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Chapter Seven
Stella spun around, looking both relieved and angry. “There you are! I checked the aisles, the restroom, even asked the reference librarian. I wasn’t even sure how I would get home if I couldn’t find you. I called your phone, but it was here.” She angled her head in the direction of the bright lime-green cell phone lying by the keyboard.
Leah listened patiently to her friend’s rant, holding herself up with one arm resting on the counter. “I think you are going to have to drive. I don’t feel so well.”
Her friend placed her hand against her forehead. “Your skin is clammy. I’ll drive you home, but I doubt your father will be too pleased.”
Leah tried to push her lips into a smile but failed. “Just don’t kill us.” Stella tried to help her up, but staggered under her weight.
The helpful reference librarian came to assist. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Some type of brain fever or malaria,” Stella offered. Leah wished she’d be quiet. Unlike most teenagers, lying to adults was a skill her friend lacked, not that she was much better. Still, she knew enough not to make the mistake of elaborating too much, as Stella often did.
“Really?” The doubt was obvious in the librarian’s voice. “I considered that more of a tropical disease.”
Leah could hear one of the patrons murmuring something about a strung-out junkie. They were talking about her. The nerve. Just went to show what happened when you made assumptions. She wanted to march back to them and explain that she had just shifted through centuries and been tortured by thugs for something she couldn’t remember doing. Of course, that would only confirm their earlier assessment with such outrageous claims.
Stella opened her mouth. A tale including missionary parents and malaria emerged. Great, just her luck the librarian would ask her parents about their religious outreach when they visited the library next. Her mother would politely tell her she didn’t believe in inflicting her religious beliefs on others and would promptly hand her a pamphlet on how to help Mother Earth.
Her eyelids flickered shut as her butt hit the car upholstery. “Keys in pocket.” She pushed out the words.
Leah retained consciousness, but she wished she hadn’t. The way her friend drove, going up on curbs only to careen back down with a jolt, rattled her brain even more. A cacophony of horns indicated either Stella had stolen a right-of-way or had run a red light. Leah bet it was the former.
The sedan bumped into the driveway, where Stella laid on the horn, bringing out Leah’s father, followed by her mother and ever-curious brother. Having reached her limit, her friend babbled as her father opened the driver’s side door. “Please help Leah. She went away and then came back. She can barely walk.”
Her father hurried to Leah’s side of the car. She recognized his voice as she forced open her eyelids. How would she explain? He scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the house. Sometimes she forgot how strong he could be until needed. “What has happened to you, Leah?”
She opened her mouth to reply, but her father kept talking. “I hope you did not get in a fight where someone films it and puts it up on the Internet.”
Ethan bounced along beside them, opening the front door wide. “Get real, Dad. Stella and Leah are not the type to start girl fights.”
Mother hovered closer by touching her hair. The pinched expression on her mother’s face concerned her. She tried to spare her mother grief by not telling her things. She had not mentioned that their various moves made it hard to fit in at school. Her brother thought he knew it all, but he was unaware she’d been in three girl fights due to being the new kid.
Being new was enough to set some people off. The early altercations had taught her to go in ruthless. Acting insane didn’t hurt, either. That should have been her tactic with her medieval tormenter.
Nana pushed her way to Leah’s side. “My poor dear, did you travel back in time again?”
She blinked her eyes twice for yes since her throat was too raw for talking.
As her father carried her to bed, her mother’s voice rose above everyone else’s. It was a tone seldom used by her mother and never when speaking to her opinionated grandmother. “What do you mean, traveling back in time?”
Her mother’s irritation most likely resulted from Leah telling Nana about the time travel as opposed to her. She could hear her grandmother’s efforts to calm her mother, which was definitely a turn of the tables.
Her father knelt to place her on the bed. Theodora jumped up beside her and began to knead her stomach, causing her to whimper.
Both Nana and Mother stopped their fussing to look over at her. Their faces were white, bodies frozen, until Leah whimpered again, causing them both to spring like racehorses out of the gate. Mother reached her first and shoved her father aside, but Nana moved fast for a woman with a cane. When they peeled back the shirt sticking to her skin, the two gasped. Pushing up on her elbows, she was able to see the crisscross marks on her torso.
“Damn delinquents.” Her father growled the words. “I am calling the police.”
“Wait.” Nana’s imperious tone cut through the tension enveloping the room. “Only thing that will come of that is they will lock you up for child abuse and send in some social worker who will have Leah removed to some dubious foster family who might actually abuse her. Do you want that?”
A frown pulled at his lips as he crossed his arms. “No, I don’t want that. What can we do? She needs to go to a hospital.”
