by J M Fraser
“Hey, wait, Rebecca! If we work together, maybe we can wrap our minds around this whole thing and—”
The sucking force of ten thousand vacuum cleaners grabbed him again and yanked him away.
Chapter 26
Brian cartwheeled through the air, catching glimpses of a seventeenth-century settlement with each tumble.
Cabins.
Sky.
Women in dark dresses and white bonnets.
Sky.
Chickens.
A fir tree came at him. He gasped, scrunched his chin, pulled his arms and legs in, and missed splatting into the trunk by inches. A thick limb got him in the stomach. “Ooomph.” He flailed at the branches. Grabbed hold. Lost his grip. Broke through layer after layer. Pine needles scratched. A scream caught in his throat.
The forest floor knocked the air out of his lungs—ten times worse than a belly flop from a high-dive board.
Brian rolled onto his back.
A swarm of bright specks flickered above, then blinked out, one by one.
He sucked in a deep breath of air, stood, and leaned against the trunk of the tree he’d ridden down. Pretty firm for a dream. But guys who weren’t dreaming didn’t typically get flung airborne or survive falls from the treetops.
He reached into his pocket. Not the one holding the coin. Silver, gold, warm, cold—Saint Brigit had picked up a bad dose of malware somewhere between the looking glass and Wonderland.
No, he shoved his hand into the other pocket and came up with the enlightening rod. He clamped his fist around it. Shut his eyes. Am I awake?
One of Rebecca’s verses popped into his head.
Fortune-teller thinks a beggar sits with her. She strokes the coarseness of his hand, feeling his lifeline, his pulse steadfast and sure. It beats illusion of the man.
Meaning what—Brian had dreamed himself into Rebecca’s waking past? If this was her past and twenty-first-century Nebraska her present, she might have recently remembered his long-ago appearance in the window fondly enough to write the poem about it.
He could almost buy that. But how could colonial Salem be part of her past?
Before he could squeeze a little more intelligence out of the ribbon, children’s voices rose behind him.
He swung around.
Two scruffy girls knelt facing each other a few feet away. They wore mud-stained versions of the local fashion, except without the bonnets. Both girls had scraggily black hair.
They didn’t notice him. No surprise there. Nobody but Rebecca had seen him so far. Yet here was something interesting—she had complained about losing a quill pen earlier, and these little munchkins had one on the ground between them.
The smaller of them, the one who faced him, wrapped the pen into a piece of dirty cloth and slid the package into the hollow of a fallen log. Her friend drew a pentagram and two names in the dirt with a stick. Betty and Abigail.
A chill iced the back of Brian’s neck. He shifted around to get a better look at the girl with the stick.
A younger rendition of Abigail glanced up at him with her trademark mean pout.
Their eyes met. She narrowed hers.
Recognition?
He staggered back.
Abigail looked past him. She tossed a stone at a squirrel on a tree branch, then giggled and redirected her attention to her friend.
Did she follow him through the mirror? No way. This eleven- or twelve-year-old version looked like she belonged here. Same way the younger Rebecca fit in. They were part of the past he’d fallen into. The three-hundred-year-old past.
An enlightening rod wasn’t enough. He’d need string theory to figure this one out.
The girls vanished.
Brian blinked.
He glanced around.
Nada.
He’d seen this movie before. So often now that his heart didn’t skip this time. Back in the modern, somewhat-understandable world, Rebecca had told him Abigail was an imp. Apparently imps could pull the same disappearing act as witches, vanishing from one dimension into the next.
But would the Salem version of Rebecca know that this particular creature was also a creepy stalker with a thing for dark curtains of fog? Brian hurried out of the woods to find his funhouse reflection of a girlfriend and warn her to beware of scraggily-haired imps.
The settlement buzzed with activity. Brawny colonists split wood. Others threw brush into a bonfire. Somebody hammered on a rooftop. A few kids played a marble game in the dirt.
He cut through the throng, heading straight for Rebecca’s cabin and passing so close to the women at the well that somebody’s sleeve brushed against his hand. Oblivious, the woman waved to a man driving a horse-drawn wagon loaded with jugs and then busied herself pumping water into her bucket.
