by Dakota Chase
And nobody blinked an eye. It was the way things were.
Because of all the filth, people got sick and died from things most of us treated with over-the-counter medication. We get a fever, and we go to the grocery store and buy a bottle of Tylenol. They get a cold, and they pray they won’t need a coffin.
I got the feeling people died young here. Back home, we have entire communities of retired people, older folks who ride around in golf carts and play bingo. Here there were very few old people that I could see. Most were middle-aged, and I got the feeling those might be younger than they looked.
As I walked, I passed children playing in the filthy streets who seemed unaware or unconcerned about what they sat in. They laughed and screamed and ran like kids I knew back home, like I did when I was younger, and I felt suddenly extremely sad thinking about how many of them might be dead before they hit their teens.
I sort of wanted to gather them up and take them home with me when Grant and I finally returned to the Stanton School for Boys, but I knew it was impossible. Time travel magic would never allow it, even if I could convince them to come with me. Besides, they had mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers and aunts and uncles who would miss them.
At least, I hoped they did.
The sadness felt like another weight added to my already overburdened shoulders and just served to confirm what I’d thought earlier—I was going to have an ulcer by the time I got home.
Make that two ulcers. Maybe more.
I sighed deeply, then pushed on, walking stubbornly toward the edge of town. I wanted to make it to the stable by the river before dark, and shuffling around feeling miserable wasn’t going to help get me there faster.
There were no more incidents on the way, and I made good time after that, walking steadily toward the bridge spanning the river.
When I finally spotted the wharfs and boats docked at them or floating serenely on the water, I almost laughed out loud with happiness. Finally! I turned left and followed the waterfront toward the stone bridge in the distance.
Once I reached it, it was only a matter of retracing the route Wilhelm took coming into Trier. I had one misstep, took one wrong turn and had to double back, but then there it was—the stable where we’d met Schmidt and where I’d last seen Wilhelm. I ripped off the cloak, folded it over my arm, and hurried inside.
Chapter Fourteen
“WHO ARE you? If you’ve come about Herr Becker’s horse, you can tell him it won’t be shoed until tomorrow. I told him when he brought that swaybacked nag in here that—”
“Mr. Schmidt, I don’t know anybody named Becker. We met a couple of days ago, just before Michaelmas. I was with Wilhelm Bauer, remember? Me and another kid, Grant?”
He frowned at me, huffing through his bushy mustache. Then he brightened. “Oh yes. I remember. Wilhelm gave you a ride into town.” He turned back to his work, which happened to be the back end of a tremendous black horse. The beast’s coat gleamed blue-black in the fading sunlight. If it had snorted fire, I couldn’t have been more impressed—or intimidated. The horse was gigantic. I took a half step back when it turned its massive head and snorted at me.
Schmidt lifted the horse’s rear leg and peered at its shaggy hoof. He began picking at it with a knife, shaving off bits here and there.
“Mr. Schmidt, please, do you know where Wilhelm went? I need to find him. It’s an emergency.”
“Go on, boy. I have no time for idle gossip.”
“I’m not interested in gossip! Please, it’s a matter of life and death.”
He harrumphed. “Everything is life or death with the young. Everything is important. Why do you need him so badly? I thought he only gave you a ride into town?”
“He did give us a ride. Look, that’s not important. His wife, Irmla, and his daughter Brida were arrested for witchcraft! They’re in the dungeon right now, and they’re going to be tried soon. I have to find him!” My voice rose an octave as I struggled to keep my fear from escalating into full-blown panic.
“Irmla and Brida? Witches?” He blinked as if in confusion. “Nonsense. Two kinder women never drew breath. I will never believe they are in league with the devil.”
“They’re not, but you can bet Archbishop von Schönenberg and his court will find them guilty. They always do, don’t they? You know what’ll happen to them then. Please, I have to find Wilhelm before it’s too late!”