“Adam.” Her mother touched her father’s arm. “I’m almost done with my clinicals. I can take care of her here. At the hospital, she’d get the same treatment plus a call to social services. A whipped victim would receive an automatic referral, which would put us back right to the same place.”
Leah forced her eyes open as she watched her family discuss her as if she were an uninterested third party. Yep, her unplanned trips to the past would be hard to explain to any social worker or cop. They’d not only have her family up on abuse charges, but might lock her away in some psych ward. Just the other day, her biggest problem had been getting Dylan to notice her. If only she could turn back the clock.
Nana and Mother exchanged a few words and then hurried off in different directions, leaving Stella and Ethan to gaze at her as if she were a two-headed cow. Their wordless scrutiny made her uncomfortable.
In hopes of breaking the tension, she looked up at her friend. “Not exactly what you were expecting from a trip to the library?” she joked.
“No.” Stella shook her head, speaking slowly, no doubt searching for the right words. “In a way, I guess it is a real-life example of religious persecution.”
Leah tried for a smile but even her face hurt. “I think we should get an A on our report for going the extra mile, or three thousand miles. I’m not sure it is about religion. Hard to say. I think it is a love affair gone bad. People always say something is about religion to justify their bad behavior, especially if it is a popular opinion.”
Dad stood next to the door with his arms still folded and his brow furrowed, probably chafing at his inability to do anything. “Sounds like you’re getting a bit philosophical.”
Leah speared her fingers through her hair. “I’m not sure. I guess things aren’t always as they seem on the surface. The people I’ve met in the past are motivated by fear and greed.” The trio of Henry, Sabina, and Margaret had run out of fear. What about the villagers? It would have been easy to assume some moral high ground motivated them. They could even tell themselves that as they turned on their neighbors.
Her father’s thoughts must have mirrored her own. “In the end, you have to think did turning on their neighbors benefit them? The same person they vilified may have helped with the harvest only months ago. It is rather like the Holocaust. At first, they do nothing out of fear, not wanting to attract attention. Then again, what benefit is it to them? Do they get the goods or land of the persecuted individual?”
Sabina had complained the women disliked her because she was attractive and unmarried. “They might get rid of the competition for the affection of a beau or even a husband.”
Leah imagined there were definitely a few women in the village who wouldn’t mind seeing the beautiful brown-haired woman disappear, and they wouldn’t care how it happened.
Ethan grimaced. “Girls, they are even mean in the past.”
“Yeah,” Leah agreed. “You have no clue, little brother. Be glad you are a male. All you guys do is punch each other in the nose when you get aggravated, then suddenly you’re pals.”
Her brother’s hand went up to feel his nose. “I don’t want to be punched in the nose again.” He displayed some concern about the future of his nose and some puzzlement as to why someone might want to rearrange it. Keeping his hand protectively over his nose, he left the room, passing Nana and Mother, who entered. They laid out the homemade bandages that had cartoon images on them. The old, faded sheet set from her younger years finally been put to a different use.
Mother carried a teakettle with a plume of steam wafting gently behind her as she walked. Leah looked at the teakettle, while hoping boiling water didn’t constitute a cure for anything.
“Boiling water and torn-up sheets. Isn’t this what they always ask for when someone is having a baby?”
Setting the kettle down, her mother shooed her father from the room, turning to a swaying Stella, she asked, “Would you like to help?”
Her answer was a soft, “I guess.”
Nana took the lid off a pot that held an aromatic mixture. “Old family secret that will heal your wounds in no time.” She shoved the pot in Stella’s direction, causing her to stagger a few steps back.
Her mother poured the hot water into a dishpan and began to dip some of the bandages in it. “We may have to soften up your clothes to separate them from your wounds. Pulling them off would only cause the scabs to break open.”
Her mother went about her duties with a no-nonsense attitude, which was probably her approach at work. The idea of tearing open scabbed-over wounds caused Leah to shudder. She had never been what you might call a good patient. She’d made it her life mission not to do dangerous things when she had relatives who were more likely to pull out a needle and put in a few stitches after splashing her with alcohol. Nope, she’d stayed away from anything even slightly dangerous, from skateboarding to rollerblading. Ironic that now she had to endure pretty much everything she’d avoided.
Even though the water had to have been burning, her mother calmly wrung out the bandages and placed them against her shirt. Steeling herself for the pain by tightening her muscles, Leah felt slow warmth penetrate the fabric, skin, and eventually her muscles, relaxing her. Her eyelids fluttered shut as her mother placed several more warm bandages around her torso.
With her eyes closed, she felt safe listening to her mother and grandmother talk to each other as they moved around her. Her friend asked a few halting, difficult-to-hear questions. Her grandmother gave her the usual cryptic answers she seemed to have for everything that often appeared to answer the question, but on deeper inspection said nothing at all.
