When Fate Dictates (29 page)

I moved closer to Simon, sliding my hand
toward the sparkling ball. It caught the light of the flame. A thin
thread of silver hung between the gem and the light. A thunderous
roar erupted as my hand was slapped hard against the warmth of the
crystal in Simon’s hand. The room swam fiercely around us, objects
merging into an unfocused blur of color and then it stopped and we
were in a street, with people, and buildings. I blinked, trying to
focus on an unfamiliar world.

******

“Hey, do you know where Barley Hall is?”

My hand tightened on Simon’s. I could feel
the warmth of the tiny ball sandwiched between our palms.

“The what?” Simon asked.

“Barley Hall, the brochure said it was around
Stonegate,” the man in the unusual clothing said.

“Stonegate? Is this York?” Simon asked.

“Well, yes,” the stranger said, shaking his
head.

“Err, sorry... I don’t think I can help you,”
said Simon, moving his eyes frantically from one side of the street
to the other.

“Come on love, these two are pathetic. I
don’t know which two bit company has hired them but I don’t think
they are going to be good for much more than their fancy dress,”
the odd man said, ushering his female partner hurriedly away from
us.

“Simon, where are we?”

“According to that man we are in York,” he
whispered.

“Yes, I heard him,” I snapped, lifting my
eyes to the sky, “Look, there is the Minster. But Simon this is
like another world.”

“Aye, Corran, I can see that,” he said, as a
woman with almost no clothes on pushed roughly past us pushing a
strange cart with a child in it.

“What do we do now?” I asked, as panic tore
through me.

“I don’t know, Corran. I have no idea. This
is nothing like the York I know.”

“What about the house? We could go back
there,” I suggested.

“Aye, if we can find it. These streets are so
different.”

“Why don’t we just ask?”

He smiled down at me. “I seem to recall you
suggesting that once before.”

“Aye and it worked, but this time I think we
could do without the attention.”

“I think I could find it by following the
Minster.”

“Simon, look at those big carriages. How do
you think they move? They don’t have any horses to pull them.”

“I don’t know Corran. This place is as much
of a mystery to me as it is to you, but look, I think there may be
some of your kin here,” he said, pointing to a sign above a large
shop that read ‘McDonalds’.

“They must be doing very well. There are a
lot of people in the shop,” I commented.

“Aye, there are. It seems to be some sort of
tavern. Shall we go and see if Mr. McDonald can shed some light on
where we are?”

We pushed through the large glass doors and
hustled our way toward a long queue of people.

“Where do you suppose we will find the
owner?” I whispered, hanging onto Simon’s hand, terrified of being
separated from him in the crowd of people.

“I would imagine we wait with all these other
people.”

“Do you think all these people are waiting to
talk to the owner?”

“No, Corran, I think they are waiting for
food.”

Eventually, we reached the bar, where a young
girl in man’s trousers scowled miserably at us. “Yes?” she said, as
if the word were too much trouble.

“I would like to speak with Mr. McDonald,
please?”

“Are you trying to be funny?” she barked.

“Well, actually, I didn’t think that was a
funny request at all. If you could just let Mr. McDonald know that
some of his kinsmen request a moment of his time, we would be very
grateful.”

“Look mister, if you want a meal, then order
it, if not, get lost.” she shouted.

“We have no need of a meal, thank you, but we
would like to speak with Mr. McDonald,” Simon tried again.

“Get a life, will you. There is no Mr.
McDonald, so just go before I call the cops.”

“Simon, I think she wants us to leave,” I
whispered, turning to leave.

“Well that was a waste of time. I wonder if
Mr. McDonald knows how rude his workers are,” Simon said, as we
left the smelly confines of the building for the fresh air of the
street.

“I am going to use the Minster to find our
house, Simon. Apart from the fact that it seems to have changed
color I still recognize it as the Minster,” I said, turning toward
a square off which several streets appeared to fork. “Look Simon,
there’s a sign for Stonegate,” I said, as the neat writing came
into focus.

