place and time, I was out of the place and time I was supposed to be, too. Anxious to figure out what was going on, I rested one foot on the stone floor then the other. They held, though I was wobbly and headachy.

  “Was there anything with me?” I asked.

  “Instructions on how to wake you and that your name was Moonbeam, the Goddess of the White Path.”

  “I’m not a goddess,” I said with a grunt.

  “Of course you are not. There is but one God,” he agreed. “But you are not … normal. Perhaps the djinn cursed you.”

  “Maybe,” I replied without understanding what a djinn was. Some words didn’t translate well. My legs held me, and I walked around the table. Pausing to lean against it, I sighed and nibbled on the bread. The light, fluffy food was a little salty and delicious. “This is amazing.”

  He shifted from his position on a pile of pillows near the fire and motioned for me to join him. At a low table before him was a small feast consisting of what looked like meatballs, honey drizzled dates, rice, more bread and …

  Hummus. “Oh, I love Middle Eastern food!” I exclaimed.

  “It is a meager meal, but it is all we can offer,” he said with some hesitation. “Does it please you?” He pushed the food to my side of the table.

  Nodding, I dug in without hesitation, my appetite roaring to life. I had seventy years worth of eating to catch up to. “This is the best food ever.”

  He smiled. “You will consider helping us?”

  What else was I supposed to do? I had no cell phone, no clue why I was there or what I was supposed to do. Not only that, but someone left just-add-water instructions on my body. What was Carter … or whomever … thinking?

  I didn’t think refusing this man’s request was going to win me any favors, either.

  What would The Doctor do? He’d help, of course, and hope for the best.

  “If I can. What do you need me to do?”

  He twisted in his seat and motioned to someone in the shadows. “It is simple. When they come to destroy us, convince them to spare you and her.”

  The girl in the corner emerged somewhat shyly, dark eyes on me. She wasn’t more than seven with long, dark hair braided down her back. She wore a long robe that reached the top of her slippered feet.

  Startled by the request, it took me a moment to process it. “They’re coming to destroy you?”

  “It is what they do. We defied them years ago, and they have not forgotten. They rule the lands as far as you can see,” he said softly. “She is the heiress to the royal bloodline. Her father died in a skirmish with the Mongols and her mother at birth. There is no one else.”

  I gazed at the girl. No consideration in a million years would keep me from doing as he asked. I didn’t understand anything about their bloodline, but I did know I wasn’t going to let a child get hurt. “Why do you not ask me to help all of your people?” I asked, puzzled. “If they will spare her, why not all of you?”

  “It is not their way. We must submit and pay them tribute or die. We did worse. Fifty years ago, her forefather ruled Baghdad and killed their emissary. They destroyed the city. Burnt it to the ground and slaughtered all who dwelt within. They will not rest until his seed is wiped from this earth.”

  The amount of damage he was discussing was beyond me to imagine. “You think they’ll listen to me.”

  “We know they will.”

 
I swallowed hard. I didn’t exactly look forward to trying to reason with a Mongol army.

  “We did find this with you,” he added with some hesitation. “My master did not think it wise to return it, but … you are willing to help. It is not right for me to keep it from you.” He handed me a pouch.

  Opening it, I dumped the cell phone onto my palm. Oh, thank god! Except …

  It wasn’t mine. My cell was white. This one was black. Tapping it awake, I spotted a single message on the screen.

  Do as Mahmood asks. Protect the girl for two months.

  A chill drifted through me. “You’re Mahmood?” I asked him.

  “I am.”

  Not caring what he thought of my actions, I took a break from eating to send a message back. Who are you????

  Setting it down, I began eating again, my mind racing and heart pounding. Thank god, I had a means of contacting someone. I just didn’t know who it was, what they wanted and how to find Carter again.

  But as long as I had a phone, there was a chance, however slim, of making it home. Profound relief bolstered me, and I scarfed down the meal before me.

  The princess sat beside the older man, watching me.