Her mother bent over her body, removing the cool bandages. “I am going to remove your shirt. I hope it is not a favorite, because I’m going to cut it off you.” Flourishing a pair of blunt-nosed scissors, she eased the tip of the metal shears under the material and snipped, pulling the fabric gently away. Nana hovered over her mother, leaning on her cane, probably anxious to offer instruction, but for once, she held her tongue.
Her mother’s gasp broke through her stupor. What was it? She saw the blue polo she’d donned earlier that day in strips around her torso. Make that, her striped torso. Her body was a quilt of yellowing, blue and black bruises separated by red lash marks crusting over with pus and dried blood. Not a pretty sight, and apparently, she wasn’t the only one who felt that way. Her friend darted out of the room with a hand over her mouth, making a retching noise.
The soft sound of Nana’s chanting as she moved above her, holding out her hands to invoke a healing protection spell, both frightened and reassured Leah. The words sounded foreign to her, probably Romany. In times of great distress, Nana often abandoned speaking in English, claiming it took too much thought when all one could do was feel. How serious was it that Nana brought out the language of her forebears? In another way, it reassured her. Nana wasn’t above murmuring a few Gypsy words to give her paying customers the feeling they had an authentic fortune-teller. Of course, that was all for show. Leah knew this time the words were not for show, but were a matter of serious business, which unfortunately was her business.
Her mother’s arms wrapped around her as if in an embrace, pulling her slightly forward. Leah lifted her hands to her mother’s arms. How long since they had truly hugged? She could not remember. It wasn’t that she disliked her mother. Hugging fell about the wayside, along with evening bed-tucks. After all, she was almost a senior. Too old for such things, they said, “I love you,” or “Love you, too,” at the end of conversations. It often felt meaningless, rather like a clerk wishing her a nice day with a snarl in her voice. She leaned into her mother’s arms, taking solace from the simple action.
The brief embrace lasted only seconds, until her mother whispered in her ear, “I need you to try to sit up on your own so I can cut off the shirt from your back.”
Was that all it had been? Not a hug, not a sign of love, but only a way to get to her back to cut her shirt off? Leah didn’t want to consider it. Of course, her mother loved her. That’s what mothers did. Instead, she willed herself to hold her body erect during the process of the cool metal medical shears moving down her back. Would it be too much to ask for reassurance of her love?
Her mother’s voice, clouded with concern, breathed on her neck. “You do realize that if there was a way, I would take your place. I love you, Leah. Nana has explained to me this is your journey, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
Leah allowed her head to drop to her mother’s shoulder. Resting it there, she inhaled her familiar scent of lily of the valley, wondering if this could be the last conversation between the two of them. “That makes two of us. I love you, too.” She mumbled her reply but knew her mother heard.
Her grandmother picked up a paintbrush and stirred the pot.
“You’re using a paintbrush on me?” What was she, a house?
Her mother cleaned her back as Nana drew closer. “A paintbrush will help provide the solution in an even fashion. Yes, there is much of you that needs to be covered.”
Her mother unsnapped her bra. Realizing the action might reveal more marks and require a total stripping had something rising up in her throat, gagging her some. She swallowed as her mother swiped down her bra-strap area.
“This area is clean.”
The announcement relieved her some. It was bad when she could not remember what had happened.
The smooth slide of the brush on her back was warm and moist, and it smelled strongly of garlic. As it brushed over her wounds, it stung. Probably salt or vinegar in the mixture. Better than alcohol, she reminded herself, and fought against wincing.
“Sit up straight,” her mother urged.
Her changed posture allowed her mother and grandmother to work as a tag team, with Nana spreading the unguent while Mother wrapped bandages around her torso. With her upper torso and arms done, her head was lowered to the pillow to rest before they tackled her lower body. It made her feel a bit like a pharaoh being prepared for burial. Of course, they were dead at the time. Still, they were familiar with the process. Closing her eyes, she decided to take a tiny break with no intention of sleeping. When she slept, her mind wandered often into the other century.
* * * *
It was a beautiful, warm spring day. A few trees sported blossoms, while others wore new leaves. Birds called to each other in a mating ritual, hoping to find a mate before nesting began. The sun was shining, and she was done with her morning chores. A sense of freedom assailed her as she ran down the hill as fast as her young legs could propel her. Her laughter floated out behind her, as did her homespun skirt.
Reaching the flat land, she spun in circles. Her dull, circle skirt flared out. She’d asked her mother if they could dye their clothes magnificent colors, such as the red and purple of the spring flowers. Her mother had said those colors were not for them. It did not make sense to her. If flowers could wear such vivid colors, why not people?
She pretended not to see him hiding among the trees. Her brother teased her that Lionel, the lord’s third son, had feelings for her. Even at ten, she knew the ways of men and women. Being married at twelve, while not common, wasn’t rare, either. She needed to look to her future, and Lionel might be that future.