Brian might as well have been a ghost for all the notice he attracted.
Maybe I am.
Uh-uh. His leg still stung from his crash through a tree. The sun glared in his eyes. The aroma of sizzling bacon from inside a cabin almost had him drooling. I’m not dead. Just stuck at the intersection of dreams and insanity, waiting for the light to change.
Good line. He needed to write it down if he ever found his way out of this place.
Rebecca stepped out of her cabin with a bucket in her hand. The mere sight of her brightened the sky.
He rushed to her side.
She waved him off. “Go away, Brian. I asked you to wait by the window. Then you deserted me.”
Right. Because he’d been thrown a hundred yards into the woods, and… Oh, why whine about it? The disappointment in her voice stung worse than the scratches he’d gotten on the way down that tree. “Don’t worry, I’ll stay right here with you. Something big is happening.”
“You mean my destiny?” Rebecca spat out the word. She swept her arm toward a group of workers piling sacks of grain on the porch of a small warehouse. “See those lads? Each wants a wife to serve as seamstress, cook, and bed warmer. Mum insists I marry a merchant who cares no more for my thoughts and dreams than they do.”
“Listen, Rebecca, there’s a girl in the woods who—”
“Hush.” She motioned to the well. “My mum couldn’t see you. If these women can’t, they’ll mock me for talking to myself.”
Would they notice? The women were knee-deep in a gossip fest when he and Rebecca got within earshot.
“Chloe Barnes’s husband beat her again for failing to sweep their cabin.”
“The poor soul is frail. She won’t survive the summer with that man.”
“She brings it upon herself with her slovenly ways.”
Rebecca and Brian reached the well. She lifted her bucket to fill it.
A teenage girl sidled up to her. “Behold the wench expecting a caller. I shall brush the knots from thy hair before he comes.” She touched a stray lock hanging out of Rebecca’s bonnet.
Rebecca slapped the girl’s hand away.
A woman grabbed her sleeve. “We respect others in this community. Pray Master Stoddard beats the devil out of you.”
Rebecca went pale. She hurried toward the cabin.
Brian caught up with her at the step. They sat together. He took her hand.
“No.” She tried to slide away, but her balloon of a dress slowed her to a series of shuffles and frustrated little grunts. “Leave me be or take me to your future now, Brian.”
Gladly. But how? And even if he could, what would happen to the modern-day Rebecca already there? He slid closer. “Let’s say I can’t at the moment. Meanwhile, there’s this kid you need to watch out for. Do you know an Abigail?”
She scooted to the end of the step. Pouted. Said nothing.
“Rebecca?” her mother’s voice rose from inside the cabin.
She glanced over her shoulder at the door, then back at him. “You can’t or won’t, Brian?”
“Can’t.”
Rebecca scuffed her shoe back and forth across the ground. She looked up, caught his eye, and stared forever. A dare-yo
u-to-blink-first contest.
He held steady. “Can’t.”
She broke eye contact. “The merchant Mum insists I marry is named Henry Stoddard. He brought Abigail and her cousin to our district.”
“They poofed out on me, Rebecca. Did you know they could do that?”
She crinkled her forehead. “Poofed?”
“Disappeared.”
Rebecca narrowed her eyes. “Yes, I knew. What honest merchant brings imps in tow? I do not trust Stoddard. But as for Abigail Williams and Betty Parris, these silly servants of his are no more dangerous than field mice.”
Abigail Williams and Betty Parris? Brian almost fell off the step. They were the girls he’d read about during his Internet search of 1692 Salem. Their possession ignited the Salem witch hysteria, the trials, and nineteen hangings.
He tried to slow his pounding heart by considering the possibility he’d been deposited in Salem after the witch trials, when things calmed down. “What year is this?”
“’Tis the year of our Lord 1692.”
Oh crap.
The wind picked up, carrying the women’s voices from the well. The gossipy bunch glared at them with enough hostility to chill the air.
Rebecca clutched at his sleeve. “Pray take me to your tomorrow.”