“Indeed it is.”

“Well this looks nothing like it did
seventeen years ago,” I moaned as we moved onto what should have
been familiar territory.

“No, lass, you are right there. Do you
remember the last time we were on this street?”

I shot him a look of anger. “You think I
would forget that night?”

“No, I don’t suppose you would.”

“I think this is the snickleway to the house.
Coffee Yard?” I said, reading the name on a sign above the entrance
to the alley. “It seems the name has changed, look, it says it was
formerly Langton Lane.”

“You are right, Corran, but it looks very
different I think that is where the print shop used to be.”

“It’s not a print shop anymore. It looks like
another tavern of some sort,” I said.

Moving through the courtyard and into what
should have been the narrow brick alley to our home, we were
greeted on our left by three large windows.

“It looks like someone’s home,” I said,
peering through the glass.

“Don’t stare, Corran, it’s rude,” Simon said,
pulling at my arm to move me along.

“No, wait Simon, it doesn’t look right.”

“What are you on about, woman; nothing in
this damn place looks right.”

I shrugged. “Aye, but don’t you think that
room has a look of something that should be old. But when you look
carefully at it, everything is newly made.”

“I don’t care, Corran, honestly. I just want
to find the house and then figure out where we are and how we came
to be here.”

I followed Simon swiftly past the glass
windows, following the alley as it veered slightly left. I glanced
up at the eaves above us. They looked a lot older than I had
remembered them, but then it was many years since we were last
here. The door to our home stood in the same place as we had left
it, although it was almost certainly not the same door that Simon
had put back on its hinges the night we had fled York.

“Simon, what does that sign on the door
mean?”

“I don’t know, but it seems to be some sort
of direction to the place ‘Barley Hall’.”

“Who do you think changed our door and how do
you suppose we are going to get into the house now?” I asked as we
both stood in the cramped little alley, staring at the door.

“I will find a place that sells tools and
take it off, if needs be,” Simon replied forcibly.

“We could ask someone for directions to a
blacksmith. I noticed some people dressed quite sensibly back in
the yard. I think they were outside the place that sign is pointing
to.”

“No harm in having a wander back there, I
suppose,” he replied, turning to go back down the alley. Turning
back to the yard, we stopped outside the doorway to the place
called ‘Barley Hall’. A young girl, also wearing men’s trousers,
rushed over to us. “Oh, thank goodness you two are here,” she said,
breathlessly, “The agency said you were not able to make it
today.”

“Err... we, we were wondering where we could
find some tools?” Simon said.

“Oh, don’t worry about that, you will find
everything you need inside. Most people just want to wander around,
but if they ask questions, then feel free to share what you can,”
she said, extending her hand toward Simon, in offer of a handshake.
He took it, shaking her hand politely. “I’m Rose, by the way.”

Then, turning to me, she offered the same. I
smiled, awkwardly, never having shaken a woman’s hand before.

“I will be downstairs at the desk if you need
me. Oh and by the way, really nice costumes.”

“Err... thank you. I’m Simon and this is my
wife, Corran,” Simon replied.

“Have you two worked here before?” she
asked.

“Worked...? Err... no, I don’t think so,” I
said, wondering what the girl could possibly mean.

“Oh. It’s only I am sure I know your faces.
Anyway, good luck and welcome to Barley Hall,” she finished.

“What do we do now?” I whispered to Simon as
I followed him through the large doors into the hall of the
building.

“We go and find some tools, I guess. She said
we would find what we needed in here.”

Moving purposely through the entrance hall
and into the main body of the building I recognized immediately
where we were.

“Simon, it’s... our... house,” I said,
stumbling over my words.

“Aye, Corran, I can see that.”

