The Messenger: Mortal Beloved Time Travel Romance, #1 (4 page)

I
woke
up feeling like death on toast. My head felt like someone had stuck a hundred tiny knives into my brain. Every inch of my body ached, and my eyelids were heavy—like they had been glued shut. I probably had the worst flu imaginable.

I was on my stomach, lying on something rough and scratchy. I bet Dad had tucked me into bed with one of his favorite Mexican artisan woolen blankets. I loved the beauty of the patterns, as well as the devotion and care that went into their craftsmanship. But, I was allergic to wool, and they made me itch—which Dad always forgot.

I wiggled my fingers, and opened my eyes: everything was blurry. A chicken high-stepped in front of me, and we made eye contact. Odd. First, ’cause I haven’t had a meaningful moment with a chicken unless it was seasoned with herbs de Provence’, baked and sitting next to some steamed vegetables on a plate in front of me. Second, because the hen and I were on the same level, both lying on an outdoor dirt ground interrupted with chewed-up pieces of grass. Well, I was lying, but the hen was walking.

The chicken stared at me, blinked and clucked like a worried mom. She apparently had other pressing concerns to attend to, so she abandoned me and strutted past more people scattered on the ground.

One was a thin, young woman collapsed on her stomach. A long skirt was bunched up over her knees, and her legs were covered in weird, white, puffy leggings. She wore a long-sleeved shirt, and a little white cap shoved onto one side of her head. White cap?

I shut my eyes, exhausted. I couldn’t place this woman. I’d never seen her at school, or in any neighborhood I’d been in. Maybe she was a dream or a delusion. Possibly a character in an old movie I’d been watching before I fell asleep. I blinked, opened my eyes and the woman with the white cap was still in my peripheral vision. I turned my head toward her, and my vision focused.

Her pretty face was twisted at an odd angle, and her eyes stared frozen into mine. Her shirt buttoned all the way to her throat was caked in dark red, drying blood, probably due to the fact that her neck was nearly severed. She was dead.

I hyperventilated, and my stomach heaved. I rolled onto my side, and vomited. I felt so embarrassed and wiped my mouth. I pushed myself up to my elbows, glanced around and spotted more people, probably close to ten total—children, adults—all dressed in similar, strange outfits lying twisted and torqued on the ground close by me.
Where was I?

Most of the men were dead with gaping holes in their chests. Several women and children looked like they were stabbed with knives or hatchets. An older guy even had crispy, burnt pants and sleeves. I caught a glimpse of his arm. It was red and blistered. He didn’t care because he wasn’t breathing. They all were broken, bloody, and definitely dead.

I pushed myself to sitting, and winced in pain as my head throbbed. Something white and red hung in front of my eyes. I pulled the annoying thing off—it was a small, white cap covered in blood, just like the cap on the woman with the severed neck.

But this was
my
bloody cap. Bile rose in my throat. I gagged, and flung it as far away from me as possible.

I’ve had lots of nightmares in my life. Dreams of the car chase that led up to the car accident where Mama disappeared, and funky, psychedelic dreams about those stained glass skylights at Preston Academy. The dreams didn’t usually make any sense, but this one had to be one of the worst ever: this dream felt so
real
.

The broken earth rubbed against my skin, and penetrated my pores. The leaves and grass underneath my body were scratchy. The smell of burning wood made my nose twitch. I sneezed and coughed.

I jammed my hands down the sides of my body searching for my anti-anxiety drugs, but couldn’t find the bottle. What happened to my pockets? I had no pockets. I hyperventilated and tried to remember to breathe slow and relaxed, like in yoga: calm, deep breaths in, soothing, deep breaths out. That’s when I spotted the fiery remains of a small, rustic cabin squatted on a low hill in the near distance. I started shaking.

Flames flared through this tiny, wooden structure. Embers floated up into the air like fireflies twinkling just above my head at my grandparents’ place in the Wisconsin countryside during a late, Indian summer. But I didn’t think this was Wisconsin.

I pushed myself off the ground, and stumbled like a drunken person toward the cabin. Maybe I could help someone in there. Maybe someone could help me. “Hello?” I said. But nothing came out of my mouth, and no one answered me.