  Full and content, I sat back finally. “Do you have a plan?” I asked Mahmood.

  He appeared to debate for a moment before responding. “Not yet. I had hoped you would know how to deal with them.”

  I was with them less than a day. I had no idea how to respond.

  “We captured one of them,” he added hopefully. “He has refused to speak a tongue we understand during questioning and what he does say in our tongue, we can’t fully understand, but maybe …”

  I waited.

  “Maybe you can speak to him and he will tell his people to spare you, since they believe you to be a goddess.”

  “I like that idea.” I shifted uneasily. “It was so long ago that I saw them. I don’t know if they’ll remember me.”

  “They do not forget.”

  I wasn’t feeling so confident. I didn’t even make it a day there before someone kidnapped me. I looked at the phone. Whoever my new puppet master was, he or she wasn’t talking.

  “How do you feel?” Mahmood asked.

  “Good,” I said. “That doesn’t seem right, though. I was asleep for so long.”

  “It is not natural,” he agreed. “But God has made this possible and blessed your journey to us, and I am grateful. The barbarians are at our walls now. Do you feel well enough to begin?”

  My heartbeat quickened. I didn’t exactly understand what that meant, but I had a feeling he was short on time. With a nod, I climbed to my feet, staggered at a wave of dizziness, and steadied myself.

  “Good as new,” I said with a forced laugh.

  Mahmood appeared concerned. “Go, your highness,” he said to the girl. “Moonbeam, there are clothes and a servant to help you.” He indicated a dressing screen sectioning off one corner.

  With some effort, I walked to the screen and behind it. A female servant stood waiting, her eyes on the floor. I recognized a copper pot similar to those I had seen during my time in the eighteen hundreds and quickly relieved myself, disgusted when I peed black oil. My body was purging the pills that put me under, and it was really gross.

  She washed me down with a sponge, an act that would’ve had me in stitches had I had full confidence in my body. As it was, I felt a little wooden, in need of a good hour or so of yoga or hot bath to bring my muscles back to life.

  Drizzling scented oils over me, the servant then helped me into a long, black flowing gown and draped a lace scarf in black over my hair. She braided my hair next and tied the scarf at the base of my neck.

  Walking was getting easier. Mahmood waited for me, his gaze out the window at the dark night sky. I joined him. For a moment, I forgot to breathe. We were in a white tower. Beyond low buildings of the small city was a wall and past the enclosure, campfires dotted the horizon as far as I could see.

  “There must be thousands,” I said, surprised.

  “Tens of thousands. They will burn the city to the ground and kill every inhabitant.”

  The city itself didn’t seem very large, maybe a few thousand people, but the savagery he described seemed almost … impossible. Or surreal.

  The sense of not quite being a part of my world sneaked over me, and I was on my knees before I realized the spell was coming. Taylor once told me it was a side effect of time traveling, a sense of displacement or perhaps, the trauma of travel.

  “Moonbeam, are you well?” Mahmood asked urgently.

  “Yeah. Sorry.” I shook my head and took several deep breaths to clear the sense. “So … are we going out there to talk to them?”

  His dark eyes studied my features with worry. “The scout we captured remains in our custody. I had thought, if you were to meet him, and he knew your legend …”

  “… then he might be able to get us out of here.”

  Mahmood nodded.

  “One way to find out,” I said cheerfully and pushed myself to my feet. “We don’t have much time, do we?”

  “We do not know why they have waited this long. The armies have been at our walls for three days. It is likely they will not wait much longer, or possible they are waiting for the command to attack.”

  My eyes went out the window once more. It seemed miraculous that men on horseback could travel from so far away as Mongolia let alone conquer. In my era, we had planes and ships to transport people and machines. The amount of time and effort and sheer willpower it would take in this time to defeat entire nations …

  It was incredible, horrifying and mind blowing.

  “Come, Moonbeam,” Mahmood said and hurried to the wooden door.