“I don’t know what you think Wilhelm can do about it, boy. There’s nothing any of us can do. If Irmla and Brida are found guilty, they’ll either hang or burn.” He dropped the horse’s foot and stood up. “I’m sorry for them.” He looked around as if to see if anyone was close enough to eavesdrop on our conversation. “My own aunt, God rest her soul, was accused by a pig of a neighbor who had taken issue with her over some trivial matter. She was dragged from her bed by von Schönenberg’s men and made to suffer horribly until she confessed. She was a pious woman, a good woman, and she didn’t deserve to die the way she did.” He offered me a small, weak smile. “Wilhelm went home to the farm. Surely he must know his wife and daughter were taken by now.”
“I can’t chance him not coming back. I need to see him.”
Schmidt stared hard at me for a long moment. When he spoke again, it was in a whisper. “I don’t know what you have in mind, boy, but whatever it is, I wish you luck with it. This madness has to stop before all of us end up dead.” He motioned to an empty stall. “You can bed down out here tonight. I’ll bring you out some supper. Tomorrow, first light, you can leave for the Bauer farm. You’d never make it there before full dark tonight.”
I knew he was right, but I wondered if Grant, Brida, and Irmla had another day before they went to trial. They might—there were enough people whose trials had been postponed because of Michaelmas celebrations and today’s day of rest. Besides, there was nothing I could do besides wait until the morning. I had no choice.
“Thank you, Mr. Schmidt.”
He nodded at me, then led the black horse to the stall next to mine. With nothing left to do, I settled down in another pile of stinky hay and waited for morning.
I DIDN’T think I would sleep, but I did. Next thing I knew, a boot was nudging me in the side. I woke up to see Schmidt staring down at me.
“Sun’s coming up. Time to get moving, boy.”
I stretched and yawned and wished hard for a cup of coffee or a Coke, neither of which I would be getting, I knew. Still, I got up and went outside to use the nearest bush as a bathroom.
When I came back, Schmidt had the huge black horse back in the center of the stable and had removed a saddle from a nail on the wall. The damn thing looked heavier than I was, but he handled it easily, the muscles in his arms bulging. As I watched, he saddled the horse.
Oh. Oh hell no.
“This is Samson. I’ll lend him to you. He’ll carry you out to the Bauer farm. Perhaps you’ll meet Wilhelm on the road on the way. I will see you when you return.”
“I appreciate it, but…. Don’t you have something a little, er, smaller? Maybe a pony? I’ll take a large goat.”
Schmidt laughed. “Bah, he won’t bite, but I wouldn’t put a kick past him. He’s basically a gentle creature. Go on now. The sun is rising. If you hurry, you can reach the Bauer farm by early afternoon.”
With the same ease with which he’d hefted the saddle to Samson’s back, he lifted me and swung me up, seating me on it. My feet found the stirrups, and before I could blink, the reins were in my hand. Schmidt took Samson’s bridle and led him out of the barn. I, being what felt like twenty feet in the air, had no choice but to go along for the ride.
Schmidt laughed at me, then slapped Samson’s rump, urging him forward. With absolutely no help from me, Samson began trotting toward the bridge. I clamped my legs to his sides and just tried to stay on, praying I didn’t fall off and split my noggin open on the stone road. After all, I wouldn’t be able to save anybody if I was dead.
My mind raced, trying to r
emember how to steer a horse. I could drive—sort of—which was what landed me at the Stanton School for Boys in the first place. I borrowed a car and went for a joyride. Problem was, the car’s owner hadn’t known I was borrowing it. I got tagged for grand theft auto when my high-speed ride ended in a short stop into the rear end of a police cruiser.
Anyway, I could drive a car, but it had been years since the one and only time I’d ever been on the back of a horse. I’d been nine or ten, and my dad had taken me to a ranch for a long weekend. They called it a “dude” ranch. Mostly, we slept outside, ate hot dogs and beans, and went on a trail ride.
It wasn’t that difficult, as I recalled. Pull left on the reins to go left, right to go right, and back to stop. Of course, the horse I was riding then—a sort of dull-eyed palomino pony—was trained to follow the butt of the horse in front of her, unlike feisty Samson, who was facing nothing but open road.