I wiped away a few tears, saw blood on my hands and realized the cut on the right side of my head extended down into my forehead. It had bled through my hair and was seeping into my eye. “Is there anyone here?” I yelled. Again, apparently I was yelling to myself.

I put a hand to my mouth. My lips moved, but I couldn’t talk. No sounds came out of my mouth. Why? What the hell was wrong with me?

There was a dark, dense forest about twenty yards from the rear of the torched, smoldering cabin. I squinted through the smoky air, and wiped my eyes. Where was I? Was I back at the Chicago Neurological Foundation where they tried to diagnose my anxiety after Mama disappeared? Was I heavily medicated on major anti-psychotics, and institutionalized someplace with locked doors, gates, and guards? Had I finally lost it for good?

I closed my eyes, and sat back on the ground. Maybe if I took a moment to center and calm myself, this crazy show playing in my head would disappear. I visualized myself tucked into bed, looking up at my ceiling at the glow stars and iridescent maps of the world that Dad had painted up there for me to look at when I couldn’t sleep. After a few moments, I felt calmer and opened my eyes.

The same dead people lay on the ground and the cabin continued to simmer. A frustrated cry escaped my lips, and I wiped my tears away with my bloodstained, muddied, long sleeve. Then I realized—I had a voice. It was bare bones basic, but it was a voice.

In the distance I heard a worried, adult female shout, “Abigail?”

I didn’t know who Abigail was, but I’d
love
to see a friendly person right about now. “Yes!” I said, but couldn’t quite get the word out of my mouth. Like, I still didn’t know how to work this mouth, this voice.

“Abigail, we are coming for thee!” the woman said. Whoever she was couldn’t get here soon enough.

That’s when I first saw him.

He looked about my age, with strong cheekbones and black, shiny hair that swept onto his shoulders. He wore a long, tanned, animal hide shirt and loose pants. He was tall, muscular, stunning. He also looked very much alive.
I really liked the alive part.

He and another big, built, young man skirted the remains of the torched cabin and headed toward the forest. The other guy also had black hair, but his skin was caramel, and he wore old-fashioned pilgrim breeches and a plain shirt. They carried bows and arrows. The one clutched a knife. They both looked hard and tough like rebels or even the punks on the el platform.

The young man with the strong cheekbones scanned the scene. His gaze was intense, especially when it landed on me. His hazel eyes regarded me with coldness, disdain. I had no idea why. He looked dangerous, but not like a killer. There was something different about him that I couldn’t explain. He nodded at me once, turned, and followed the other guy into the forest.

And left me with all the dead people.

Except for the woman who kept calling for Abigail. I spotted her. She was pretty, young, and accompanied by two men, one older and one younger. They were dressed in strange, colonial attire, and crouched low to the ground as they crept up the hill toward the cabin and me.

The woman paused next to a body of a girl lying on her stomach. The woman bit her lip so hard I thought she’d draw blood. “Abigail?” she asked.

The older man kneeled in the dirt, and turned the girl’s body over. “She’s dead, Mistress. They’re all dead,” he said.

The woman grimaced, leaned over, and smoothed back the blood-caked hair that covered the dead girl’s face. She looked relieved, then embarrassed. “’Tis not Abigail.” She gently shut the dead girl’s eyes with her hand. “Go to God.”

“Mistress Elizabeth.” The older man pushed himself back to standing. “I pray that your cousin is alive. But you are in grave danger here. Daniel will escort you back to the garrison. I will look for Abigail.”

Elizabeth jutted her chin out, determined. “Most of our men are days’ journey away fighting this war. I am not a foolish woman, and do not for one second believe we are that much safer at the garrison, either.” She stood up incredibly tall and stared down the man who challenged her.

“But we are in the middle of a war, as these bodies and burnt buildings attest to.” He gestured broadly. “I swore an oath to King Charles II, whom I have never met, to fight this war and protect this land. I promised your husband, General Jebediah Ballard, whom I have fought next to in battle, dined with and respect deeply, that I would keep you, his wife, safe from harm.”

“Abigail is my cousin,” Elizabeth said. “Dead or alive, I will find her. Only then will I return to the garrison.” She scrutinized the area. “Abigail?” she hollered.

