Chase (ChronoShift Trilogy) (14 page)

"My fair child, I know what you say to be true, but tis hard to trust unconvention when convention be the way of things. Still, my heart be yours, as it always has.  Do what ye will."

She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. He turned red in the face as he always did when she was so enthusiastic with her affection.

"Girl, the Lord knows I've done me best to raise you in the fear o' Him.  You've got a mind an' a heart of your own though, to be sure," he grumbled.

"No fear, Dah.  I shall embarrass neither you nor Him."  She bussed him on the cheek.  A reluctant smile peeked through his forced, stern demeanor.  He could never resist when she wanted something so badly.

Abigail leaned back in her chair, enjoying the taste of the creamy, buttered bread on her tongue, feeling the warmth of the fire on her skin.  The chill of the world outside was held at bay by the walls of their snug home.

Yet, a sliver of doubt entered her thoughts, like a draft through a small crack in the boards. Was she doing the right thing?  What if her father was right after all?  What if she couldn't make it on her own?

She stoked the fire deep within her heart, hoping it would be sufficient to keep out the cold fingers of doubt.

***

 The crackling of thatched roofs burning singed his ears and the pungent odor of their smoke filled his nostrils, heating the lining of his throat intolerably with each breath.

The screams of several women from the village mingled with the heart-wrenching wails of children.  It was complete chaos.

The villagers looked like pictures of Pilgrims he'd seen in history books.  They were under attack by painted, bare-chested warriors whooping savagely as they wreaked havoc upon the innocent with hatchet and knife.  Scarlet blood stained and ran across the earth in tiny rivers as it poured from the wounds of the fallen.

There she was...
again
.  Her face, which normally must have been angelic, was tight with the concentrated stress of the moment.  She ran.  Her long auburn hair had been pinned up, but now bounced rhythmically as she fled.  Her clothing was different from most of the other villagers, a deep forest green tunic being the most noticeable variation.

Then came the horrifying scene his repeated nightmares inexplicably forced him to watch over and over again.

The cry of a baby.

The woman stopped, changing direction to find the baby.  It was a move which would bring sudden death.  This time, Mark saw the arrow as it flew before striking her graceful back.  This time, he saw the killer, watched his face as he loosed his deadly missile from the doorframe of a burning cottage.

This time, the dream did not end as this beautiful woman fell, destroyed in an instant.  It continued, and he was powerless to stop it.  It continued and the baby cried.  It continued as the baby abruptly ceased crying.  It continued as Mark helplessly remained conscious to the horror.

Then, mercifully, and finally, it stopped.

"Man, what happened to you?"  Ty handed Mark a cup of joe.

"What do you mean?"

"Your eyes are bloodshot.  Looks like you didn't sleep a wink."

"Had a rough night."

Hardy was shooting billiards.  "Bad dreams?"

"You could say that."  That evoked quizzical looks from both his friends.  Mark leaned out the door and called down the hall, "Savannah?  Would you come here for a minute?"

Hardy put down his pool cue and took a chair.  Mark sat in another, rubbing his forehead with his fingers as if he were either trying to rub away a bad hangover or come up with the answer to a difficult problem.  Savannah waltzed in wearing a simple white cotton blouse, blue jeans and sporting a pony tail. 

"Savannah, I think I may need your expertise."

Ty was growing impatient, "Spill it, Mark.  What's up?"

"I have this horrible, recurring dream.  Seven times now I've dreamt the same thing, and it seems so
real
...I just don't know.  It's taking a toll on me."

"What's it about?"

"There's this village, and a lot of people...and these Indians are attacking.  All the people are dressed kind of like the Pilgrims, and there's this girl.  It's always the same girl.  Maybe she's a woman, I don't know.  I just see her for a moment before she's killed by the Indians.  I keep seeing her die over and over again, night after night, and I don't know why.  Maybe she's calling to me, or maybe the dream is calling to me, like I'm supposed to find her or something."

"That's ridiculous," Hardy chuckled.

Mark didn't hear him.  He was lost in thought.

"Do you think this is something that actually happened?"  Savannah asked.

"I do," Mark replied, "I think I'm supposed to go find these people."

Hardy shook his head, scoffing.  "You think the universe is calling you, Mark?  C'mon."

"Ain't the universe, my friend," Ty interjected.  "Things can't think."

Hardy scowled.

"I don't know what it is," Mark mumbled, "but something's telling me I'm supposed to go."

"What about that boy back in England?" Hardy asked.  "Did you forget about him?"

"What boy?" Savannah queried.

"Back in the Middle Ages, Mark and I ran across this boy they were going to hang."

"I haven't forgotten," Mark asserted.

"Oh, I see.  Can you describe the village to me in more detail, Mark?"  Savannah gently prodded.  She'd took a pen and began scribbling notes on a pad.

Mark described everything as best he could and answered her questions about the buildings, the villagers, their clothing, things they said, what the Indians looked like.