Managing to stay on was less of a problem than I’d thought it would be. Samson’s back was as broad as a porch swing. I had to spread my legs so wide, sitting in his saddle made me feel like I was doing a split. More difficult to adjust to was the constant bouncing as he trotted. Up, down, up, down, my butt jarring with the saddle every time. After an hour I could feel each bump all the way up my spine.
The sun was almost directly overhead when I saw a small river curling through the grass to my right. I thought I recognized the place where Wilhelm, Grant, and I stopped on our way in. Not knowing much about horses, I figured Samson was due for a break. I know my ass was. I steered him over toward the sun-dappled water.
Getting off Samson was easier than getting on would be. Of course, I only realized that after I’d slid from the saddle to the ground, managing to do so without breaking an arm or a leg from the drop. Then I noticed a tree stump near the river. I could climb up and stand on it, and hopefully from there, heave myself back up onto Samson’s back.
Either that, or Samson and I would both be walking, because I hadn’t passed another living soul who might help me mount up since leaving Trier.
The moment I dropped to the ground and let go of the reins, Samson wandered to the river and bent his massive head, drinking. I joined him, scooping handfuls out and drinking until my belly sloshed. Then he walked off a bit and began to graze.
It was then I realized how quiet things were. I could hear a few birds chirping and the babbling noises of the river, but that was it. No car engines, no radios, no planes overhead, no televisions blaring, no voices chatting or laughing or yelling. Just enormous silence pressing against my ears. It was eerie and gave me the creeps. I hadn’t realized how much background noise was a part of my life until then. I began to talk to Samson just to hear a voice.
“So, big guy, sorry I don’t know how to ride very well. This is practically my first time on horseback. I rode a pony once on a trail ride, but that hardly counts, right?” I sprawled on the grass, tucked my arms under my head, and looked up at the seamless blue sky. It was such a rich and vibrant blue, it looked like a painting. No pollution, I realized. No smoke or smog to dull the color. “Anyway, have I told you about my friend, Grant? No? Well, he’s an ass from time to time, sure, but usually he’s cool. He’s a really good kisser. Don’t tell him I told you that. He’d never let me forget I said it. Anyway, he got in trouble yesterday. He was a hero, you know that? Let himself get taken just so I could get this stupid book and escape to get help.”
I dug the book out of my pouch and waved it at Samson. “This stupid book is the root of all our troubles. Now I have three people I need to break out of a dungeon and get to safety so Grant and I can get home, and I need to do it before they go on trial for witchcraft!”
The book suddenly seemed heavier, like it weighed a thousand pounds. I loathed the damn thing, hated it so much that all I wanted to do was throw it into the river and watch it wash away. I couldn’t, though. I knew better. Grant and I needed it to get home. Still, it was tempting. Evil men used it to kill innocent people.
Getting rid of the book wouldn’t solve anything anyway, I realized. It was only one of a number of copies, and besides that, hate lived and grew in hearts, not on pages. Men like von Schönenberg would continue to do awful things with or without it, either because of misplaced beliefs or pure evil intentions. Either way, people would die.
“Except for Grant, Brida, and Irmla. They’re going to get out of prison and live, Samson. So help me God, they will.”
I didn’t add that if I failed, I’d probably be in the dungeon with them and my fate would be the same as theirs. Chances are, living at a stable in Trier, Samson knew it already anyway.
Chapter Fifteen
ALTHOUGH I was tired and wanted to sleep, I forced myself to get up from the nice, soft spot in the grass and lead Samson to the tree stump I’d spotted earlier. After climbing up, balancing on the uneven top of the stump, it was easier than I thought to scramble onto Samson’s back. I’m sure I didn’t look the slightest bit graceful doing it, though. I probably looked more like a deranged monkey trying to scale an elephant. Still, I managed to get on and stay on.
Samson didn’t seem to want to leave either, but he obeyed me anyway. A slight tug on the reins sent him plodding across the field to the road. I gave him a little thump with my heels, and he broke into a trot again.
I was fairly certain my ass was never going to speak to me again because of the torture I was putting it through. My bruises were going to have bruises. There was no doubt in my mind that my bottom was going to be the color of a violet crayon. Pretty color for a Crayola—not so lovely a hue for my butt.