He stepped out from behind the trees and approached with a determined gait. “Ho, Arabella, well met,” he called out, as if he’d happened to meet her while walking, as opposed to waiting for her.
She smiled sweetly, her eyes sparkling at the coltish boy. He was handsome with his unmarked skin and thick, brown hair. “Good day, Lionel.” Feeling unusually daring, she added, “My beloved Lionel.”
His smile was reward enough, but from behind his back, he brought out a fistful of half-wilted wildflowers. “For you.”
She took the flowers and held them up to her nose. Why did her father discourage her association with Lionel? He was kind to her. In time, he might even be lord of the manor. How could such an association be wrong?
They walked side by side under the warming sun. Saying nothing, Lionel reached for her hand, and she allowed him to take it, intertwining their fingers.
“Arabella,” he started, his smile vanishing while his fingers tightened. “I am going to have to go away for schooling. I should have left years ago, but my mother begged my father to let me stay since I was the last of her other sons left at home. Reginald is away at school, while Archibald fosters at another household.”
Schooling. She’d heard of it. It was something males did. Wellborn males. Boys like her brother took up the father’s trade or were fortunate to be an apprentice to a tradesman. “Where is this school?”
Her heart made a little lurch as if it knew her life was about to change. There were some in the village who had made mention of how her mother thought too much of herself and put on airs, and as the daughter of such a woman, she was twice as bad. Her mother had assured her that such women spoke out of spite. They were not as well favored nor were their daughters.
Lionel stopped, their hands still united, pulling her to a stop with him. Facing her, his dark eyes held hers. “Arabella, I know not where this school is. Know this. I will come back for you.” He dropped a kiss on her hair from his superior height.
“I will wait,” she promised, determined to do just that, despite her initial reluctance.
Later that day, she confided to her brother that Lionel had to go away to schooling. Her brother shook his head, muttering something about Lionel becoming a dress wearer.
“Tomas, you make no sense,” she complained.
“Little sister, it is time for you to look elsewhere for a mate. Lionel is too high for you, but even if he does care for you, as the third son, he’s for the church. Since his family has popish ways, they will turn him into a skirt-wearing Jesuit. No wife or women in his life from now on.” Her brother shook his head, giving her a sad smile as he headed for the barn.
“He told me to wait,” she shouted after him.
Her mother, carrying a double-bucket yoke, met her on the path. “Who are you supposed to wait for?”
“Lionel,” she explained, knowing she had an avid supporter in her mother. “Tomas tells me he will be a skirt-wearing priest who will take no wife.”
Her mother’s still beautiful face took on a reflective mien. “Ah, ’tis so. I suspected otherwise since his mother held on to him so long. Ye best be looking . Make haste as well, as the other girls have sized up the available men while ye been making cow eyes at Lionel.”
She wanted to argue. Her mother had encouraged their association, but now everything had changed. Marriage of daughters helped to forge helpful connections. Her family was a moderate one in the village, not too poor, but not over-rich. Her father could cobble together a decent dowry, but her older sister, Helena, needed to marry fast. At fourteen, she was on her way to earning the labels of old and persnickety.
Lionel hadn’t even left, and yet his abandonment weighed heavy on her.
* * * *
A gentle rocking woke her. She blinked twice and stared into her nana’s face. “Did you drift way to the other time?”
Leah blinked, slowly allowing the room to come into focus, allowing her thoughts time to coalesce. “I’m not sure. I think I may have just remembered something from the past. I understand now why Lionel hates me, or I should say Arabella, so much.”
Nana stroked her cheek with her age-freckled hand. “Why is that, sweet pea?”
“He asked her to wait for him while he went away to priest school. Arabella’s family advised against it, pointing out she would miss getting a good husband. Nana, she was only ten. How should she know what to do at that age?” It seemed unfair to expect a ten-year-old to make life-altering decisions.
“Keep in mind that to live to be forty was average for the women. To be an elderly woman was another sign the witch hunters used to point out association with the devil. I’d say it was a sign of lack of association with men in general, since most women died in childbirth or from the difficulties resulting from a birth. It was a hard life for a woman. Yes, Lionel would have expected her to wait. Women generally did what men told them to do. It would be enough of a reason for him to want revenge, especially if he loved her.” Nana limped toward her dresser to pour a glass of water.
Her grandmother lurched a little without the cane, sloshing the water she’d poured. Even if the glass were half full, she’d accept it gratefully. The image of Arabella’s self-serving attitude was bitter in her memory. Why would a man like such a little brat? Apparently, he had come back but had not found her waiting. Where had she gone? Why had Lionel felt the need to ring retribution on the entire village and countryside?
