Now all John had to do was make sure the Scot was ready to listen.
And then of course, talk him into it.
Oh sweet shy girl, with roses in her heart,
And love-light in her face, like those up grown;
Full of still dreams and thoughts that dream-like start.
From fits of solitude when not alone!
Gay dancer over thresholds of bright days.
Tears to her eyes as laughter to her lips;
A game of hide and seek with time she plays,
Time hiding his eyes from hers in bright eclipse.
John James Piatt
CHAPTER THREE
Somewhere in the latter part of the twentieth century…
First comes the immobilization, followed by the haunting melodic sound of a multitude of violins. Then she would be awake, sweating, her heart in her throat. Without thinking she would get out of bed and turn automatically to the bathroom across the hall to look at her reflection.
What she saw in the mirror after one of her dreams was always the same: a face thin, pale, Elvin in appearance. Her tired lost eyes, a bright green, would struggle to recognize their own reflection. The ghostly face never remained that way though; a minute sometimes, but no longer. About thirty seconds was average, including the time it took to get up and run from her bedroom to the bathroom.
Shona Whittard decided she must keep a mirror at her bedside from now on. That would give her more time to examine herself before the face faded away and was replaced by her own. Or was it?
She began to wonder as she dragged herself up from the bathroom floor, clung to a towel rack for support, and desperately tried to collect what was left of her sanity. “That was a close one.” The bewildered statement left her lips on a whisper, her thoughts racing about in her mind like a busy freeway. She couldn’t pin one down long enough to ward off the confusion always waiting for her after the face faded. As if her own mind didn’t want her to ask the obvious. And this time was even worse. This time what she saw in the mirror had caused her to vomit and nearly faint.
She wiped at her mouth as she mindlessly flushed the toilet. After closing her eyes a moment she stared at herself in the mirror again. Answers. She needed answers.
Shona took a nearby cup, filled it with water and rinsed the sour taste of vomit from her mouth. She then straightened herself slowly. A lancing pain in her right shoulder had kept her from moving much of the afternoon and now wanted to render her immobile. She rubbed it gingerly. “First I lose my mind, and now this.”
She grasped her shoulder and staggered to the darkened bedroom across the hall, her voice a ragged whisper. “Hold together, hold together. Come on, do not fall apart!” She sat on the bed and rocked back and forth to still her trembling body. “Please hold together. Let us not fall to pieces. So you see someone else’s face in the mirror. So what? They are only dreams. Shona, you are sleep-walking that is all.” Her shaky voice was not very convincing even to herself. She bit her lower lip in confusion and frustration. “What am I saying? I have never walked in my sleep in my life! Oh blast it all there is an explanation! A person cannot experience things like this for three months and there not be a logical explanation!”
Shona crawled beneath her blankets and curled into a tight ball. “So why can I not think of one?”
She rolled onto her back only to grimace with pain and grab her shoulder, tears in her eyes. Never had anything hurt so badly. “And what on earth did I do to this?” She carefully turned to her other side and curled up again. “I can't believe this shoulder hurts this bad and ... blast these stupid dreams!” She thought a moment, and groaned aloud. “I do not believe this. I am talking to myself!”
Shona groaned and let her mind wander over the past several months and the start of the dreams haunting her. But now it wasn’t only the dreams that got her thinking. Nothing was familiar anymore.
Simple things, a piece of furniture in her room, her clothes, favorite objects about the house in which she grew up and still lived, all seemed alien now, like some sort of weird disassociation. The most puzzling thing, however, was the unexplainable loneliness that began to plague her a few weeks ago. It was an odd sort of loneliness, almost like being homesick. She had had the feeling once before when at age five she spent part of the summer with her aunt and uncle in California while her parents went to Europe. She could remember trying to talk her aunt into sending her home, but her pleas had been ignored, and she suffered through the long weeks with no hope of going sooner than expected. It was the only time she had ever been separated from her parents. It was also the first time she had experienced one of the dreams now haunting her fourteen years later.