Elizabeth looked so nice, so sweet, and I really needed a friend. Even if this was only a dream, I wanted a friend. So I made a decision.

“Yes,” I said and the word came out of my mouth garbled. I lifted my arm off the dirt, high up in the air to get Elizabeth’s attention. But she was already turning in my direction.

Her hand clasped her chest and she froze for a second. And melted just as quickly. “Abigail!” Elizabeth raced toward me, maneuvering around dead bodies, singed grass, smoldering bales of hay, a small, wooden wagon that was tipped over on its side. “Abigail!” She skidded to a stop, and awkwardly fell onto her knees next to me.

“It is a miracle you are alive!” She burst into tears, and threw her arms around me. “I knew it. I felt it in my soul. God wouldn’t let you die. You had to be here.” She hugged me tight.

Her embrace filled me with joy, but practically killed my back and my ribs. I winced.

Elizabeth understood and released me slowly back to the earth. She frowned and fussed over me. “Your head is bleeding. I need to see your wound.” She smoothed my bloody hair back from my forehead. “It is deep, but I believe if we use the doctor’s medicine, it will heal just right,” she said. “Where else do you have pain?”

I tried to shrug my shoulders, but that hurt too, so I stopped. “I’m okay, I think.” I didn’t tell Elizabeth that this moment only existed in my dream; that the next minute we might be wearing tutus, eating cupcakes at some cute bakery, and dishing about guys. This definitely wasn’t the time to tell her that.

Elizabeth’s male guardians arrived and stared at me, relieved but worried.

“William.” Elizabeth pointed at the older man. “Give Abigail water.” He did. Elizabeth propped me up, as I sipped from a small metal cup. “When I heard the rumors that Philip’s warriors attacked the Endicott settlement, I went mad with worry,” she said. “Dearest cousin, I prayed you were alive.” She blinked, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “My prayers are answered because here you are, Abigail. You are the only one alive. God has plans for you.”

Even though this was a terrible nightmare, Elizabeth was kind.

“Thank you for rescuing me,” I said and stopped talking, because even I heard those words exit my mouth. They were quiet words, but sounded normal. At least I wasn’t some daft mute in this dream.

“I’m really sorry, but…” I put my hand to my head where it throbbed like crazy. “I’m not sure where I am.”

“You have been through a distressing ordeal. I cannot imagine what you have seen.” She motioned to the young man behind her. “Daniel hand me the medicinals.” He gave her a flask.

She leaned back toward me with the tin cup re-filled with water. “Drink this. You are safe for now,” she said. “But we need to leave here quickly.”

I glanced around; saw all the dead, twisted bodies and the burning cabin. I looked up into the sky that had puffs of smoke and birds flying through them cawing to each other, like old friends saying hello. How could all these birds be so calm during this bloodbath?

I started shaking again. “Where am I?”

“All will be fine.” She held the cup next to my lips. “Drink.”

I did. Almost immediately I felt relaxed, calmer. I wondered where all those birds were going, and I remembered the beautiful, young man dressed in animal skins, with long black hair that curled around his shoulders.

My body felt tingly, my brain a little fuzzy. I swear I saw Mama standing behind Elizabeth. She regarded me with a flash of excitement in her clear eyes. She held up something small that was overall dull, but still had a hint of a sparkle. I couldn’t make out what it was.

But Mama was so excited and said, ”Look Madeline! It’s an important piece of our puzzle. I think I found the place where this puzzle piece fits just perfectly.” She laughed and grabbed my six-year-old hands. We giggled and twirled in circles in the center of a green, grassy field filled with wild flowers.

W
hen I woke
, Mama was gone. I was lying on some kind of mat on a wooden floor next to a big, stone fireplace in a dark room lit only by fat, drippy candles. There were logs stacked in bundles nearby, leaning against a rough wall.

I was covered in blankets and sweating buckets. A thick, cloth bandage covered the gash on my forehead and poked down toward my right eye.

I blinked, wiggled my hand out from the cocoon of blankets, snagged the annoying bandage, and pushed it away so I could see more clearly—another whacked dream?

