Like Chaff in the Wind (The Graham Saga) Read online

  “I will not tolerate more complaints,” Jones said only inches from his ear. Matthew remained where he was until he heard the barn door creak closed.

  “You bring it on yourself,” Elijah berated Matthew, supporting him to stand. “You must learn to hold your tongue.” Matthew tried to speak, but his jaw hurt, his mouth hurt, his whole face hurt.

  “Aye,” Duncan put in, slinging Matthew’s arm around his shoulders. “You rile him. And now he won’t leave you alone.”

  Elijah nodded in solemn agreement. Together his two shipmates half carried, half dragged Matthew back to the shed. As they lowered Matthew down onto his blanket, Matthew closed his hand around Elijah’s wrist.

  “I shouldn’t be here,” he managed to say.

  “But you are.”

  Aye, Matthew sighed, unfortunately he was.

  *

  Duncan was right. Matthew’s life deteriorated further after this incident. Jones consistently singled him out for the chores he considered most demeaning. Not a day without small jibes, a sardonic bow in the direction of the abducted gentleman, sudden requests that he do this or that, often coinciding with the dinner bell.

  Matthew held his tongue as well as he could, reminding himself that he must stay alive, must survive because otherwise all that would be left of him would be a sad little cross in the makeshift graveyard – in earth so definitely not his own. But every now and then his temper flared, and he would raise his chin in silent defiance, reminding Jones that he was not a slave, not him, not Matthew Graham. Jones smirked, swatting his boot with his whip.

  All through that sweltering summer men died; of the ague, of strange fevers, of measles, of racking consumption, and of general neglect – full grown men whose bodies weighed no more than a half grown lad’s, their bones standing in stark outline against dirty, grey skin.

  Graves were dug hastily, and sometimes the man who died no longer had anyone there who knew who he was or from where he came. Mostly these men died silently, expiring in the bleakest hours of the night, but every now and then their deaths were loud agonising affairs, the sound echoing through the heavy summer night. And then there was Samuel, the tailor’s lad from Lincoln, who strung himself up to hang in the furthermost barn.

  “Could you do that?” Elijah asked Matthew in a shaky whisper, his eyes glued to the limp, still shape. Matthew shook his head.

  “Nay, ‘tis a sin.”

  “I could, and then it would be me deciding.”

  Matthew gripped Elijah hard around the wrist. “You don’t mean that, Elijah. To do that…” He indicated the body now lying on a board. “…to do that you must have lost all hope.”

  “Aye,” Elijah replied in a colourless voice.

  *

  Their days began at dawn with a silent breakfast of ubiquitous gruel. Once a week, there was salted pork, and sometimes even beans. Matthew found wild raspberry canes and ate the tart, unripe berries and the small leaves, recalling how Alex had insisted he always eat something green to keep his health and teeth. Alex; during the days he’d banished her to the furthest reaches of his mind, because the memory of her was too painful, but at unexpected moments he’d confuse a distant female figure with her, and he would be so happy until he remembered where he was; on a plantation with Alex nowhere in sight.

  In the evenings Matthew and his companions were so tired they collapsed into silent heaps on the floor, all of them longing for the short release of dreams of somewhere else – anywhere but here.

  The first few days, Matthew had gone in search of water and kept at least his face and hands clean, but now he didn’t care, all he wanted to do was lie down and rest his aching muscles. But every night he cleaned his teeth as his wife had taught him, running a careful tongue over them to ensure they still sat as they should. Alex… He couldn’t keep her at bay when he hovered on the brink of sleep, and her name was often his last conscious thought.

  Matthew moved silently through his days, keeping his head down as much as possible, and as July shifted into August he began to take his blanket and retreat to a small copse he had found by chance well behind the cook house. There was a small spring, a soft gurgling that widened into a small pond, before trickling away between the trees. The sound of water reminded him of home, and he rediscovered the simple pleasure of keeping somewhat clean, taking the time to wash before he wrapped himself in his blanket and sat back to watch the stars that flew so tantalisingly close above his head. It was a relief to be alone; only him and the skies spread out above him. It was anguish to be alone; only him here in the dark with his wife and son perhaps lost to him forever.