Shona again tried to get comfortable and fall back to sleep, her best defense against the unwanted emotions rallying within her for recognition. To give in to them would mean pain, and she didn’t want to deal with any more pain tonight. Her shoulder was enough, let alone any emotional pain on top of it.
No luck. The darkened room closed in around her as she lay there, her mind automatically turning to her second-best defense. Logic. There must be some suppressed fear from childhood causing this. But what on earth could have happened to her? And why would she be dreaming of a little boy she’d never met before? At least she didn’t think she had. Why in her dreams did she always sing? What was the little boy doing or about to do when she sang? She could never recall much after seeing her face change, probably because she was too terrified to notice.
“This is ridiculous. I have got to get a grip. For crying out loud! I might end up talking to myself all night! Maybe I should call Kitty.” Shona bit her bottom lip and glanced at the phone laying dormant on her nightstand, then looked at the clock. Two a.m., not a good time. “And not a good subject to be talking to Kitty about I suppose.”
No not a good subject at all. Kitty Morgan may be her best friend and as much a misfit as Shona herself what with her dozen or so cats, her frenzied shopping habits, and her constant search for the perfect man. No, even Kitty had her limits, and Shona wasn’t about to push them. She’d just have to battle on her own.
The clock ticked endlessly as sleep continued to elude her. Reluctantly, Shona once again let her mind drift to the inevitable.
The boy.
As if against her will, she began to answer him, the boy who seemed to cry out to her from so far away. Or was it she who called to him? At this point she never knew. She only responded. She only sang.
Shona softly hummed the tune, a short song from the movie Camelot, one of her favorites. For some reason it made her feel better to sing after the dreams, to evade the strange feelings she had afterward. Out of nowhere they would come, the wave of emotions that welled up into her being as if from another source, making her feel helpless, even enraged. She had never experienced anything like it in her life and was somewhat reluctant to find out its true meaning. Was it desire? Or some other emotion. Love? If so, it was certainly not the type of love she was familiar with. She knew family love, the love she had for her parents, and the love of a friend—Kitty, of course, and Julia. But her tutor Julia couldn’t be counted as high as Kitty. Julia didn’t want to be close to anyone, it seemed.
Love. Funny how she couldn’t quite recall how it felt. Like so many other emotions she experienced during childhood, the love for those closest to her had quietly tucked itself away somewhere in her heart, along with joy, anger, and several others. They just disappeared one day, never to be seen or heard from again. She had been almost emotionless ever since and was often considered cold, even snobby by those who didn’t know her.
Actually, she didn’t mind. Strong emotions were rather bothersome from what she could remember, and extremely hard to deal with at times. She didn’t have to deal with a lot of things others did and never had to worry about pesky emotions interfering with her music or studies.
Until now.
“Blast it!” Shona abruptly struck her pillow, confused by the unknown feeli
ng and her lack of control over it. It pulled at her, teased her, and most of all, frightened her. Tonight something had happened. Something was different. Something about her had changed.
She sighed in frustration at her inability to sleep then shuddered as a dark cloud of dread rushed to encircle her. It hit hard and fast, causing her to cry out suddenly. What did all this mean? She continued to search desperately for an answer as she gripped her blankets and battled the urge to bolt from her bedroom and run to her parent’s room downstairs. Like a frightened child that just had a horrible nightmare.
But this was no nightmare. This was real.
* * *
Back in the far and distant future…
“What was the most serious lie you ever told?” John cast out to see what he could catch. “As a young man or an adult,” he added hastily. So far, so good as far as today’s interviewing went. He certainly hoped it stayed that way.
Dallan leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped in front of him. John had seen the Scot do this before while observing from a distance. He knew it meant Dallan was giving the matter some serious thought. This was Dallan’s thinking pose, his deep thinking pose. John felt himself getting somewhere at last.
