Chase (ChronoShift Trilogy) (17 page)

Mark sat calmly beside her throughout the ordeal, his back pressed against a maple tree.  When she turned his way, her look was frantic.  Almost apathetically, he handed her his rifle which had also been loaded and primed.

She lifted it, took aim, and then threw it to the ground in disgust after it too misfired.  Picking up her bow, she loaded it with an arrow from her quiver.  When she drew the bow back, its string snapped suddenly with a hollow twang.

She whirled to Mark, tears flowing freely down both her dirty cheeks, leaving trails as they ran.  It felt like someone had ripped her heart from her chest, watching her countrymen fall so mercilessly and being powerless to stop it.

Grabbing her arm, Mark shifted them both out of the scene, ignoring her sensitivities to physical touch.  A battle was no place to be worried about chastity.

June 14
^th
1675, Massachusetts Woodland
s

Secretly, Mark had felt his heart being drawn to this woman even when she'd been nothing more than a mirage from his dreams.   Yet, his heart was as reluctant as it was foolish.  Between Kelly and Laura, he'd had enough pain induced by females, or lack thereof, thank you very much.  Still, his heart was foolishly giving itself away again, even against his wishes.

Instinctively, he knew Abbie was too good for him.  She was
pure
.  She was the kind of woman a man was hard pressed to find in the 21
^st
century, and even if he did, he'd wouldn't be the kind of man such a woman would want.  She had great depth and dedication.  Her religious speech unnerved him, yet it was oddly attractive.  Still, if she could ever read his heart of hearts —  if she knew the things he'd done — she would want nothing more to do with him.  She would reject him, and rejection was a risk he did
not
want to take again.

So, he bolstered his defenses and did his best to harden his heart against the affection he might have otherwise begun to feel. That wall of iron he continued erecting around his heart kept melting away as it was besieged by the repeated mental image of those large tears running down her cheeks.

They were back at her cottage.  She'd made some strong, black tea while they talked.  She got up to refill his cup and paused before the stove.  She stood motionless, her back to him, tea kettle in hand, but then her shoulders began to shake subtly from the sobs she was trying to hide.

"Abbie..."

"It's okay," she managed to choke out.  She wiped her eyes with her sleeve before turning around.  She refilled his cup and sat down.

"Did you know any of those men?"

"No, not personally.  That's not why I'm crying."

"I know.  You're frustrated for being helpless to stop it."

"Yes," she sighed, shoulders sagging as she exhaled deeply.

"You'll get over it."

She flinched as if he'd verbally slapped her.  "Are you that cold-hearted, Mark?"

"Sorry," he repented, "I didn't mean it like that.  I've just been through this before.  That's all."

"I'd assumed as much.  What happened to you?"

"I'd rather not talk about it."

"As you wish."

They sat in silence for a while, the blissful, outdoor sounds of the afternoon surrounding them as they took their tea.

"You're sure there is no way to stop this coming war?"  she asked.

"Yes."

"Why come to me at all if you can't save me?"

"I didn't say I couldn't save you, just that we can't stop the war."

"What's the difference?"

"I have a friend named Ty who has a time shifter like me. He fought in the Vietnam War which takes place about 300 years from now, 1968 or so.  From time to time, he shifts back to save some of his buddies before they're killed in the war.  He's saved a lot of them too, but there's no way he could completely stop the Vietnam War from happening at all.  It's too big an historical event."

"1968?"  She rubbed her temples, contemplating such a date.

"You'll get used to it."

"You said that already.  Why would God allow you to save a few but not many?"

"I don't know.  Changing an entire war would obviously have a tremendous impact on all of history, but perhaps saving one life doesn't alter things enough to matter.  That said, there's been a number of guys Ty wasn't able to save."

"I'm not sure I can accept such Calvinistic teaching."

"The proof's in the pudding.  You saw what happened.  Do you have any other explanation for how your rifle misfired."

"You must know that Swansea, my village, was founded by Baptists who were unable to fit in with the Congregationalists in Rehoboth.  My Dah was Baptist and so am I."

"So?"

"So, Congregationalists believe in predestination.  We do not."

"Doesn't really matter what you believe, just what
is
.  Plus, I'm not so sure God's involved anyway."

"What?"  Her head snapped around.  "Are you pagan?"

"A pagan?"  He chuckled.  "No, I'm not a pagan.  Just not sure about this God thing."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm dead serious!"

"How do you explain all that's around you?  How did you come to exist?"

"Look, I just have trouble believing in a God that allows so many bad things to happen to good people.  That's all."

"What is it you just said?...It doesn't matter what you believe, just what
is
."

He took that in stride, not willing to concede the point.

She set her jaw firmly as she changed subjects, "You say you've friends who have these shifters?"

"Yes."

"I think you should go get them.  I have a feeling we may need all the help we can get."

How I cried when the sky let go

with a cold and lonesome rain

"
Holes in the Floor of Heaven
"

                         ~ Steve Wariner

June 25
^th
1675, Swansea, MA

Ty declined.  He was heavily involved in the rescue of a squad of soldiers he knew in Vietnam who'd been wiped out.

