The Prodigal Son

by Belfrage, Anna

  She counted in her head; it was 2016 there in the future. Almost fourteen years ago since fate and a gigantic bolt of lightning combined to throw her more than three hundred years backwards to land stunned at Matthew’s feet. Alex twisted at her wedding ring; should she ever be yanked back she was certain she’d die, of something as hackneyed as a broken heart.

  She started when Matthew covered her hands with his.

  “Alright?” he asked, kissing her brow.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I just had one of those flashbacks.”

  “Ah,” he nodded. She eyed him from under her lashes. Matthew was never comfortable discussing her strange – impossible – fall from one time to the other. Heck; neither was she, it made her hair bristle. Just as she’d expected, he changed the subject.

  “This afternoon I’ll finish the house, tomorrow I start with the barn,” Matthew said in a resigned tone, looking at what was presently a roof on stilts. He studied his callused hands and muttered that he was always one step behind, whether in the building or in the tilling. But at least there was a stable, and an assorted number of small sheds, including a well sized laundry shed, complete with a large wooden bathtub.

  “No hurry, is there?” Alex said. “After all, there’s nothing to fill it with as yet.”

  “There will be,” he said, “this year the crops will be good.” With that very confident statement he grabbed his hat and went outside, telling her that he’d be taking Mark and Jacob with him to clear the new field.

  The boys came rushing when he called for them. Mark was already shooting up in height while eight year old Jacob was still very much a child, all downy cheeks and knobbly knees. So young, Alex reflected, watching her sons fall into step beside their father, and already most of their days were spent working side by side with Matthew. Not that they seemed to mind, both of them inflating with pride when Matthew praised them for their hard work – which he did quite often.

  Alex packed her basket with some food, found a blanket in the laundry shed, draped it over her arm and made for the woods. Late April in Maryland was like a warm summer day in Scotland and Alex adjusted her straw hat as she went, before beginning her customary scanning of the ground for anything green and edible. She was sick to death of the few sad carrots in the root cellar, she wanted huge salads, ripe tomatoes, and while she was at it, why not a chocolate bar or two… Boy was she in a maudlin mood! She slowed her pace and ducked into the shade of the closest trees.

  It was strange that the few times she was truly homesick it wasn’t for her life in the twenty first century, it was for Hillview, the small manor in Ayrshire that they’d left one cold and drizzling March day four years ago. She’d spent weeks saying good bye, walking for hours through the woods, standing silent by the edge of the moss. Worst of all had been the last time she and Matthew had stood together in front of Rachel’s grave, bowing with the pain of forever leaving behind this one tangible reminder of their daughter’s brief time on Earth.

  “Rachel,” she said out loud. She did that sometimes; she called her dead daughter, and just by saying her name she was making sure she wasn’t forgotten. Now she closed her eyes and Rachel sprang to the forefront of her mind, her hair a messy tangle down her back – just like she’d been the last day of her life, her little face contorted with fury as she flew to the defence of her beloved Da.

  “Mama?” Ian materialised beside her and Alex turned away. “Are you alright?”

  Alex nodded, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand before facing him.

  “One of those moments.” She suspected Ian had quite a few such moments himself, but he chose to keep them to himself. Alex stood on her toes and pulled out a couple of cockleburs from his hair.

  “You’re too tall,” she grumbled, and Ian grinned and sat down, crossing his legs. Alex stood on her knees and extracted her comb from her apron pockets to comb his hair free of debris. “Where have you been? Chasing deer through the undergrowth?”

  Ian mumbled something unintelligible in reply.

  Alex smiled down at the back of his head and went on with what she was doing. They sank into a companionable silence, broken every now and then by the loud calling of a bird or the rustling of something moving through the forest that surrounded them.

  “There.” Alex sank back on her heels and returned her comb to its keeping place. “You’re so like him,” she said, studying her teenaged stepson, who had now gotten to his feet. A younger version of her Matthew, tall and well-built with the same hazel eyes, the same dark hair that went chestnut under the summer sun and the same generous mouth.

  “Is that good or bad?” Ian teased, helping her to stand.

  “Good, obviously.” She bent to pick up her basket. A flurry of movement made her rear back as something mid-size and grey rushed by her.

  “A wolf?” she asked tremulously.

  Ian laughed, shaking his head. “Raccoon. Curious as to what’s in yon basket.”

  “Nettle shoots,” Alex said, “will make us all a very nice soup.” She was very happy with her find, thinking that she’d poach some eggs to go with it. Ian eyed the contents with a decided lack of enthusiasm.