“Mind if I interrupt?” Came a voice from outside the half open door. John and Dallan looked up to see Lany poke his head in.
“No. Come in, Lany,” John told him as Dallan eyed the newcomer with suspicion. “Dallan, this is my assistant, Lantzaro Mosgofian. I’m afraid the two of you were not formally introduced yesterday in the arena.”
Dallan made no move to get up. “I assure ye, John, I’m quite used to no being introduced to anyone unless I take it upon myself.”
Both John and Lany caught the bitter edge to his voice and exchanged a quick glance. “Well,” Lany began. “I’m off to do those errands you asked me to take care of, and I brought you what you wanted. Uh, have fun and good luck, Eaton. You’re going to need it.” His last words were mumbled as he ushered a small boy into the room.
Dallan stiffened unconsciously in his chair.
“Thank you, Lany.” John turned to the boy whose attention had been immediately drawn to the Weapons Master, much to the Scot’s irritation.
“Dallan,” John began as he motioned to the little boy. “This is Lany’s younger son, Vynant; he’ll be no bother I assure you.”
Dallan turned his now-scowling face to John. “Bother?” he managed to say through clenched teeth.
“Mr. Eaton offered to keep an eye on him while I take care of some things,” Lany explained. “You don’t mind, do you, Mr. MacDonald?”
Dallan thrust his scowl at Lany, who caught it gracefully and seemed to toss it over his shoulder to land somewhere outside, a pleasant smile on his own face. “Ah, I see you don’t mind. Then perhaps you could help Mr. Eaton out. Vyn can be a trial at times.”
Dallan sucked air through his nose as his jaw began to twitch slightly. He swallowed hard, obviously at war with some unwanted emotion.
“He’ll be fine, Lany,” John grinned. “Oh, I do need to give you a few instructions before you leave.” He turned to Dallan who now sat like a statue, nervously eyeing young Vyn. “If you will excuse me, Dallan? This will only take a moment.”
Dallan suddenly looked at John as if he’d just sentenced him to hang. All he could do was give the Councilor a tight-lipped nod as the twitch danced merrily across his usually handsome face. A face now contorted into something resembling a gargoyle. He watched the two Councilors exchange a look before they slipped out the door, leaving him alone with what he knew was trouble.
Sure enough, as soon as they left, the boy sauntered up to the big Scot’s chair, got his face as close to Dallan’s as he could, squinted his little eyes, and began to study the legendary Weapons Master of Genis Lee. Reluctantly, Dallan looked into those eyes.
It was one of the biggest mistakes he could ever make.
Vyn’s eyes were alive. Their gray depths hinted of steel and independence, promising to one day hold their own fierce warrior’s stares within them. Dallan didn’t want to respond to what he saw, but he did, and smiled lopsidedly.
Vyn grinned back. “You’re going to be the new Time Master!”
Dallan’s lopsided smile deserted him. He glared at the boy, his eyes narrowed to slits.
“Yep, thought so.” Vyn stated as he nodded to himself and again studied Dallan with a professional eye. What sort of profession, the Scot had no idea, but the child had such a confident look on his face he could think of no other way to describe it.
Dallan folded his arms over his chest and snorted. Vyn copied the action, sans snort, and took on the same scowl as well. “You’re not happy, are you?”
Dallan raised a curious brow but said nothing. The chestnut hair, gray eyes and outright boldness of the boy reminded him too much of another. He swallowed again and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“How come you don’t talk?” Vyn demanded, his mimicked scowl and stance still in place. He blew a few strands of hair out of his eyes and continued to glare defiantly up at Dallan.
“How come ye feel ye need to ask?” Dallan growled back. He suddenly caught his tone and quickly reminded himself this was only a child. There was no need to frighten him.
“You talk funny!” Vyn’s face suddenly took on a look of bright curiosity. “How come you talk like that?”
Dallan’s jaw clenched as he forced himself to answer. By all the Saints; this lad was so much like Alasdair. So much it hurt. “Because I come from some place far away.”