I stared at the bare white walls, the oak
paneling stripped from its surface, and the dark wooden floorboards
replaced by a hard cold grainy substance. A tiny, magic light hung
from the ancient beam of the ceiling, illuminating a glass cabinet.
Bizarre and seemingly random objects lay displayed behind the
glass. On the wall above the cabinet was a sign which read
‘Stonegate Voices, Medieval Discoveries’. Four statues, two of them
without heads, were propped in a corner, dressed in garments so old
even my grandmother would not have considered them for work wear. A
green and red door, with the word ‘Gentlemen’ and ‘Ladies’, stood
along the wall where the fireplace had been and a new,
significantly sturdier staircase rose up from the floor to our
bedroom.

“Where do you think they have put our table?”
I whispered.

“The table?” Simon asked.

“Aye, our table, where do you think it
is?”

“Corran, our home is bare walls, in a world
we do not understand and you are worried about a table?”

I stared up into the hole in the ceiling
where the stairs broke through to the next floor. ‘Plague, Poverty,
Prayer’ loomed down on me from a dark poster, lit by another magic
light. I could see the high beams of the ceiling as I slowly
climbed the staircase and then as I reached the top and turned to
my left a body dressed in a green gown and red bonnet guarded our
fireplace. Someone had been thoughtful enough to fill the hollow
with logs, but it appeared no one had bothered to strike a flint to
finish the job. The wall to our bedroom had been cut through to
make one large space.

“Simon, where did that other room come from?”
I whispered, taking hold of his arm.

“It would have been another house,
Corran.”

“I didn’t even know it was there,” I said,
quietly.

“Excuse me?” said a young girl, looking
expectantly up at me.“Could you tell me what this room would have
been used for?”

I stared at her, wondering if she was being
deliberately facetious.

“Aye, lass, of course I can tell you,” Simon
intervened. “This would have been a bedroom, a place where a family
would sleep. You see, over there?” he said, pointing to the outer
wall. A grand bed would have stood over there, and at its end would
have been a chest; a glorious, beautiful, old chest, filled with
the family treasures.”

“That’s awesome. Did the family have any
children?”

“One family did, aye,” replied Simon. “Do you
have any brothers or sisters?”

“I have a baby brother. Mum can’t bring him
upstairs because he is in a pushchair.”

“Where is your daddy?” Simon asked.

“Daddy doesn’t live with us anymore.”

“Is your daddy away in battle?”

“Oh, no, my daddy has another family. Mommy
and him are divorced.”

“Divorced? Why is that?” Simon said.

“Mummy and daddy would fight too much, so
they can’t live together anymore.”

“Right, so where does your daddy live
now?”

“Daddy is married to another lady. Tell me
about the family who used to sleep in this room?” she said, her
eyes filled with expectation.

“Well there was a mummy and daddy and a
little boy called Duncan. Duncan’s mummy and daddy were from
Scotland.”

“Like you?” she asked.

“Aye, lass, like me.”

“Why did they come and live here?”

“Now that is a tale,” Simon said.

“Please tell me?” the little girl asked.

“A long time ago, in Scotland, in a place
called Glencoe, the King of England ordered his soldiers to kill
all the people in the village under the age of seventy. Some of the
soldiers did not want to do the King’s work, so they broke their
swords and fouled their rifles and fled. A young girl from the
village died on the mountains but a magnificent highland stag came
and saved her. She made her way back down the mountains to her
village and there she met a soldier who had hidden in a crevice in
the mountains. Together they escaped from Scotland and made their
way here to York and lived in this little cottage. One day, they
found a baby on the banks of the river Ouse. They named him Duncan
and raised him as their own. Until one day, a bad man called Angus
found them and shot Duncan’s daddy. But the highland stag came and
saved the little boy’s daddy and the family fled the city and went
back to Scotland.”

As the story progressed a group of people
started to crowd around us, hanging intently on to every word Simon
spoke. As he finished the story, several of them called out for
more and others patted him on the back in congratulations.

“Fabulous story pal,” said one enthusiastic
listener.

“Well now, You couldn’t script it,” said
another.

“What a movie that story would make,” boomed
another loud voice.

The little girl looked up at Simon. “Thank
you for the story,” she said.

Simon knelt before her. “It was my pleasure
wee lass. What is your name?”