  One evening he caught sight of himself in the still surface of the water, and for an instant he had no idea who this heavily bearded man might be. The sight frightened him so that he stood and undressed, examining himself to ensure that he was still there, that it was still him. Muscled and strong, but very thin, the knobs on both ankles and wrists far too protruding under his skin. He ran a hand down his ribs – he could count them all – and studied his member, sluggish in the dark hair of his groin. He prodded it with a finger and his cock rose half-heartedly before it shrank back into inertia. All there, more or less, but for how much longer?

  Chapter 8

  It all started to go wrong in the first week of June. Alex woke to creaking boards, to straining ropes and to the disorienting sensation of being on a roller coaster, with waves of nausea washing through her.

  “Oh my God,” she groaned after having thrown up for the third time. “What’s the matter with the stupid boat?” Mrs Gordon shrugged and told her they were in the midst of a storm.

  “Unseasonal, the captain says, very unusual.”

  “You have the most fantastic ability of saying the wrong things at the wrong time.” Alex fumbled again for the basin.

  *

  The captain ordered all passengers indoors, tied down his ship as well as he could, and grimly sat it out, refusing to consider sleep for the four days the storm raged. Everything heaved, a goat was lifted straight out of its pen and disappeared bleating into the sea, and in the galley the cook struggled to secure his foodstuffs, narrowly avoiding being crushed by a rolling keg of beer. Worst of all was the woman. For some reason, yon Nell had not been in the hold when the storm broke, but appeared halfway through the second day from the direction of the cramped forward space just beyond the forecastle.

  “Nell?” The captain wiped at his face. “Is that Nell?” Smith shouted back that aye it was, and what was the daft lass thinking off, she should have stayed where she was.

  “Why was she—” The captain broke off. He was no fool, and from the look on Smith’s face, he reckoned wee Nell was now the owner of two pink stockings. Besides, at present Nell’s morals were not his prime concern, her safety was.

  Inch by inch, Nell progressed towards the hold, moving crabwise over the heaving deck. The captain hollered at her to go back, to not brave the open deck, but the wind snatched the words out of his mouth, and to his dismay she pressed on, so drenched her garments glued themselves like a second skin to her body. Captain Miles prayed; loudly he begged the good Lord to see her safe, no matter that she was an unrepentant whore. The lass was halfway to the hold when the wave came crashing down, sweeping her into the raging sea.

  There was another storm; and another. The goats were all swept away, two of the crew were washed overboard, and in the hold a couple of women sickened and died without there being any possibility of sinking them with ceremony into the sea.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” Captain Miles said to a very green Alex. “Three storms in a row.” He shook his head and glared in the general direction of the stubbornly overcast sky. He needed to take a mark to establish their position, because at present he had no idea where they were. Never during his thirty years at sea had he felt so totally lost.

  On St. John’s Eve the weather changed, and for some weeks they made good progress, even if the captain concluded that they’d
been blown severely off course.

  “Backwards,” he sighed. At the captain’s insistence the crew fished, and for several days all they ate was fish, Captain Miles keeping a concerned eye on his food supplies. The cook agreed, and together the two men began rationing, both of them worried that this was not yet the end.

  “I feel it,” Davies the cook told the captain. “I can smell it. There be other storms coming.”

  Captain Miles agreed; he felt it too, in every bone of his body he felt it.

  *

  It began as a squall, developed with horrifying speed into a thunderstorm that sent the Regina Anne bucking hither and thither over waves the size of houses. Lightning tore through the night, and Alex lay in her berth and shrieked in panic, because she didn’t want to disappear, please don’t throw me into another age, don’t take me away from him.

  She was so distraught that Mrs Gordon went to find Don Benito, who knelt on the damp floor beside Alex’s berth telling her that all would be well, for surely she couldn’t think their Heavenly Father intended them to die like this?

