Dallan rested his fist on the sill and breathed hard, getting ready for another onslaught. He bent to the sill, threw his head back again and cried out in pain, then fell to his knees and began to shake uncontrollably. He hugged his stomach and rocked back and forth in a feeble attempt at calming himself. “No... no.” He screamed again, louder this time, deeper, letting out more agony as Mary clung to him like a mother desperately trying to comfort a small child, her words drowned out by his cries.
John watched helplessly, unable to do a thing for Dallan, and the thought sickened him. Why did this have to happen? Why should anyone have to endure so much? It was the one aspect of Muiraran culture and their physiological makeup he despised.
He felt a presence behind him. John turned as a large black hand placed itself on his shoulder.
Kwaku Awahnee.
John looked up at the Time Master, silently pleading with him to do something. Anything.
“It was just so, when I was almost ready.” Kwaku whispered in John’s ear. “Now de Boyeee is almost ready.” He shifted his position behind him, his stance laced with fatherly pride.
John looked at the heap of Scot on the floor, Mary trying to put him back together and swallowed. “You really think so?” he asked in total disbelief.
Kwaku laughed softly, a monumental feat for him. “De Boyeee, he is almost ready. See how de Call seems to tear him apart?”
John nodded slowly in response. “How can you tell when he’s truly ready?” he asked, afraid of the answer.
“When he breaks, breaks for good. When Mary can no longer put de Boyeee back to-ge-dar. Den, he will be ready. Den, we can take him to her.”
Dallan screamed again, the sound almost pulling tears from John’s eyes. “By the Creator,” he whispered as Mary fiercely gripped Dallan with everything she had, trying to hold down the racking sobs which poured from the once-proud man. John choked back a sob of his own as Kwaku chuckled quietly.
“Are you sure he’ll survive this? Will he even live long enough to…”John stopped short. Kwaku was gone, another of his more irritating traits. He sighed and looked compassionately at Mary who glanced to his rear, looking relieved at Kwaku’s departure. This was not a good time for Kwaku to be around Dallan, and Kwaku knew it. Thank the Creator he had only come to check the severity of the pain, the strength of the Muiraran’s Call.
John went to Mary, never taking his eyes from Dallan’s crumpled form until he reached him. Dallan would have to answer the Muiraran’s Call if he wanted to survive, but how could he when he had no idea what was happening to him?
“Dallan?” John whispered putting a hand on the Scot’s shoulder.
Dallan, the battle over, raised his head to look at John. “I… I dinna want to answer any more questions to… day… John.” His head dropped to the floor with a dull thud.
John gave Mary a look of grave concern. “Will he be all right?”
Mary put her arms protectively around Dallan, resting her head against his trembling back. “He needs rest, Lord Councilor. This one took a lot more out of him than the last.” She sat up and began massaging Dallan’s tender right shoulder.
John’s mouth dropped open. “The last?”
Mary nodded and gave him her full attention. "The first I know of came but a few days ago, the day after he injured his shoulder. It was much smaller than this one. I went to fetch the washing and found him like this in his cottage. Time Master Kwaku was already there watching through the window. I wasn't sure if the boy's state was from the Muiraran, or his injuries and you upsetting him with all your questions." Mary's lower lip trembled as she massaged Dallan's shoulder again. "But there's no question now."
John's jaw tightened. He would have Kwaku Awahnee’s hide flogged off for not telling him Dallan had received the Call before. He bent to survey the damage. “Can you stand, Dallan?”
Dallan groaned. “John?”
John placed a hand on Dallan’s still trembling back. “I’m here. Can you make it back to your cottage?”
The Scot raised his head a notch. “I’ll settle for yon table there if… if ye please.”
John took one arm, Mary the other. “Easy now, lad, I’m no longer a young woman,” she grunted as they helped Dallan to his feet. John groaned almost as much as Mary as they guided their load to the nearest table, got him to a bench and helped him ease onto it. John feared for Dallan’s injured shoulder, which he was sure took a beating during the Call.