“Where?” Vyn asked as he leaned closer to the Weapons Master.
Dallan began to fidget again. “Scotland,” was whispered shakily as he fought to keep control of his surging emotions.
“Where’s that? I’ve never heard of it before,”
“If I ken where it was, lad, I wouldna be here.”
“Why not? Don’t you like it here? I love it! I think it’s great!” Vyn replied and then unexpectedly jumped up into Dallan’s lap.
“Oh, the two of you are getting along fine,” John said as he stood in the doorway, looking immensely satisfied about something. At the moment Dallan didn’t care what he was so happy about, so long as he took the wee lad from his lap.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t about to happen.
“Lany and I have a slight emergency to take care of. You don’t mind keeping an eye on Vyn a while longer, do you?”
“Can ye no take him with you?’ Dallan asked, trying to keep the pleading sound in his voice to a minimum.
“Oh, I’m afraid not,” John began in time to catch Dallan’s fierce look. “Kwaku is involved and…”
Dallan’s look suddenly turned murderous. “Say no more, John.” He sighed in resignation. “The lad can stay here. How long will ye be away?”
“About twenty minutes, maybe thirty.”
“Best be off then,” Dallan grumbled. The Scot didn’t really want the boy there, but knew as well as John that Vyn would be safer if he stayed. After what the bloody heathen did to Padric, he would take no chances with any of the younger lads. Dallan began to seethe just thinking about it.
Vyn gazed at him curiously. “Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?” Dallan asked as John stepped into the cottage. He took an odd writing instrument out of his flowing robes and carefully placed it on the small table against the wall.
“Like you’re going to be sick,” Vyn exclaimed with unrestrained glee. “My dad looks like that sometimes, right before he throws up!”
John abruptly turned and shot the boy a father’s warning glare.
Vyn defiantly glared right back. “Well, he does!”
John ignored him and looked to Dallan. “I’ll be back.” He looked at Vyn. “And you behave yourself.” He then left the cottage to allow young Master Mosgofian the opportunity to dissect the Scot as he saw fit.
Vyn didn’t waste any time. “Do you miss Scotland?” he blurted out sud
denly.
A painful gasp sounded from outside the cottage door, distracting Dallan long enough to sigh. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought the interview was still underway, only the interviewer had changed; it now obvious that Vyn had been left on purpose. Dallan gritted his teeth knowing he was in for it. He always avoided the younger lads as much as possible, for obvious reasons, and one in particular. Perhaps it had become obvious to others now.
The big Scot stared Vyn right in the eye, the boy returning the look boldly. “Well?” Vyn began, his tone demanding. “Do you miss Scotland?”
Dallan’s look softened as he remembered having Alasdair in his lap. Was it so long ago? Had so many years passed already? Saints but he was tired—tired of being trapped in Genis Lee, tired of having his life dictated by Kwaku, directed, overseen, dispatched day in and day out. Tired of being lonely.
He let himself give in to the boy’s demands and answered with a softened voice, “Aye, laddie. That I do.”
“Will you tell me about it?” Vyn asked innocently.
Dallan chuckled lightly. John Eaton was definitely different from the Councilors sent before him, and the opposite of Kwaku Awahnee. What could it hurt; he thought. He so liked to talk of home, a luxury he’d been denied by the heathen for far too long.
Dallan smiled slightly. “Aye, laddie, I will.”
* * *
John and Lany listened to the Scot tell young Vyn of his beloved Scotland in a cottage not twenty yards away. The simple communications device John had left on the table in the smaller cottage picked up even the tiniest of sounds emitted by Dallan and the boy.
At last there was hope as Dallan’s voice began to take on a tender yet teasing tone with Vyn, telling him of Glencoe, of France, and of the Faerie Folk, a very encouraging sign. Yet, not once did Dallan mention Alasdair.
Time Masters Book One; The Call (An Urban Fantasy, Time Travel Romance) Page 5