Hardy reluctantly agreed to come along, unsure at first why he was needed.  But, when Mark described the size of the enemy force involved, his enthusiasm grew.

The first assault by the Indian forces would be on some settlements outside the town of Swansea.  Then, the siege would move to the town itself.  In light of the recent attacks and the massacre of the previous day, Governor Winslow sent 70 soldiers to Swansea to help defend the town.  The soldiers had stationed themselves at three different garrison houses and most of the town's citizens planned to move to the houses as well during the course of the day for protection.

Hardy was camouflaged in a sniper's nest on a knoll overlooking the town.  They'd brought modern sniper rifles and telescopic sights back with them to fortify their advantage.  Still, the enemy would number somewhere between two and three hundred.  They had no real hope of stopping the massacre.  Their more realistic goal was to save Abbie, the baby Mark had heard crying in his dreams, and as many innocents as possible.

Mark would wander the village in era-appropriate dress as a stranger.  Once the first shots were fired, he would duck into a house for cover.  He'd already chosen the house.  It was a smallish cottage facing the path Abbie ran up in his dream.

The morning's stillness was suddenly pierced by the shouts of a frantic settler racing toward the village.  The war cries of his attackers soon followed.  A rifle shot rang out and the body of the screaming villager fell lifeless on the path.

The village erupted and a mad scramble for safety immediately ensued.  Throughout the settlement, villagers emerged from their homes in a panic, any attempt for order thrown to the wind.  Women hugged babies and toddlers under their arms as they ran, while the men clutched rifles and powder horns.  Older children stumbled along carrying any portable possessions they could grab in a moment's notice, all moving towards the three reinforced homes which served as garrisons.

The town had been warned of the coming attack, but even though they knew where to go, they weren't prepared enough to do it quickly.

The yells of the Wampanoag grew louder as they closed in and the first arrows began to rain down.  Mark saw one sturdy looking man stop and turn to face the attack on his home.  He was trying to give his wife and children time to make it to the nearest garrison house.  An arrow struck the dirt harmlessly by his feet, its shaft pointing from the ground to the sky.  The man was distracted by the near miss.

An Indian's long gun roared and its ball struck the man in the side, spinning him helplessly.  He stumbled, but succeeded in replanting his footing.  Determined, he sighted his own gun and fired, downing the Indian who'd shot him.  Then, a second Wampanoag was upon him, swinging his hatchet.  The settler deflected the blow with the butt of his gun and continued the movement upward, knocking that Indian to the ground with a powerful slam on the jaw.  A third Indian ended the man's fight, putting a bullet in his back, but not before the man's wife and children made it to safety.

Mark had to remember this was not his fight.  He was here to save Abbie, not the whole town.  At the first sign of trouble, Mark retreated to the house he'd chosen for his stand.  He helped the family who owned it mobilize and escape faster.  Then, he settled into a crouch behind the door frame, observing the battle from cover as it unfolded.

Since the long guns of this era could only be fired once without being reloaded, the Indians had waited to fire most of their guns until they were at a close enough range to inflict maximum damage.  They weren't waiting any more though.  Clouds of grey gun smoke floated like a man-made fog throughout the village.  The wails of the wounded were beginning their soul-piercing cacophony.

Mark watched the residence across the street.  The home where the baby would be.  A woman appeared in its doorway, her face a portrait of fear, which twisted to agony as an arrow from an unseen attacker buried itself in her stomach.  Grasping the wounding shaft with both hands, she turned and stumbled back inside her home.

Then, he saw her.  Abbie was running at full speed up the lane, looking exactly as she had in his dream.  Fear was written across her face too, even though she knew what lay in store, or maybe
because
she knew what lay in store.

She was so beautiful.  The dimmed daylight from the overcast sky made her creamy white skin appear to glow with angelic purity.  Auburn tresses of hair bounced rhythmically upon her shoulders in time with her pace as she ran.

Sweat broke out on Mark's forehead.  He knew his efforts to not fall in love with her had significant cracks, like a dike pressed by too much water.  The strong emotions evoked from witnessing her death over and over in his dreams had been powerful.

Why did he have so little control over his heart?  He knew he wouldn't be able to bear seeing her life bleed away in full color, only yards away from where he stood.

He just prayed this wouldn't turn out like when he tried to save Daniel and Brittany — though he wasn't sure who he was praying to.

Now was his moment, the reason he was here.  His rifle was already up.  The savage face of killer appeared, peering from the doorway of another home, readying his bow to spill her blood.

At last, Mark would know if the repeated nightmare had been given so he could save Abbie, or if this was just another cruel instance of unchangeable fate.

He sighted the man's nose and squeezed the trigger.

The killer's face evaporated, and Abbie was safe.

In the innermost parts of his being, his heart leapt and rejoiced.

He waited, knowing another Wampanoag would approach shortly, for in his dream a hatchet-bearing savage had silenced the crying baby after Abbie's death.