“Mary… some water… please.” Dallan breathed heavily.
“Anything you want!” She exclaimed, charging toward the kitchen.
John sat next to Dallan, supporting him as he still trembled from the effects of the Call. “So, this, uh, this has happened before?” John asked, attempting to sound cheerful.
Dallan lifted his head, with great effort, gave him a look of stricken disbelief, and tried a small chuckle. It hurt. “Aye…” he sighed, before exhaustion forced his head down again.
“How many times, Dallan?” John continued, dead serious now.
Dallan sucked in a shaky breath and tried to raise his head again. His face lifted slowly to John’s, still ablaze with a look so agonized it threatened to tear the Councilor’s heart out. “I reckon this would be… the third?” he answered, almost falling off the bench as he turned.
John propped Dallan up, the effort caused his arms to ache and his anger to renew. The third time! Great Burning Bells! When had the first come?
“Whoa there, lad!” Mary came running from the kitchen, a cup of water in one hand, and quickly helped John to steady him. “There now, you’ll be all right. Here, drink this.”
She offered Dallan the cup and he took it with a shaky hand, unable to hold it himself. She helped him sip the contents, biting her lower lip to keep her tears in. She’d seen him through the last Call, but this one had been by far the worst. And they would only come stronger, closer together, grinding him to dust.
Mary took the cup from Dallan, set it behind him on the table, and faced him again as her tears escaped. The mighty Weapons Master looked at her as a terrified child looks to his mother for comfort. She immediately responded, taking his arms and helping him to wrap them around her waist.
She moved directly in front of him, allowing him to bury his face in her bosom, and looked urgently at John, mouthing the words, “here it comes again.” John quickly put an arm around the Scot’s shoulders, bracing him. He could feel an odd tingling race through Dallan’s body and into his own.
Dallan groaned, deep and throaty. “No… please… no more, no more!”
John looked to Mary, horrified.
“You can feel it too, eh?” she whispered.
“By the Creator,” John choked out as the rush of emotion Dallan received flowed into him in small intervals. Bone-searing, heart-breaking pain. A swirling mix of loneliness, longing, and a strange sense of being horribly incomplete. It made John want to die, and he received only a fraction of what the Scot could feel. “It’ll kill him!” He glanced frantically around, as if looking for someone.
“No. It wants him to follow, to come,” Mary explained, tears running freely down her face, as she absently rubbed a plump hand over Dallan’s back.
“How can he?” John managed to ask, fighting the sensations as best he could.
“He can’t.”
“But if he can’t follow, if he can’t answer the Call…”
“It will just keep coming, stronger, more often, until he does. When he can’t resist any more, he’ll answer. Right now…” she sniffed back a sob, “he doesn’t believe. It would be so easy if he’d only believe.”
John suddenly understood. If Dallan would only believe! Believe in all Kwaku had been telling him all along.
“Nooooo,” Dallan’s body shook weakly, his tearful sobs muffled by Mary’s chest. John held him tighter.
The Call touched him.
A serene feeling, intermingled with the pain, weaved its way in and around John in greeting.
The Call was alive, an extension of the Muiraran.
He felt it pleading, causing his heart to lurch with an odd need. A need to be complete, to be one. To be made whole.
Make him come, please make him come.
Dallan screamed, and nearly flung himself out of Mary and John’s grasp as the full force of the Call hit. He looked desperately at Mary, gripping her with his arms. “Please, please… I canna take much more!” His face fell back to her chest, while heart-wrenching sobs racked his big body as he clung to her for dear life.
The Call continued, coming in waves. John could feel it lessen, allowing Dallan time to decide whether or not to let it in. It knew how much the Scot could take, pounding him hard, at the same time protecting him, giving him a chance to answer on his own. Giving him the choice.
“Mary…” Dallan whispered, his voice weak.
John and Mary held him tighter.