“Abigail. You are awake.” Elizabeth, my savior, leaned over and regarded me, worried.

Nah, this wasn’t another dream, just a continuation of my previous nightmare.

She placed one finger firmly on my bandage. “Do not fuss with your dressing,” she said. “You have a deep cut and a hard blow to your skull. Doctor Thorpe is away, and we had to dress your wound the best we knew how.”

“Thank you.” I could barely get the words out, as my mouth felt like I’d been chewing sand. “Could I have something to drink, please?” Maybe electrolyte water and a juice smoothie followed with a double shot of mocha espresso, as I’d love a little energy right now.

She nodded and reached behind her. “Doctor Thorpe accompanies our brave men and the other troops, as the war has moved down the coast, as well as inland.” She bit her lip.

Apparently my ongoing nightmare included me being injured in a war.
(Note to self:
turn off The History Channel an hour before going to bed.)

“We are short-handed, but we will make do. Sit up. You are sweating out your wound, and you need to drink.”

I nodded, propped my free hand behind me and tried to push myself to a seated position. She put her arm around my shoulders, helped lift me to sitting and put a metallic cup to my lips. I downed the cool water in seconds.

“You must be starving.” She stuck a bowl of what looked and smelled like cheap, canned, dog food in front of me. “Eat.”

My nose crinkled and I shook my head. “No. I can’t eat that.”

She frowned, but placed the bowl behind her. “Very well. You will eat when you are hungry. When Tobias told us about the attack, everyone prayed for your immortal soul. But only Angeni took my hand and made me visualize you, alive, healthy and happy in this life. She told me I must go and find you.” Elizabeth poured me another cup of water.

“Mmm.” I gulped it and emptied the cup. “More?”

She shook her head and took the cup away. “No, everything in moderation. Now you must rest.” She pressed the bandage firmly on my head. I winced. “No fidgeting. You need to heal.”

Healing sounded great. What sounded even better would be waking up in my bed, feeling the rumble of the L train clattering down the street outside my bedroom window and hearing my dad holler, “Rise and shine, girls!” I needed to be at home. Not wherever this dream had taken me.

So I decided to use the trick I reserved for the times my dreams got too bizarre:
I chose to wake up now
. The quickest way to do this was to thank the key players in my dream to their face. I’d wish them my very best and say goodbye. Then, voilà! I’d wake up to my real nightmare, which was my actual life in Chicago.

“Elizabeth,” I clasped this woman’s hand with my free hand, and gazed up at her.

“Yes, Abigail.” She smiled. “I swear your hand feels cooler already. You are healing, I know it.”

This woman was far too helpful and kind, which was not helping me get rid of her. “Thank you for rescuing me, Elizabeth. You put yourself in danger. You were brave and strong,” I said. “I can’t repay you, but I’ll always remember you.” Bit of a lie; I usually didn’t remember the people in my dreams. But it sounded more polite, which was a nice way to say goodbye to imaginary people.

“That is a lovely sentiment. Now lay back down.” She helped lower me to the mat on the floor. I lay flat, as she tucked me in tightly with the blankets next to the warm fireplace. The gash on my forehead burned like angry wasps had stung it.

This was the perfect time to go back to my real life. I was already sleepy. My eyelids started to close when that beautiful young man’s face popped into my brain, and startled me. He was like a puzzle piece. I wanted to know more about him. Did he fit in my life?

No! I was having a ridiculous fantasy, and it was time for this dream to end. I bit my lip. “I have to be honest with you.”

“Tomorrow. The medicinals in your water will help you sleep soundly,” she replied. “May your dreams be pious. I expect to see you nearly recovered by the morning.”

Medicinals? Was she drugging me? Is that why I felt so woozy? These feelings didn’t fit a normal, dream sequence. Usually I could break out of a dream quickly. But here I felt slow—like I was trying to jog through mud. But, I had to say it.

“Elizabeth?”

“Yes, Abigail.”

“Stop calling me Abigail. My name is Madeline Blackford. I’ve never met you before today, and I don’t have a clue who you are.”

Her eyebrows pinched together. “You have been through an ordeal.” Elizabeth patted my shoulder. “Sweet dreams, Abigail,” she said and walked away.