  She grabbed at him, her fingers sank into his forearms. Here was what she needed, an anchor to hold on to, and if she hurt him he didn’t say, allowing her to hide against his chest. At every clap of thunder she opened her mouth and screamed, deaf to Mrs Gordon’s soothing sounds and Don Benito’s assurances. What did they know? Had they ever been sent flying through time?

  “Matthew!” she screamed. “I want my Matthew!”

  Don Benito prayed, a constant mumble in Latin that Alex found enervating rather than comforting. But she didn’t have the energy to tell him to shut up, and there was Mrs Gordon, kneeling down beside the priest. Her alto joined his baritone, English mingled with Latin in a heartfelt plea for mercy and deliverance from an untimely death. God seemed to be busy with other things; the ship continued to toss like a walnut shell across the seas.

  Alex held on tight to Don Benito, she closed her eyes and prayed as well, a long stream of please and damn you mixed together. And then, just as suddenly as it had come, the storm waned, leaving a limping, damaged Regina Anne to roll in long, soothing swells. In her berth, Alex slumped into a deep sleep, her pillow pressed to her sweaty chest.

  All through the day Alex slept, waking that night to the stifling heat of the confined cabin. After several hours of tossing on the lumpy mattress she gave up. To sleep in this cramped space with Mrs Gordon snoring was impossible, so she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and slipped outside.

  It was a tropical night, warm and soft it enveloped Alex in a cloak of darkness, and she drifted over to lean her elbows against the railings. She stretched, wondering as she always did what Matthew might be doing, and if he was alive and well. She looked deep inside of her and yes, there it was, the certainty that he was still here on this earth, and it filled her with peace.

  She gazed down into the dark waters. Strange that in the middle of the night the sea should be so alight with colours, swirling greens and bright blues and wasn’t there a quickly growing point of light? She stared at the sluggish maelstrom of flaring colours that was forming in the sea, her heart rate peaking in a matter of seconds. A time funnel – just like the one she’d been sucked into three years ago. Alex emitted a whimper, half closing her eyes against the pull of the whirling waters and the accompanying nausea. She heard singing, and from the sea rose veils of fog, shimmering in purples and greens, shot through with bolts of dazzling light.

  She clutched at the railing. No way was she going to allow herself to be dragged down into another time. The music faded, her stomach settled, and she couldn’t keep herself from peeking, and there, at the end of the shimmering funnel that had formed in the water, was Magnus, standing on a boat as well. He looked happy, his arm around a woman he kissed and murmured something to. He turned, and for an instant they could both see each other. On Magnus’ face Alex saw an expression of absolute joy that she supposed must be mirrored in her own.

  “Pappa?” she croaked.

  “Lilla hjärtat?” he replied, using his own special endearment for her.

  She so wanted to let go off the railing and extend her hand towards him, but she didn’t dare to, if anything tightening her hold on the worn wood. The sea heaved and murmured, her father’s face was so very close, but Alex hung on, fingers aching. The funnel started to shrink, Magnus began to fade.

  “What year?” he called.

  “1661, Alex Graham.” She saw him nod and raise his hand in one last wave and then he was gone, swallowed into the receding point of light. “Bloody hell,” she muttered as she unclenched her hands from the railing. She rubbed at her face, drew in several steadying breaths and slid down to sit before her knees gave way.

  She started at the sight of the priest, standing a few metres downwind from her.

  “What was that?” Don Benito squeaked.

  “What?”

  “The man in the water, who was he?” Don Benito peered down into the water and crossed himself.

  “He’s my father.” She threw him a sidelong glance. Maybe this undercover priest could make sense of her story, because she sure couldn’t. “Or rather, he will be my father, when I’m born in 1976.”

  Don Benito looked as if his jaw had permanently dislocated itself from the rest of his face.

  “1976? Ay, Madre de Dios!”

  Alex leaned back against the railings, her face towards the stars. “May I tell you? Under the seal of confession?”