Another arm came around the Scot and John looked up, into the face of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She was tall even sitting, taller than John with a willowy, graceful build barely concealed beneath long white and purple silk robes. Her thick black hair was held in place with a band of gold encircling her head. In its center, rising from her forehead, was the symbol of her office. An ancient Celtic like knot with what looked like a letter T atop a letter M in the center alone by itself. Nothing seemed to make the symbol within the knot stationary. It appeared as if the letters were floating on air.
John was so caught up in the Call he belatedly recognized who the woman was. Mary, on the other hand, gaped at the creature on the other side of Dallan, her arm around his shoulder. She looked gently at John, then Mary who stared at her in fearful awe.
Mary Wren, for the first time in her life, was looking straight into the eyes of a Muiraran—and not just any Muiraran. Skin the color of rich, dark mahogany, midnight-black silky hair, large ebony eyes… even with her camouflage instinct making her appear human, she was breathtaking. Mary could not even imagine the woman’s beauty should her features turn true.
This was Zara Awahnee, Muiraran mate of the Time Master. Currently, the most powerful creature on earth.
The Call came again.
“God, no, please! No! Mary!” Dallan moaned as he shook.
Mary tore her attention away from the Muiraran and back to Dallan, stroking his back, trying to comfort him as she spoke in soothing tones.
Zara held the Scot gently and quietly watched Mary’s actions a moment, then closed her eyes and began to softly sing, her human features fluxing into Muiraran. Energy and power from her inner heart surged forth in the form of yellow light as she directed it into a song of healing.
John, breathless, watched in fascination at what took place before him, while Mary thought she might faint at the sight of a Muiraran in true form.
Dallan, oblivious to Zara’s presence, began to hear the words that went to the music of the Call. They were faint, fading in and out, two words more dominant and clearer than the rest.
Follow me…
Dallan felt a rush of calm enter him as the words and music wrapped themselves around his body, his heart, his soul.
The Call came again, sweeter, softer.
He suddenly felt her, could smell her scent, and knew she was near. If only he could lift his head, he might see her. But, try as he might, his body sat paralyzed while his heart moved. He panicked at the familiar tugging, yet was comforted by its gentleness. The music didn’t hurt him like it always did. Mayhaps this was how it was suppose to be. Hadn’t Kwaku told him? Why hadn’t he listened to the heathen? By God, what if the man was right for once?
The more Dallan gave up, the gentler it became. If only he could lift his head, he knew he would see her. She would hold it out to him, and he could take the gift she was ready to give. If only he could lift his head, could see her. If only he could answer…
Dallan suddenly found himself in the soft grass behind his grandfather’s house, the hounds of the manor jumping around the wee lass in excitement. He realized he was six years old again, as on the day he gave her his heart in a dream. Or was it? He couldn’t remember anymore. All that mattered was how she looked at him with the same longing he felt, holding her arms outstretched to him, beckoning him to follow.
He heard his man’s voice from far away, screaming in the pain of total helplessness. His boy’s mouth barely managed a weak smile, the only comfort he could offer the wee lass as her song died away, leaving her to stand and look at him with the same wretched longing he possessed. Dallan shuddered, their hearts breaking as one—he could do nothing about it except cry and felt the hot sting of tears descend down his cheeks.
The lass too was crying, crying and leaning toward him as far as she could before hitting some invisible barrier separating them. Dallan knew what she felt and more than anything wanted to spare her the pain, to protect her.
His man’s voice cried out again.
Dallan looked at her as he tried to stop his tears. He wanted her to see him as a protector, not a mere child. He was a man, a warrior! He wanted her to know he could save her from the pain, spare her heart from breaking, keep the longing and loneliness away at night, comfort her… hold her! But how?
The lass fell to her knees, swallowed by the pain running rampant through her body.
“Noooo!” he heard his man’s voice scream as he watched the lass clutch her self around the middle as if her insides were being torn out. Dallan knew the feeling well.
The faint sound of a man’s crying reached him. He knew it was his own, could hear the voices trying to comfort him. But they couldn’t stop the waves from coming, couldn’t help him answer.
