A Rip in the Veil (3 page)

“What are you doing?” Her gaze drifted from the piled wood to the flint and steel in his hands.

“I’m trying, but the wood’s wet, and —”

“Give me my jacket,” she interrupted, indicating the red garment. He handed it to her and she dug into one of the outer pockets, grinning as she brandished a small box. “I collect these.” She threw it in his direction. He studied the little box, turning it this way and that. She sighed and crawled over to join him by the opening.

“Here.” She took the box and opened it. “Matches.” She held a brittle stick aloft.

His eyes never left her hands as she struck the head of the stick against the side of the box. He had to force himself to remain where he was when the flame sprung forth. Magic, this was magic, and behind his back he made a sign for protection against evil. No wonder he thought her strange, she was a witch or a fairy. She hadn’t noticed his reaction, but was busy putting the flame to the little pile, smiling when some of the drier twigs caught. She raised her eyes to his.

“What?” She frowned, shoving her short, dark hair off her brow. She didn’t look like a witch, her eyes wide as they met his. Still, he muttered a silent prayer – just in case.

“How?” he stuttered, pointing at the little box in her hands.

“It’s just a box of matches.”

“Matches,” he repeated.

She put the box in his hand. “Try.”

He wanted to refuse, and at first he just sat with the box in his hand. Finally, he did as he’d seen her do, pulling out one of those wee sticks with that curious knob on top, and striking it against the side of the box. He dropped it with an exclamation when it burst into fire. She laughed and he scowled. He repeated the procedure, and this time he didn’t drop it, but held it until it singed his fingers before blowing the little flame into extinction.

“Bravo,” she said. He handed back the box but she shook her head. “No, keep it. I’ve got more.”

She smiled a refusal when he offered her a piece of his bread, muttering something about not thinking her stomach could handle it – not yet. She kept on blinking, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead, and he suspected her head was hurting her something frightful. Every now and then she’d slide her hand into the side slit of her breeches, pull out that wee enamelled box, stare at it and frown.

“Stupid, worthless gadget,” she said at one point, raising her arm as if she intended to throw it. But she didn’t, returning it to its place before lying down, arms cradling her head. Matthew stretched out beside her. Too close, but what was he to do, given the cramped space?

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Matthew,” he replied after a while, rolling over in her direction. “Matthew Graham.”

“I’m Alex Lind.” She eased herself up to sit. She licked her lips, and he fumbled in the dark for his water skin, extending it in her direction.

“Alex?” he sat up. “That’s a lad’s name.”

She snorted and drank some more. “No it isn’t, last time I looked I was definitely female and it’s still my name. Short for Alexandra.” She twisted her head in the direction of the opening, exposing her nape, a bare patch of skin highlighted by the severe haircut. She had right pretty ears, tight to her skull and ending in a slight, pink point. Fairy ears…

“What are you?” he whispered, making her turn to face him.

“Just plain Alex; you know, an ordinary woman.”

“No you’re not; in my world women don’t walk around baring their bodies like you do, their hair cut short.”

“I’m not baring my body! I’m fully dressed, for God’s sake!”

He winced at her careless blasphemy. “Aye, there’s cloth all over you, but it reveals more than it conceals.”

“Tough, okay? You’d better learn to live with the times, mister. Just because you’ve chosen to live in some kind of archaic religious context, it doesn’t give you the right to judge the rest of us.”

“Religious context?” he echoed. “Archaic?”

“Well, look at you! You dress like a cross between a Hare Krishna monk and an Amish person, you stare at me as if you’ve never seen a bra before. You must’ve been living in some kind of secluded all male community.”

His mouth twisted into a wry smile. Aye, that was very true. He leaned towards her, trying to see her eyes in the dark.

“What’s a Harray krissna monk? And I haven’t seen a – bra, is it? – before. I would definitely have remembered.”

She was staring at him, hands clenched tight around each other. Matthew gave her a wary look; the lass was gaping as if she’d seen a ghost.

“But you know what a car is, right?”

Matthew shook his head.

“A TV? Radio? A phone?”

He frowned; was this some sort of game? “Nay, I’ve never heard of any such things.”