"Well, I doubt they were Pilgrims, Mark.  It sounds more like a Puritan village."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"No, not really.  The Pilgrims were Separatists while the Puritans believed in reforming the Church of England from within...anyway, no, they're not the same thing.  They did share a number of similar customs and beliefs, but the Pilgrims had a distinct form of dress, usually more colorful than the Puritans.  Plus, there weren't that many Separatists, their settlements were usually on the coastline.  Puritans migrated much further inland and had settlements throughout Massachusetts."

"So, how do we find out where this village is?"

"Not sure.  There was an Indian uprising in the late 1600's and a number of Puritan settlements were attacked.  I can't remember many of the details though.  I'll have to do some research."

"Could you please?"

Savannah nodded.

"You guys want to come along?"

"Sorry, Mark, I've got a couple of things I'm working on," Ty said.

"That's fine.  Hardy?"

"Yeah, I'll go later if you need me."

"All right.  Savannah, when will you know something?"

"Couple of days, maybe?"

"Good, I'll shift ahead and meet you then."

March 14
^th
1674, Swansea, MA

The mourners had left.  She was alone now.  Alone in the humble home where she'd grown up under the caring hand of her father, and she felt scared.  She had never known life without him.

Unlike her mother, it had not been sickness that took him, but a bullet.   He had gone to check his rabbit traps and not come home.  She'd found her dah on the trail the next morning, dried blood encrusting the large wound on his cold body.

How lifeless he'd looked.

Yet, how at peace.

He'd had no known enemies.  The general consensus in the village was it had been a lone Wampanoag armed with a rifle traded to him by settlers.

She could feel the anger and bitterness encroaching deep within, trying to possess her heart.  It would be so easy to give in to it.

But that would not please her Dah.  He had raised a decent daughter, a daughter devoted to forgiveness and the gentle ways of his Savior.  He was happy now, at peace by his Lord's side.  Surely, he now enjoyed the company of her mother once more.  He had missed her dearly over the years.

How easily the hatred came to her surprised her.  Hatred for the savagery that had so violently ripped him from her life, hatred for the savage who'd borne the gun.  She could hate the savagery, but she must not allow herself to hate the man possessed by it.  Were not all men savages at heart?  Did not all men stand guilty before their Creator?

A gentle knock broke through her thoughts. She did not want another sympathetic ear today.  She wanted to sleep.  She went to the door and opened it.

It was Clemency Bradford, a fine young man to be sure.  He was the same man her father, till recently, had wanted her to marry, and who she particularly did not want to see at this moment.

She tried her best to appear ladylike and patient.  "Yes, Clem?"

He held his hat in hand.  "Abbie, I uh..."

"Spit it out, Clem."  She could probably do better with the patience part.

"Abbie, it's not safe for you to be living at the edge of the village like this...especially after what's happened."

"This is my home, Clem.  Where would I go?"

"Father and mother have said you can live with us for a time."

"And then?"

"Well...I thought we could be married.  I'd build us a house of our own."

"Clem...no.  It's a nice offer, but I'm sorry, no."

"Wait, Abbie.  I know you're grieving, but tis really what's best."

"I've said what I have to say."

"But...the ladies of the village will start to talk if you live out here by yourself..."

"Let them!"  She slammed the door in his face.

Aaarrgh!  He had another thing coming if he thought she'd marry him out of necessity.  He was a nice boy, but too naive.  That was for sure.  She had no idea what she
would
do, but marrying Clemency Bradford would certainly not be one of her choices.

May 23
^rd
1674, Swansea, MA

Now that she'd packed, the house looked emptier, though she wasn't really taking that much with her.  Perhaps the emptiness she sensed was more from the absence of her father than the few essentials she'd removed.

Much of the larger furniture she was forced to leave behind.  There was no way she could transport that stuff to where she was going.  She'd have to rebuild it along with a new house.

Clem had been right about one thing, it wasn't long before tongues started wagging.

They were good people.  They just couldn't conceive of a young lady of her age being anything but married.  A girl who refused to follow convention was to be suspected.  The gossip and rumors grew like festering weeds.  She'd decided it was time to leave.

Her father had taught her how to hunt and trap.  In the wild Massachusetts woods, she could get along on her own as well as any village boy.  The tunic she'd chosen was dark green.  She'd sown it herself and could make whatever else she needed.   All the other changes of clothes in her knapsack had dark greens and browns woven into them.  Those colorings would help her blend into the forest as she hunted.

A bow and a quiver full of arrows graced her shoulder and hung low across her small back.  In addition to the clothing items, she'd packed a knife and a few other basic necessities in the knapsack.  She threw it over her other shoulder.

Setting the fire was hard.  This was all she'd known.

In this cottage were a thousand warm memories of her father and the simple life they'd led, memories that would never again be triggered by the sight of this home.  A lump tightened in her throat as flames licked up the side of a wall.

She turned without a word and went out the door for the last time, melting into the woods.

September 3
^rd
1674, Massachusetts Woodlands