How? Although he’d probably bust out of his dream sooner or later, the most he could do for this wide-awake, in-the-flesh Rebecca was help get her out of the village. And then what? Expect her to live off the land? Go make nice with the local Native Americans? They’d been dissed by white settlers from day one. What if they scalped first and asked questions later?
He clenched his fists. “We’ll come up with something.”
“Rebecca!”
“Yes, Mum.” Rebecca stood. “Soon, Brian?” Her pleading eyes searched for guarantees he didn’t know how to provide.
Wait. Of course he did. Rebecca must have gotten out of this jam. Otherwise, she never would have burst into his life in the twenty-first century.
“Rebecca, I told you before I’ll always be here for you. You’re in my heart.”
She crinkled her forehead. “Already? We only just met.”
“It’s complicated. But you might need to wait a bit for things to fall into place.”
“How long am I to wait?”
“I can’t lie. This might take a while. But you can always rely on me being there when you finally do come looking.”
“You men are all the same with your vague promises.” She turned her back on him and went inside, but he did catch a smile and twinkle of the eye she couldn’t quite hide before stalking away.
* * *
Rebecca and her mom roasted three plump birds in the hearth while Brian watched from just outside the kitchen doorway. His stomach growled from the enticing aroma of what he hoped were unusually small chickens…pigeons being the far less appealing possibility.
After the birds browned, mother and daughter put them on a platter and set it on the table. Plates of yams, beets, and sliced bread rounded out the feast, along with a jug of cider.
“Master Stoddard expects proper manners,” Rebecca’s mom said. “Remove the man’s boots and tend to him when he arrives.”
“I’ll do no such—”
A loud rap on the front door drowned out her words. Her mom hurried out of the kitchen.
“Look at her,” Rebecca muttered. “Hell-bent on marrying me out of her life. Stoddard would take me to his estate in Albany.”
Brian didn’t know what to say. Did the mirror pull him here to steer Rebecca in some way? The idea of this Stoddard guy whisking her to a place not famous for its witch trials had its appeal, but she obviously didn’t want anything to do with him. “Your mom can’t make you marry anyone, Rebecca. It’s your life.”
There. But what if, by speaking out, he’d just created a butterfly effect with all kinds of weird consequences? Things might turn out worse, according to Murphy’s Law or whatever.
So what? Having somebody’s back meant taking the occasional risk. He flashed a reassuring smile.
Rebecca’s mom opened the front door. “Hello, Mister Stoddard!”
“Good morrow, milady.” The chillingly familiar man removed his top hat, sweeping it down in a theatrical gesture. He’d spoken in the same gravelly voice he’d used in a snowy driveway when delivering a different message. “Solve this, wandering man, my riddle if you can. Tell me when a cat becomes just like a man.”
Brian cringed. Stoddard’s eyes weren’t glowing. He wasn’t giving himself away. Would Rebecca know she was dealing with a sorcerer? Doubtful. She’d referred to him as a merchant.
Brian slipped into the shadows, biding his time until the opportunity arose for a surprise attack and rescue.
Right. Like I’m a Navy SEAL or something.
A big mirror would have come in handy. He could have grabbed Rebecca by the hand and—
Rebecca’s mom stepped away from the door. “Do come in, Master Stoddard.”
“As you wish.” Stoddard played the part of a wealthy merchant to perfection. Polite. Beaming smile. He’d dressed like an aristocrat, wearing a fur overcoat, lacy white shirt, and a curly wig. Younger than he’d been in the driveway, too. No age lines crinkled his forehead anymore. Of course, he would have been three centuries older in Chicago.
That was when, a day and a half ago? The paradox of time travel made Brian’s head spin.
Rebecca’s mom helped Stoddard with his coat. “Henry has boots, Rebecca! Have thy manners left thee?”
Rebecca called from the kitchen, “I fear they loiter at the well gossiping with the wenches.”
Her mom chuckled. She pointed to a cane resting against the wall in a corner of the room, thankfully opposite where Brian lurked. “Perchance yonder stick shall serve as a dowry.”