She gulped and scooted away from him, eyes flying to his bundle, the flint and steel he’d left discarded on the floor. She moaned, hid her face in her arms.

“No,” she whispered. “No way. Stuff like that doesn’t happen, not in real life.”

“What?” He came after her, but she reared back, and the expression on her face made him raise his hands, palms towards her. “I’m not about to hurt you.”

“It’s not you, it’s just…” She broke off to stare yet again at him and his possessions. “Bloody hell, no, no, no.” She crawled towards the opening. “The car. My car, it’ll be right there, where I left it. This is just a bad dream, an effect of hitting my head too hard.”

“What’s a car?” he said. She laughed, and then she began to cry instead. He followed her outside, made a grab for her when she slipped.

“My BMW,” she said, “it has to be here!”

He had no idea what she was looking for as she limped up and down the slope, but whatever it was, it wasn’t where she’d expected it to be.

“A dream, it’s just a dream, isn’t it?” She looked at him beseechingly, and he had no idea what to say. This was no dream, not unless they were both sleeping and dreaming the same thing.

“It can’t be true.” To his surprise she placed a hand on his arm. “Too solid,” she moaned, “you’re too damn solid, you hear?” She hit him, repeatedly.

“So are you, lass, but I don’t take to hitting you, do I?” He wrapped his arms around her, pinned down her hands.

“Sorry,” she hiccupped before breaking down completely, a warm weight against his chest. Dearest Lord, but it felt good to hold a woman this close, her hair tickling his nose. It was a near on perfect match, her body a collection of curves that fitted comfortably into his larger and broader frame, her head resting against his shoulder. With an effort he released her. She was still weeping, albeit silently, and he coaxed her back inside, unnerved by her dejection.

“What is the matter, lass?”

She just shook her head, mumbled something he made out as ‘impossible’, and sank down to sit before the little fire. She quieted, drew in a few shaking breaths, and wiped at her face.

*

Alex dragged a finger through the dirt of the cave floor. Think, Alex, think! There had to be some sort of explanation to all this. Total blank. She snuck him a look, this man in old-fashioned clothes who used flint and steel to light his fire, who’d never heard of things like TVs and cars. This couldn’t be happening to her – to be precise, it couldn’t happen to anyone. Time was a fixed dimension, no bloody variable! But her car; gone! Maybe she was looking in the wrong place, down the wrong hillside. A flare of hope rushed up her spine only to crash into the rational part of her brain, the part that was telling her all the evidence pointed in one way and one way only. Something impossible and incomprehensible had happened to her – but it had happened.

She glanced at Matthew, met eyes framed by a concerned frown.

“Better?”

“Not really.” She took a deep breath; here goes. “What year is it?”

“What year? Don’t you know?”

She hitched her shoulders. “I do, but I just want to check.”

“It’s 1658,” he said, spitting to the side. “Three years since I was thrown in gaol due to the betrayal of my brother and wife, three years spent in chains.”

She closed her eyes; 1658? Panic shrivelled her windpipe to the size of a drinking straw.

“Are you sure?” It came out squeaky.

He gave her an odd look. “Aye, I am. What year do you think it is?”

“Err…” Alex cleared her throat. What on earth did she tell him? The truth? “I’m not sure. It must be the blow to my head, right?” She fisted her hands to stop them from trembling, but it didn’t help, the tremors shivered up her underarms instead. 1658! She had to get back! She had to —

“Oh, God,” she said, “Isaac!”

“Isaac?”

“My son, and…” Just like that she was crying again, this time with loud sobs that tore at her throat. Matthew pulled her close, shushing her as she cried her heart out into his shirt.

“Is he dead?” he said a bit later. He was still holding her, one large hand stroking her over her back.

“No,” she whispered, “he’s just gone.” All of them were gone; none of her people existed here, and the thought of never seeing them again tied her guts into a bundle of painful knots.

“How?”

“Not now, some other time, okay?” She sat up to see his face. “Do you want to tell me? You know, about your brother and wife and all that?” Not that she cared, but at present any distraction was welcome.

“No. I prefer not to think of it at all.” There was a raw edge to his voice that made her suspect he did think about it – more or less constantly.

“Oh.” She threw him a cautious look. He was rubbing at his wrists. “And now? Are you going home?”