Stella spun around, looking both relieved and angry. “There you are! I checked the aisles, the restroom, even asked the reference librarian. I wasn’t even sure how I would get home if I couldn’t find you. I called your phone, but it was here.” She angled her head in the direction of the bright lime-green cell phone lying by the keyboard.
Leah listened patiently to her friend’s rant, holding herself up with one arm resting on the counter. “I think you are going to have to drive. I don’t feel so well.”
Her friend placed her hand against her forehead. “Your skin is clammy. I’ll drive you home, but I doubt your father will be too pleased.”
Leah tried to push her lips into a smile but failed. “Just don’t kill us.” Stella tried to help her up, but staggered under her weight.
The helpful reference librarian came to assist. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Some type of brain fever or malaria,” Stella offered. Leah wished she’d be quiet. Unlike most teenagers, lying to adults was a skill her friend lacked, not that she was much better. Still, she knew enough not to make the mistake of elaborating too much, as Stella often did.
“Really?” The doubt was obvious in the librarian’s voice. “I considered that more of a tropical disease.”
Leah could hear one of the patrons murmuring something about a strung-out junkie. They were talking about her. The nerve. Just went to show what happened when you made assumptions. She wanted to march back to them and explain that she had just shifted through centuries and been tortured by thugs for something she couldn’t remember doing. Of course, that would only confirm their earlier assessment with such outrageous claims.
Stella opened her mouth. A tale including missionary parents and malaria emerged. Great, just her luck the librarian would ask her parents about their religious outreach when they visited the library next. Her mother would politely tell her she didn’t believe in inflicting her religious beliefs on others and would promptly hand her a pamphlet on how to help Mother Earth.
Her eyelids flickered shut as her butt hit the car upholstery. “Keys in pocket.” She pushed out the words.
Leah retained consciousness, but she wished she hadn’t. The way her friend drove, going up on curbs only to careen back down with a jolt, rattled her brain even more. A cacophony of horns indicated either Stella had stolen a right-of-way or had run a red light. Leah bet it was the former.
The sedan bumped into the driveway, where Stella laid on the horn, bringing out Leah’s father, followed by her mother and ever-curious brother. Having reached her limit, her friend babbled as her father opened the driver’s side door. “Please help Leah. She went away and then came back. She can barely walk.”
Her father hurried to Leah’s side of the car. She recognized his voice as she forced open her eyelids. How would she explain? He scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the house. Sometimes she forgot how strong he could be until needed. “What has happened to you, Leah?”
She opened her mouth to reply, but her father kept talking. “I hope you did not get in a fight where someone films it and puts it up on the Internet.”
Ethan bounced along beside them, opening the front door wide. “Get real, Dad. Stella and Leah are not the type to start girl fights.”
Mother hovered closer by touching her hair. The pinched expression on her mother’s face concerned her. She tried to spare her mother grief by not telling her things. She had not mentioned that their various moves made it hard to fit in at school. Her brother thought he knew it all, but he was unaware she’d been in three girl fights due to being the new kid.
Being new was enough to set some people off. The early altercations had taught her to go in ruthless. Acting insane didn’t hurt, either. That should have been her tactic with her medieval tormenter.
Nana pushed her way to Leah’s side. “My poor dear, did you travel back in time again?”
She blinked her eyes twice for yes since her throat was too raw for talking.
As her father carried her to bed, her mother’s voice rose above everyone else’s. It was a tone seldom used by her mother and never when speaking to her opinionated grandmother. “What do you mean, traveling back in time?”
Her mother’s irritation most likely resulted from Leah telling Nana about the time travel as opposed to her. She could hear her grandmother’s efforts to calm her mother, which was definitely a turn of the tables.
Her father knelt to place her on the bed. Theodora jumped up beside her and began to knead her stomach, causing her to whimper.
Both Nana and Mother stopped their fussing to look over at her. Their faces were white, bodies frozen, until Leah whimpered again, causing them both to spring like racehorses out of the gate. Mother reached her first and shoved her father aside, but Nana moved fast for a woman with a cane. When they peeled back the shirt sticking to her skin, the two gasped. Pushing up on her elbows, she was able to see the crisscross marks on her torso.
“Damn delinquents.” Her father growled the words. “I am calling the police.”
“Wait.” Nana’s imperious tone cut through the tension enveloping the room. “Only thing that will come of that is they will lock you up for child abuse and send in some social worker who will have Leah removed to some dubious foster family who might actually abuse her. Do you want that?”
A frown pulled at his lips as he crossed his arms. “No, I don’t want that. What can we do? She needs to go to a hospital.”
“Adam.” Her mother touched her father’s arm. “I’m almost done with my clinicals. I can take care of her here. At the hospital, she’d get the same treatment plus a call to social services. A whipped victim would receive an automatic referral, which would put us back right to the same place.”