The lass, on her knees, reached one arm out to him, trying to say something. Help me…
“Oh, God!” His man’s voice suddenly screeched. “No!” Dallan’s own boy’s mouth began to form the same word as he watched her fade slowly into white light, the whole scene dissipating. The last thing she did before disappearing completely was to point at something behind him in warning, a look of unparalleled terror struck upon her face.
They were not alone.
She vanished. The dogs, the house, the grass, everything was gone. The light and its comfort went with her, leaving in its wake the face of…
“Mary?”
“I’m here, boy. I’m here.” Mary said softly, still holding him.
Dallan looked at her, head up, most of his strength back, but something was different. He looked to John, who gazed past him toward the main entrance of the cookhouse, one of his familiar smiles of compassion on his face.
Dallan swung his head around. No one there; the doorway lay empty.
“Dallan?” came Mary’s voice, pulling his face back to hers. “Are you all right? Can you hear me?”
He gave her the barest of nods, still not sure where his voice was. Had he even spoken her name?
“Praise be to the Creator you’re all right!” She crushed Dallan to her chest, squeezing a grunt from him. “I thought for a moment you were leaving us.”
Dallan could only give her a blank stare as she released him, his attention wandering elsewhere. He could still feel the lass, as if she had been in the room with them. He looked at John first, then the door way which still possessed the Councilor’s gaze. He rose from the bench despite Mary’s protests to stay seated, and began moving toward the main door.
John grabbed his arm and stopped him. “No,” he told him softly, shaking his head.
It was all the encouragement Dallan needed. He wrenched his arm from the Lord Councilor, knocking him back onto the bench and broke for the door, reminding himself over and over he still felt her. She must be near!
A wee voice in the back of his mind nagged at him as he ran, that he shouldn’t get his hopes up, that sometimes life wasn’t fair. He was about to dispute the voice when he ran right into Kwaku.
Dallan hit the heathen’s chest so hard he bounced back a few steps and nearly fell over. Kwaku, naturally,
hadn’t been moved an inch; he stood solid as a tree.
“Out o’ my way ye madadh!! ” Calling Kwaku a dog was a sure sign Dallan was panicked at the thought of losing the one chance he might have to find the wee lassie.
Kwaku merely laughed a deep, loud, trademark Azurti laugh. “Glad to see me, Boyeee?” He laughed again, and Dallan’s skin began to crawl with irritation.
“Move out o’ the way!” he spat, fists poised and ready to fight his way past, every muscle in his large frame tensed at the possibility.
The big Azurti brute gave him a look of challenge and chuckled.
“If ye’ll no move out o’ the way, then ye force me to make ye move!”
Kwaku didn’t look intimidated in the slightest. He merely raised a wide brow at the threat, as if saying, oh, really?
“Why ye wicked, good-for-nothing…” Dallan abruptly switched to his native Gaelic, cursing the Time Master with everything he had.
“So glad to see you fare well, Boyeee,” Kwaku replied above his tantrum. “One of de villagers, he tells me you were brought down.”
Dallan snapped his mouth shut as his eyes narrowed on Kwaku. The Time Master smiled a wide, knowing smile of amusement and began laughing again. Louder.
“Shut up and get out o’ my way, ye auld rattle-bag!”
The laughing stopped. “Why?” Kwaku asked with a lower version of the Azurti chuckle.
“Because ye bloody… ye…” Dallan’s fists dropped, his posture changed to that of searching. “No...” he whispered.
She was gone.
Kwaku watched with a trained eye as a brief moment of all-consuming pain passed through Dallan like a knife, causing him enough anguish to turn his face away. Kwaku smiled again, continuing to chuckle to himself. “Why?”
“Never ye mind. It doesna matter now.” Dallan, downhearted, turned from the door and sat down hard on a nearby bench.
Kwaku nodded and smiled at the Scot’s back, a knowing look that said it all. If Dallan had seen it, Kwaku’s face said where to look for her, find out how he could go to the wee lassie haunting him and get the gift she still held.
Time Masters Book One; The Call (An Urban Fantasy, Time Travel Romance) Page 10