  “Yes, you may.” He sat down beside her. “That’s why you know they’ll dig a new channel for the Guadalquivir! And you know my city well, but as it will be three centuries from now.”

  “It won’t really change that much, not in the parts that exist today. It will still be a city that sleeps through the heat of the summer to wake at dusk, and the Madonnas will still be carried from their churches to the cathedral for their annual blessings.” He liked that, she could see, his face acquiring that dreamy look it always wore when he spoke of his beloved city. Alex pulled up her knees and tightened her arms round them. “It all began with a lightning storm. Suddenly, I was thrown out of my time and landed here.”

  Don Benito opened and closed his mouth several times, looking like a landed goldfish.

  “Lightning?” he managed to say.

  “I don’t know if it’s the lightning, not really. I think it’s crossroads – perfect intersections that occasionally open up a gap in time, funnels of bright colour and blinding light. Lightning or heat seems to help.”

  “Crossroads?” The priest looked at the sea and then back at her.

  “I know.” Alex made a face. “But this was different. More of a peep hole than a chasm.”

  “That’s why the storm frightened you so much.”

  “I can’t go back, I can’t leave Matthew behind, it would tear me to pieces.” She twisted at her wedding ring, counting the turns like she always did; one for every month she’d known Matthew.

  “But you must have left people when you came.” Don Benito’s voice was very gentle.

  “Yes, I did, but this is my place. I belong here – with him.”

  Over the coming hour, she told him everything; of how she’d met Matthew, of Luke and his cruel vindictive streak, and how this journey was a quest to find her man before it was too late. At his insistence, she told him of that earlier life, now so hazy she sometimes imagined it was all a dream. She told him of Magnus, of John and of Isaac. Isaac… She paused and looked at him.

  “Some years before all of this happened, I had a pretty bad experience, and all at the hands of a man called Ángel Muñoz de Hojeda.” She shivered at the name; a man who had started out as a wonderful and conscientious lover had morphed into quite the creative jailer.

  “What?” Don Benito breathed.

  “The day you came on board, I actually thought it was him, here, however impossible.” She bit at her lip. “You look just like him, or rather he looks just like you. The same eyes, the same facial
structure, even the same mouth. Thank heavens you don’t use your first name.” She sneaked her audience of one a look. In the weak light of the stars and the waning moon, his eyes were black ink stains in a pale face.

  “What did he do to you, this future relative of mine?”

  What didn’t he do? Alex trembled, her brain taken over by images she generally kept well at bay. And all because Ángel intended to use Alex to trap her witch mother, destroy Mercedes once and for all.

  “A lot,” she abbreviated, “and I ended up pregnant.” She omitted to tell him that the future Ángel had ended up immolated, courtesy of her weird mother. “So somewhere in the future lives a boy, Isaac, and he’s my son and the son of your descendant.” She laughed and took his hand. “Except, of course, that he’ll not be your direct descendant – given your profession, I mean.”

  Don Benito averted his eyes.

  “Can it happen to anyone?” he said after some moments of silence.

  “I guess so. And…” she hesitated but then decided there was no reason not to tell. “I found a painting in a shop two years ago, a small, very bright painting that made my head spin.” A square of swirling blues and greens, of miniature whirlwinds that drew your eye to the white throbbing point of light at its centre. And if you looked for too long, or leaned in too far, she’d been told you’d be sucked in and transported to another time – but she didn’t know, she added, suppressing a tremor, she’d never actually seen it work. Don Benito’s mouth hung open, yawning so wide he could easily have swallowed a suckling pig. Okay, okay, that was an exaggeration, but not that far off.

  “The strangest thing is that I knew immediately who had painted the picture.” Alex eyed him nervously. “My mother.”

  “Ay, Dios mío!” He crossed himself – twice. She totally agreed.

  *

  Don Benito’s head rang with snippets of prayers and hymns, short incoherent sequences of holy words that he hoped would protect him. He snuck Alex a look, crossed himself yet again. A painting, she said, a painting filled with evil witchcraft, and he, God help him, he had one just like it in his cabin.