Leah forced her eyes open as she watched her family discuss her as if she were an uninterested third party. Yep, her unplanned trips to the past would be hard to explain to any social worker or cop. They’d not only have her family up on abuse charges, but might lock her away in some psych ward. Just the other day, her biggest problem had been getting Dylan to notice her. If only she could turn back the clock.
Nana and Mother exchanged a few words and then hurried off in different directions, leaving Stella and Ethan to gaze at her as if she were a two-headed cow. Their wordless scrutiny made her uncomfortable.
In hopes of breaking the tension, she looked up at her friend. “Not exactly what you were expecting from a trip to the library?” she joked.
“No.” Stella shook her head, speaking slowly, no doubt searching for the right words. “In a way, I guess it is a real-life example of religious persecution.”
Leah tried for a smile but even her face hurt. “I think we should get an A on our report for going the extra mile, or three thousand miles. I’m not sure it is about religion. Hard to say. I think it is a love affair gone bad. People always say something is about religion to justify their bad behavior, especially if it is a popular opinion.”
Dad stood next to the door with his arms still folded and his brow furrowed, probably chafing at his inability to do anything. “Sounds like you’re getting a bit philosophical.”
Leah speared her fingers through her hair. “I’m not sure. I guess things aren’t always as they seem on the surface. The people I’ve met in the past are motivated by fear and greed.” The trio of Henry, Sabina, and Margaret had run out of fear. What about the villagers? It would have been easy to assume some moral high ground motivated them. They could even tell themselves that as they turned on their neighbors.
Her father’s thoughts must have mirrored her own. “In the end, you have to think did turning on their neighbors benefit them? The same person they vilified may have helped with the harvest only months ago. It is rather like the Holocaust. At first, they do nothing out of fear, not wanting to attract attention. Then again, what benefit is it to them? Do they get the goods or land of the persecuted individual?”
Sabina had complained the women disliked her because she was attractive and unmarried. “They might get rid of the competition for the affection of a beau or even a husband.”
Leah imagined there were definitely a few women in the village who wouldn’t mind seeing the beautiful brown-haired woman disappear, and they wouldn’t care how it happened.
Ethan grimaced. “Girls, they are even mean in the past.”
“Yeah,” Leah agreed. “You have no clue, little brother. Be glad you are a male. All you guys do is punch each other in the nose when you get aggravated, then suddenly you’re pals.”
Her brother’s hand went up to feel his nose. “I don’t want to be punched in the nose again.” He displayed some concern about the future of his nose and some puzzlement as to why someone might want to rearrange it. Keeping his hand protectively over his nose, he left the room, passing Nana and Mother, who entered. They laid out the homemade bandages that had cartoon images on them. The old, faded sheet set from her younger years finally been put to a different use.
Mother carried a teakettle with a plume of steam wafting gently behind her as she walked. Leah looked at the teakettle, while hoping boiling water didn’t constitute a cure for anything.
“Boiling water and torn-up sheets. Isn’t this what they always ask for when someone is having a baby?”
Setting the kettle down, her mother shooed her father from the room, turning to a swaying Stella, she asked, “Would you like to help?”
Her answer was a soft, “I guess.”
Nana took the lid off a pot that held an aromatic mixture. “Old family secret that will heal your wounds in no time.” She shoved the pot in Stella’s direction, causing her to stagger a few steps back.
Her mother poured the hot water into a dishpan and began to dip some of the bandages in it. “We may have to soften up your clothes to separate them from your wounds. Pulling them off would only cause the scabs to break open.”
Her mother went about her duties with a no-nonsense attitude, which was probably her approach at work. The idea of tearing open scabbed-over wounds caused Leah to shudder. She had never been what you might call a good patient. She’d made it her life mission not to do dangerous things when she had relatives who were more likely to pull out a needle and put in a few stitches after splashing her with alcohol. Nope, she’d stayed away from anything even slightly dangerous, from skateboarding to rollerblading. Ironic that now she had to endure pretty much everything she’d avoided.
Even though the water had to have been burning, her mother calmly wrung out the bandages and placed them against her shirt. Steeling herself for the pain by tightening her muscles, Leah felt slow warmth penetrate the fabric, skin, and eventually her muscles, relaxing her. Her eyelids fluttered shut as her mother placed several more warm bandages around her torso.
With her eyes closed, she felt safe listening to her mother and grandmother talk to each other as they moved around her. Her friend asked a few halting, difficult-to-hear questions. Her grandmother gave her the usual cryptic answers she seemed to have for everything that often appeared to answer the question, but on deeper inspection said nothing at all.