“Every man needs a challenge.” Stoddard’s eyes shined with humor. He removed his own boots and headed for the kitchen. “Rebecca,” he boomed. “I bring a gift to replace thy pout with a smile. Thou wilt soon see a fair maiden reflected back upon thee.”
“You speak in riddles,” Rebecca said.
Boy, did he ever. Brian crept closer.
Stoddard grinned. “The mystery shall soon be solved. My servants will deliver the wonder whilst we sup.”
The sorcerer settled down with Rebecca and her mom at the kitchen table. Rebecca muttered a halfhearted blessing, and they started in on the food. Their conversation drifted from one ordinary topic to another—weather, planting, canning, a recent sermon—until her mom brought up a battle in some place called York between settlers and savages.
“Mine own husband traveled to York to visit his sister that day. Rebecca was but an infant. ’Twas God’s will I became widowed.” Her voice broke.
Stoddard reached across the table and patted her hand. “Cruel fate. My two young servants lost their parents in such a skirmish. I took charge of them and—”
Rebecca laughed. “Do imps have parents now?”
Her mother dropped her fork. “Imps, Rebecca?”
“Have you not seen them, Mum?”
“My word!” Stoddard glanced appraisingly from mother to daughter. He lifted his napkin. Dabbed his mouth. Sipped some ale. “Imps are rumored to be common in these hills, but only a witch or sorcerer would recognize one as such, is this not so?”
Rebecca reddened. Giving away that she and her mom were witches wasn’t just a bad mistake. In Salem, it might have been deadly.
Brian crept closer. Almost to the doorway. The idea of hurrying Rebecca out of town had a whole lot more appeal, living off the land or not.
But Stoddard slapped the table and burst into laughter. “You say this in jest, Rebecca! Imps, indeed.” He leaned forward, lowered his voice. “The older of the two has taken quite a fancy to me. And she’s a jealous brat. If Abigail is an imp, she’ll confound you with her mischief.”
Stoddard’s guffaws broke the tension. Brian unclenched his fists and eased back into the shadows.
<
br /> “Not to worry,” Rebecca said. “I have a sorcerer to protect me now.”
“What is this you say?” The humor washed out of Stoddard’s eyes in an instant.
“I’ve met a lad named Brian.” Rebecca’s church-soft voice carried enough raspy passion to give anyone within a hundred yards a bad case of goose bumps.
Forget the shadows. Brian shifted forward, readying to lunge into the kitchen, wrap her in his arms, stare Stoddard down and—
“Brian is a sorcerer from the future,” she added.
A what? No. He was just a bumbling clown who’d fallen into Salem at the whim of a whacky mirror. What now? Run in there and explain the whole thing? The story was so ridiculous maybe he’d be the one strung up as a witch. He edged back a few steps, almost to the front door, eyeballing the surrounding area for a golden key, a button he might push, an anagram waiting to be solved. There had to be some way of advancing to the next level of this insane video game.
Voices at the table grew sharper. “Pray tell who this Brian may be, Rebecca,” her mom growled. “Dost thou keep secrets from me?”
“I know of no sorcerers named Brian in these parts,” Stoddard said.
Rebecca gasped. “How would you know any sorcerers at all, sir? Are you not a simple merchant?”
Stoddard reddened. He cleared his throat. Started to speak. Stopped. She’d dealt a pretty good body blow with that question. “Rebecca, things are not always as they—”
The front door burst open, nearly leveling Brian with its backswing. Two burly men marched in. “Ho! Delivery for Master Stoddard!” They set a full-length, wood-framed mirror in the middle of the room.
And not just any mirror.
The mirror.
The glass began spinning. Fast. Quicker still. Teasing Brian’s mind like an enlightening rod on steroids. It brought connections. Answers. New questions. No answers.
The mirror in Rebecca’s cabin had once been this mirror, a gift from Henry Stoddard. Therefore, she and the sorcerer had a history. An impossibly long one. And for some reason, this history brought Stoddard to a snowy, modern-day driveway hundreds of years later, offering a riddle to be solved.
Why?
And when does a cat become just like a man?