  I went. My gaze was a bit blurry from the spell, my step not as certain or quick as it usually was. As if sensing this, Mahmood kept his pace slow and led me through narrow halls to a winding stairwell that twisted several floors down until we reached a basement.

  Or maybe a … dungeon. It was dark and smelly. I couldn’t imagine people voluntarily being down here.

  “All we know of him is his name, Batu. He has said nothing else that we can understand,” Mahmood said.

  We continued down a hallway with an uneven stone floor that smelled of rot, must and men. My nose wrinkled.

  “But he’s speaking to you?” I asked, a little nervous about confronting one of the men Mahmood feared.

  “I wouldn’t call it speaking.”

  The odd sound, the one that woke me originally, filled the air. It didn’t sound human: a low, bass hum combined with higher pitched staccato notes that fluctuated in a quick-paced rhythm. The near-growl penetrated the walls and emanated from behind a closed door.

  “What kind of instrument is that?” I asked.

  “It is no instrument,” Mahmood said, amused. “It is the singing Mongol.”

  “Singing?”

  “The song of the steppe. They call it throat singing. He does it all day.”

  That can’t be singing. I frowned, not understanding how anyone could sing two notes at once let alone growl that deep.

  Mahmood paused in front of the door from which the sound came. “Do not speak,” he cautioned. “Let us observe first.”

  I nodded.

  He opened the door, and we stepped into a large room. Heavily armed guards in chainmail were stationed every ten feet around the perimeter for a total of twelve. Torchlight illuminated the plain, stone room void of furniture or any other comfort items. In the center was a man, hooded and bound, seated on a low stool.

  The sound came from him and reverberated in the enclosed space.

  I’d never heard anything so peculiar in my life, and I definitely didn’t consider it singing.

  Mahmood motioned for me to follow him. We circled the captured warrior at a safe distance.

  He was much larger than those I’d seen in the army of Ghoajin’s husband. He resembled the bodyguards they assigned me the night I arrived: over six feet
tall and thickly muscled with biceps larger than my thighs. I immediately understood why there were so many guards. This warrior was simply dressed in a tunic with ties open at the throat and baggy pants. He was barefoot, and I saw no braids or hair from under the hood.

  The odd song stopped suddenly. I blinked, not realizing its hypnotic effect, like listening to the low, soothing yoga CD featuring the chanting of monks, until it was gone.

  “I smell you,” said the man on the stool. “You bring a woman this time.” His head twisted towards us, though I doubted he could see us through the thick hood.

  I inched closer to Mahmood, who appeared likewise uneasy.

  “Where is my hair, imam?” the Mongol asked.

  “Can you understand him?” Mahmood turned to me.

  “Yes,” I replied, recalling the two were speaking different languages. “He said he can smell us and knows a woman is here. He asked what happened to his hair.”

  “He reeked like a dog,” Mahmood said with some disdain. “We shaved his head, bathed him and burned his clothing. He slaughtered twenty of our men yet howled like a bath was torture.”

  I started to smile, noticing for the first time how clean and neat Mahmood’s clothing was. There were no stains on the white robe, and everything down to his fingernails was pristine.

  Doubting I wanted to give a word for word translation of this one, I debated what to say to the warrior and finally decided not to mention anything about his hair at all.

  “Ask him when they will attack,” Mahmood directed me.

  “Batu,” I said and stepped towards the prisoner. “We came to speak to you about the warriors outside the walls.”

  “You speak my tribe’s dialect,” was the curious response. “What magic is this?”

  “It’s not magic. I am gifted with languages.”

  “Are you as beautiful as you sound?”

  Startled, I barely caught the laugh that bubbled forth. He was relaxed in his spot in the middle of the room, clearly unconcerned about being a prisoner if he was flirting with me.

  “I am uglier than a horse. My nose is huge, my eyes small and I have no teeth.” I replied, unable to help the saucy response.

  “Bah. What do you want, ugly one?”