Her mother bent over her body, removing the cool bandages. “I am going to remove your shirt. I hope it is not a favorite, because I’m going to cut it off you.” Flourishing a pair of blunt-nosed scissors, she eased the tip of the metal shears under the material and snipped, pulling the fabric gently away. Nana hovered over her mother, leaning on her cane, probably anxious to offer instruction, but for once, she held her tongue.
Her mother’s gasp broke through her stupor. What was it? She saw the blue polo she’d donned earlier that day in strips around her torso. Make that, her striped torso. Her body was a quilt of yellowing, blue and black bruises separated by red lash marks crusting over with pus and dried blood. Not a pretty sight, and apparently, she wasn’t the only one who felt that way. Her friend darted out of the room with a hand over her mouth, making a retching noise.
The soft sound of Nana’s chanting as she moved above her, holding out her hands to invoke a healing protection spell, both frightened and reassured Leah. The words sounded foreign to her, probably Romany. In times of great distress, Nana often abandoned speaking in English, claiming it took too much thought when all one could do was feel. How serious was it that Nana brought out the language of her forebears? In another way, it reassured her. Nana wasn’t above murmuring a few Gypsy words to give her paying customers the feeling they had an authentic fortune-teller. Of course, that was all for show. Leah knew this time the words were not for show, but were a matter of serious business, which unfortunately was her business.
Her mother’s arms wrapped around her as if in an embrace, pulling her slightly forward. Leah lifted her hands to her mother’s arms. How long since they had truly hugged? She could not remember. It wasn’t that she disliked her mother. Hugging fell about the wayside, along with evening bed-tucks. After all, she was almost a senior. Too old for such things, they said, “I love you,” or “Love you, too,” at the end of conversations. It often felt meaningless, rather like a clerk wishing her a nice day with a snarl in her voice. She leaned into her mother’s arms, taking solace from the simple action.
The brief embrace lasted only seconds, until her mother whispered in her ear, “I need you to try to sit up on your own so I can cut off the shirt from your back.”
Was that all it had been? Not a hug, not a sign of love, but only a way to get to her back to cut her shirt off? Leah didn’t want to consider it. Of course, her mother loved her. That’s what mothers did. Instead, she willed herself to hold her body erect during the process of the cool metal medical shears moving down her back. Would it be too much to ask for reassurance of her love?
Her mother’s voice, clouded with concern, breathed on her neck. “You do realize that if there was a way, I would take your place. I love you, Leah. Nana has explained to me this is your journey, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
Leah allowed her head to drop to her mother’s shoulder. Resting it there, she inhaled her familiar scent of lily of the valley, wondering if this could be the last conversation between the two of them. “That makes two of us. I love you, too.” She mumbled her reply but knew her mother heard.
Her grandmother picked up a paintbrush and stirred the pot.
“You’re using a paintbrush on me?” What was she, a house?
Her mother cleaned her back as Nana drew closer. “A paintbrush will help provide the solution in an even fashion. Yes, there is much of you that needs to be covered.”
Her mother unsnapped her bra. Realizing the action might reveal more marks and require a total stripping had something rising up in her throat, gagging her some. She swallowed as her mother swiped down her bra-strap area.
“This area is clean.”
The announcement relieved her some. It was bad when she could not remember what had happened.
The smooth slide of the brush on her back was warm and moist, and it smelled strongly of garlic. As it brushed over her wounds, it stung. Probably salt or vinegar in the mixture. Better than alcohol, she reminded herself, and fought against wincing.
“Sit up straight,” her mother urged.
Her changed posture allowed her mother and grandmother to work as a tag team, with Nana spreading the unguent while Mother wrapped bandages around her torso. With her upper torso and arms done, her head was lowered to the pillow to rest before they tackled her lower body. It made her feel a bit like a pharaoh being prepared for burial. Of course, they were dead at the time. Still, they were familiar with the process. Closing her eyes, she decided to take a tiny break with no intention of sleeping. When she slept, her mind wandered often into the other century.
* * * *
It was a beautiful, warm spring day. A few trees sported blossoms, while others wore new leaves. Birds called to each other in a mating ritual, hoping to find a mate before nesting began. The sun was shining, and she was done with her morning chores. A sense of freedom assailed her as she ran down the hill as fast as her young legs could propel her. Her laughter floated out behind her, as did her homespun skirt.
Reaching the flat land, she spun in circles. Her dull, circle skirt flared out. She’d asked her mother if they could dye their clothes magnificent colors, such as the red and purple of the spring flowers. Her mother had said those colors were not for them. It did not make sense to her. If flowers could wear such vivid colors, why not people?
She pretended not to see him hiding among the trees. Her brother teased her that Lionel, the lord’s third son, had feelings for her. Even at ten, she knew the ways of men and women. Being married at twelve, while not common, wasn’t rare, either. She needed to look to her future, and Lionel might be that future.