  “Eat nettles? Won’t it blister our mouths?”

  “Of course it will. It will make all of you shut up for days and days,” Alex said, elbowing him hard. “Idiot,” she added, making him laugh.

  “What happened to your promise to fix the hen coop?” Alex said, accepting Ian’s hand when they clambered over a mossy trunk.

  “I’ll do it now,” he said, his cheeks staining a suspicious red. Alex studied him narrowly; grasses and leaves all over his clothes, all that stuff he’d had in his hair… She smiled and hefted her basket higher onto her arm. Apparently young master Graham was discovering the pleasures of the opposite sex. She wondered if it was Jenny he’d met up in the woods – she sincerely hoped it was Jenny Leslie, given that Matthew and the girl’s father were very much in agreement regarding the desirability of such a match.

  Ian turned towards the house, Alex dithered; she had to find the girls.

  “Are you coming?” he asked.

  “Soon, I… well, I need some more nettles.”

  “I’ll come with you.” Ian held out his hand for the basket.

  “I’ll be fine on my own,” Alex said.

  He shook his head. “I’ll come, aye?” Great; absolutely marvellous. Those protective genes so prominent in his father had made it down to the next generation unscathed. From the way Ian’s mouth set into a line, she knew there was no point in arguing, and anyway, what did it matter if he saw the girls – he’d never tell.

  “Da said you’ll be staying with the Leslies when we ride down to Providence,” Ian said.

  Alex made a face. She was fond of both Thomas and Peter Leslie – although she should probably revise her opinion of Peter given what those girls had told her – but Mary Leslie had the intellect of a dormouse and as to Elizabeth…

  “Aye,” Ian said, following the train of her thoughts. “She is a bit much at times.”

  “Very much so,” Alex agreed, thinking that Elizabeth Leslie must be an awful cross to carry for a man as mild-tempered as Peter.

  A high wail had Alex almost jumping out of her skin.

  “What was that?” She stooped to pick up the nettles she’d scattered all over the ground.

  “I don’t know,” Ian frowned.

  Yet another shriek, and now there was no doubt – this was a human voice, raised in fear and pain. The girls! Oh my God, and now they were being eaten alive by a bear, or were surrounded by wolves, or… Alex flew down the slope, making for the terrified sounds. Another voice; low, male. Someone laughed, harness jangled and Alex faltered. Could it be one of the Leslie brothers?

  “No, please! No…” The sound was cut short.

  Ian’s hand closed on Alex’ arm, bringing her to a halt. They crouched behind a screen of bushes, silent spectators to what was happening in the small clearing. Three men, unrecognisab
le in broad brimmed hats, and then there were the two girls, one of them fighting like a hellcat, while the other was gagged and hogtied, squirming like a caterpillar where she’d been thrown across a horse. To the side stood yet another man, eyes trained on the surrounding woods and musket held at the ready. Alex did a double take; she knew this man from somewhere. Thinning hair, a long narrow face with a rather prominent mouth, and dark eyes sunk into deep hollows. Yes; she had definitely seen him before, but when? Where?

  “We must do something,” she hissed, “those poor girls!” She made as if to stand but was arrested by Ian’s hold on her hand.

  “Nay,” he whispered, “there’s nothing we can do – not the two of us against them.”

  However much she hated admitting it, Ian was right.

  In the clearing the screaming girl was slapped – repeatedly. The last slap was so hard her head snapped back. The man who hit her laughed, watching as his companions wrenched her hands behind her back and tied them, before sauntering over to the sentry, saying something in a low voice. He took off his hat, releasing black hair to fall like overlong bangs over one side of his face. A handsome man, his face a collection of sharp planes and angles, complemented by a square chin and a chiselled mouth. A cruel face, Alex decided – or maybe that had more to do with what she’d just witnessed him do to the poor girl. His eyes wandered over the closest bushes and Alex shrank together, thinking she had never before seen eyes so disconcerting. Irises so light so as to look almost white, the pupils like black, miniature well shafts. For some reason Alex knotted her hands together and held her breath – anything to make sure he wouldn’t discover her.

  The man took a step or two to the side, unlaced himself and pissed, talking with his companions over his shoulder. It was evident he was the leader, the sentry nodding at whatever it was he was saying. Alex caught the word Virginia a couple of times and focused her attention on the sentry. Why did he seem so familiar, all the way from his obsequious grin to how he stood, slightly pigeon-toed? There was a flurry of movement, the men sat up, and then they were gone, horses whipped into a canter as they set off towards the south.