My stomach snarled fiercely, as if I’d swallowed a small but ferocious tiger. Nothing was further from the truth, of course—I hadn’t swallowed anything except water today. To take my mind off my hunger and my intense, if futile, wish that I might stumble across the medieval equivalent of a McDonald’s, I began talking to Samson again.
“So, what exactly do you do every day, big guy? Pull a carriage or tote some rich guy around town? I do like your hairy feet. You remind me of the horses that pull the beer wagon. What were they called again? Oh, yeah. The Clydesdales. They pulled the Budweiser wagon in parades. They have hairy feet just like yours.”
Samson’s ears twitched as if he was listening, and every so often he’d toss his head as if he was laughing. Who knows? Maybe he was. I’d be laughing too if I had to cart a bony teenager who had almost no horseback riding experience around on my back all day. Either that or I’d be bucking like crazy, kicking my rear legs up in the air, trying to toss him off the saddle and onto his head. I must say I’m profoundly grateful he chose the former.
Hours passed slowly, marked only by new bruises I felt developing on my butt and legs. When we passed a few vaguely familiar-looking farms, I began to feel a thread of excitement tighten inside me. “Woot! I think we’re almost there, Samson! Look, I remember that farmhouse. I think it was the first one we passed after leaving the Bauer farm.”
My excitement must’ve communicated itself through my body to Samson, because he broke into a gallop. If I thought trotting was bruising, it was nothing compared to the head-jarring, teeth-knocking pace he set now. Frantic to keep my seat, I let go of the reins and leaned down, wrapping my arms around his neck.
We seemed to fly face-first into the wind, and I’m pretty sure I was screaming. Maybe it was only in my head, but I doubt it because when I finally remembered to pull back on Samson’s reins and slow him to the far more reasonable-if-painful trot, I realized my throat felt sore.
It took longer than I remembered until the Bauer farm finally came into view. There was the well where we first spoke to Brida and convinced her we were friendly; there was the pigsty, and I supposed it was still full of squealing piglets and their mama. And the chicken house! The surly rooster was probably still hanging around, strutting his stuff in front of all the other chickens. The barn still stood, where Grant and I spent our first night in medieval Germany, trying to sleep in a p
ile of moldy, poopy hay.
The farmhouse looked the same too. I spied two young boys out in front, splitting wood. The younger, smaller one, Emrich, placed a short section of log on a larger stump, and the older, bigger boy, Christoff, swung an ax and neatly cleaved it in two.
I tugged left on Samson’s reins, turning him across the field toward the house. The boys looked up at my approach and waved.
“Hey, boys! Where’s your father?” I called as Samson and I drew closer.
“What word do you bring from Trier?” Christoff wiped his sleeve over his forehead. He didn’t answer my question, but then again, he didn’t need to. We both knew Emrich was running to get Wilhelm.
I noticed the strain on Christoff’s face, fierce grief that should never be seen in a ten-year-old boy’s eyes, and realized he was probably worried sick about his mother and sister. “When I left they hadn’t been to trial yet.”
I could practically feel the relief, however short-lived, that coursed through him. “Then they still live, my mother and Brida?”
“Yes. And my friend Grant as well.”
“Thank God. Was he accused too?”
“I’m afraid he will be.” I grimaced with pain as I slid my stiff leg over Samson’s back and dropped ungracefully to the ground. I only remained standing by clutching the saddle. “I need to talk to your father.”
Wilhelm came out of the house, followed closely by Emrich. “I am here. What news do you bring?”
I repeated what I’d told Christoff. “We need to talk, Wilhelm. We have to do something and quickly, or….” I let my voice trail off, unwilling to say the words in front of the boys, but I knew Wilhelm didn’t need me to say them. He knew what the fate of his wife and daughter would likely be.
“I couldn’t stay. I had to come back here, to check on Emrich and Christoff and the farm. There is naught I can do for them.” Wilhelm’s voice was heavy with guilt and grief, and his shoulders seemed to sag under the combined weight.