He stepped out from behind the trees and approached with a determined gait. “Ho, Arabella, well met,” he called out, as if he’d happened to meet her while walking, as opposed to waiting for her.
She smiled sweetly, her eyes sparkling at the coltish boy. He was handsome with his unmarked skin and thick, brown hair. “Good day, Lionel.” Feeling unusually daring, she added, “My beloved Lionel.”
His smile was reward enough, but from behind his back, he brought out a fistful of half-wilted wildflowers. “For you.”
She took the flowers and held them up to her nose. Why did her father discourage her association with Lionel? He was kind to her. In time, he might even be lord of the manor. How could such an association be wrong?
They walked side by side under the warming sun. Saying nothing, Lionel reached for her hand, and she allowed him to take it, intertwining their fingers.
“Arabella,” he started, his smile vanishing while his fingers tightened. “I am going to have to go away for schooling. I should have left years ago, but my mother begged my father to let me stay since I was the last of her other sons left at home. Reginald is away at school, while Archibald fosters at another household.”
Schooling. She’d heard of it. It was something males did. Wellborn males. Boys like her brother took up the father’s trade or were fortunate to be an apprentice to a tradesman. “Where is this school?”
Her heart made a little lurch as if it knew her life was about to change. There were some in the village who had made mention of how her mother thought too much of herself and put on airs, and as the daughter of such a woman, she was twice as bad. Her mother had assured her that such women spoke out of spite. They were not as well favored nor were their daughters.
Lionel stopped, their hands still united, pulling her to a stop with him. Facing her, his dark eyes held hers. “Arabella, I know not where this school is. Know this. I will come back for you.” He dropped a kiss on her hair from his superior height.
“I will wait,” she promised, determined to do just that, despite her initial reluctance.
Later that day, she confided to her brother that Lionel had to go away to schooling. Her brother shook his head, muttering something about Lionel becoming a dress wearer.
“Tomas, you make no sense,” she complained.
“Little sister, it is time for you to look elsewhere for a mate. Lionel is too high for you, but even if he does care for you, as the third son, he’s for the church. Since his family has popish ways, they will turn him into a skirt-wearing Jesuit. No wife or women in his life from now on.” Her brother shook his head, giving her a sad smile as he headed for the barn.
“He told me to wait,” she shouted after him.
Her mother, carrying a double-bucket yoke, met her on the path. “Who are you supposed to wait for?”
“Lionel,” she explained, knowing she had an avid supporter in her mother. “Tomas tells me he will be a skirt-wearing priest who will take no wife.”
Her mother’s still beautiful face took on a reflective mien. “Ah, ’tis so. I suspected otherwise since his mother held on to him so long. Ye best be looking . Make haste as well, as the other girls have sized up the available men while ye been making cow eyes at Lionel.”
She wanted to argue. Her mother had encouraged their association, but now everything had changed. Marriage of daughters helped to forge helpful connections. Her family was a moderate one in the village, not too poor, but not over-rich. Her father could cobble together a decent dowry, but her older sister, Helena, needed to marry fast. At fourteen, she was on her way to earning the labels of old and persnickety.
Lionel hadn’t even left, and yet his abandonment weighed heavy on her.
* * * *
A gentle rocking woke her. She blinked twice and stared into her nana’s face. “Did you drift way to the other time?”
Leah blinked, slowly allowing the room to come into focus, allowing her thoughts time to coalesce. “I’m not sure. I think I may have just remembered something from the past. I understand now why Lionel hates me, or I should say Arabella, so much.”
Nana stroked her cheek with her age-freckled hand. “Why is that, sweet pea?”
“He asked her to wait for him while he went away to priest school. Arabella’s family advised against it, pointing out she would miss getting a good husband. Nana, she was only ten. How should she know what to do at that age?” It seemed unfair to expect a ten-year-old to make life-altering decisions.
“Keep in mind that to live to be forty was average for the women. To be an elderly woman was another sign the witch hunters used to point out association with the devil. I’d say it was a sign of lack of association with men in general, since most women died in childbirth or from the difficulties resulting from a birth. It was a hard life for a woman. Yes, Lionel would have expected her to wait. Women generally did what men told them to do. It would be enough of a reason for him to want revenge, especially if he loved her.” Nana limped toward her dresser to pour a glass of water.
Her grandmother lurched a little without the cane, sloshing the water she’d poured. Even if the glass were half full, she’d accept it gratefully. The image of Arabella’s self-serving attitude was bitter in her memory. Why would a man like such a little brat? Apparently, he had come back but had not found her waiting. Where had she gone? Why had Lionel felt the need to ring retribution on the entire village and countryside?