“Aye; at last. Not that there’s much to come home to.” He leaned his head against the wall, a harsh sound escaping from his compressed lips.

“You okay?” Well, no, she could hear he wasn’t.

“Okay?”

“Are you alright?”

“Aye.” He turned his face away.

Alex snorted. “Men.”

She rose to her knees and gave him an awkward hug – much more for her own sake than for his. He reared back, all of him stiffening. She insisted, drawing him close. A few moments and he made as if to sit up. She didn’t want him to, she needed someone close, a breathing human warmth to dull the gnawing fear in her belly. So she patted at her thighs, and after a long moment of hesitation Matthew allowed her to settle his head on her lap. Maybe he needed it too.

Alex knew the moment he fell asleep, the large body suddenly so much heavier. Through the small opening she could see the summer dawn begin to lighten the skies, and she studied him in silence, running a finger over his head. What was she to do? And how would she ever get back? Hang around and wait for another thunderstorm?

Chapter 3

She shoved Matthew hard, giving him an apologetic smile when he threw himself backwards, his hands clenching into fists.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just I have to…” Her bladder was about to burst and it was either wake him or drench him – and that last alternative didn’t seem a good one. It was quite enough to have thrown up all over his feet.

“Oh.” He looked disoriented, staring at her as if she were a mirage. That makes two of us, she thought as she crawled out into the morning air, her head jangling with pain.

No car. She’d been hoping there would be, that all this stuff about this being 1658 was him being delusional. Insane. He didn’t seem insane, but heck, you never knew – not these days. Still; no car. She blinked. She was having a nightmare. Or she might be in some sort of coma, maybe she’d had a car accident, and now she was drugged to her eyeballs with morphine. Not that it was working very well, because if anything her foot hurt more today than yesterday. Swollen and bright red, it was a bundle of shrieking nerves. She blinked again. And again. No car. Impossible. This was all impossible. Think again, Alex Lind, her brain jeered, look around you. Looks very possible. In fact, it doesn’t look too much like a dream either.

“Nightmare, not dream,” she corrected herself. Her head hurt. Her ribs hurt. Her foot hurt. An accident. A coma. Please let this be a coma.

When she managed to limp back from her secluded outdoor toilet behind a largish boulder, he was standing some feet from the opening, relieving himself in a steaming, hissing stream. Matthew threw her a look, shook himself, ordered his breeches, and gave her a small smile.

“Hungry?”

She nodded eagerly. For the last half-hour she’d been thinking fried eggs with tomatoes, sausages and crispy bacon – or toast, just heaps of toast with butter and jam. She swallowed back on the rushing saliva flow in her mouth. He grinned and used his bare toe to indicate what looked like a heap of feathers.

“Fledglings. I’ll roast them.”

Not exactly bacon. She stared when he proceeded to cake the dead birds in mud before putting them into the low burning fire.

“Mud?”

He gave her a surprised look. “Otherwise they burn to cinders before they’re cooked.”

Oh, she nodded, looking at the little dirtballs with certain wariness. What about the feathers? And all the lice and stuff that lived on them?

“They burn off,” Matthew said.

Great; sounded fantastic.

By the time the birds were done, Alex was so hungry she no longer cared. Bones, innards and meat, it all went down.

“You want the last one?” Matthew held it out to her. Alex eyed it longingly, but after a quick assessment of their relative sizes, shook her head.

“No, you go ahead.”

She stretched out on the ground, pillowing her head on her arms. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend everything was as it always was – for like five seconds. She heard him move, and turned her head in his direction. He flushed and looked away when she intercepted his stare.

Alex took the opportunity to do some inspecting of her own; long legs, dark brows and a nose that looked very nice in half profile. And the eyes…she had a thing about eyes, and this man had hazel eyes fringed with thick dark lashes most women would kill for. He was close to six feet two, she reckoned, which must make him a very big man in the here and now, half a foot or so taller than she herself was. She closed her eyes, nostrils flaring as she tried to catch his scent. He did smell ripe, but more of sweat than of actual grime. She sniffed at her own shirt and made a face; not only sweat, but blood and dirt and…ugh, she needed to wash.