The first thing I notice is the smell. Incense fills the room, along with the pungent aroma of herbs. It is hot and dark, and as my vision clears, I see that I stand in a bedchamber, along with many other people who are crowded around the central four poster bed.

I make a quick assessment of their clothing. Late medieval, fourteenth or fifteenth century. The fabrics are expensive, ornate and finely stitched. There is money in this room, and power along with it.

“Everybody out,” I say, in spite of my observations. My manly voice is laced with authority. “And open the curtains, for the love of God.”

Men shuffle past me out through the door, and a servant pulls the curtains aside to let weak sunlight replace the dingy gloom. I gesture at the windows, and the same servant opens the catch and lets clean, fresh air spill in.

One man remains behind, leaning against the stone wall. His bearded face is filled with grief. “My thanks for coming, John,” he says. “Please... can you help him?” He gestures to the figure on the bed, and I move closer.

It is a young man, maybe sixteen or seventeen years of age. He is still, his arms above the embroidered coverlet, his head on a pillow. His skin looks waxen and is covered with a sheen of sweat. But the most remarkable thing about him is the wound on the right side of his face. I bend and peer closely at it. In amongst the swollen flesh, buried deep in the bone, is a piece of metal. An arrowhead, probably.

The real me swallows hard. I don’t have a strong stomach for this kind of thing, but clearly that’s irrelevant because the man I inhabit appears to be a doctor, and I am about to treat the patient.

I straighten and turn to the two servants waiting nervously to one side. “I need a table by the bed. Two bowls of hot water. Clean cloths. And bring me my bag.”

The servants scurry to do as bid, and before long I am ready to begin. I take off my coat and tie back my long hair, then wash my hands free of the dirt of travel.

In spite of my squeamishness, I am fascinated by this. Who am I treating? A young soldier, presumably, someone wounded in battle. But who is the man leaning against the wall who watches me so intently?

I have no time to ponder, however, as John—whoever he is—begins to work, occasionally explaining his actions to the man by the bed.

From his bag, he retrieves various small pieces of wood—elder, he explains—and he takes time to fashion these into different widths. Then he wraps them tightly in a piece of linen and stitches them securely. After this, he leaves them for a while in a bowl of “rose honey” to infuse. I know that honey is a natural antiseptic, and I am still impressed by his thorough ministrations.

When he is satisfied, he takes the smallest probe and settles himself beside the lad on the bed. The young man doesn’t appear to be conscious, but John feeds him anyway with a concoction he lets trickle between the lad’s lips, designed to numb the pain.

He inserts the probe into the wound. My stomach flips, but John is clearly past feeling nausea at the sight of blood, and he bends close to the lad’s face, peering at the hole in his cheekbone as he pushes the probe in deeper. He works carefully and diligently, attempting to widen the wound so he can gain access to the barbed arrowhead that has embedded itself about six inches into the bone.

Soon, he switches to a slightly wider, longer probe, and resumes his prodding, and he continues this way for a long time, until the wound is wide enough and deep enough that he has reached the bottom of the arrowhead. Hours go by, but John stops only briefly to drink and have a quick bite to eat before he continues his work.

When he is satisfied, he pauses to stand and stretch, takes a few paces around the room, arches his back, and then returns to the bed.

He turns to his bag and retrieves a small pair of tongs. He shows the man by the bed as he cleans with the honey solution. They are about the width of the arrowhead, with rounded tips. In the centre of the tongs is a small screw.

Readying the tongs in his hand, he begins to work.

It takes a long time, but he is infinitely patient, and eventually he is able to manoeuvre the tongs to either side of the arrowhead. At that point, he fits the screw into the hole of the arrowhead that originally contained the wooden shaft, and he turns the screw until it is firmly set into the metal.

He murmurs beneath his breath, and I recognise the words of the Paternoster – the Lord’s Prayer. Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur Nomen Tuum…

He begins to move the arrowhead from side to side. Miniscule movements at first, left and right, left and right, careful not to pull the tongs from the wound. For a while, the arrowhead refuses to budge. But he continues, left and right, left and right. Minutes go by, or is it hours? He pauses to wipe sweat from his brow, then continues. Left and right. Left and right.

Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie…

Gradually, the arrowhead moves more freely. “It is coming,” he announces, and I hear an inhalation from the man to the side of the bed. Left and right. Left and right.

And then suddenly, the metal becomes loose, and in one smooth movement, he pulls the arrowhead out of the wound.

Blood flows, and he quickly presses a pad of cloth to the lad’s face.

“It is amazing,” gasps the man at my side, lifting up the tongs to examine the arrowhead that had caused the lad such pain.

“Your Grace, our next step is to ensure the wound does not become infected.” John replaces the bloody cloth with another, pressing down to stop the flow. “I will remain by the prince’s side and wash the wound with white wine, then clean the inside of the wound with honey, barley, flour and flax. If God wishes it, the prince will live.”

Wait—your Grace? The prince? My brain works furiously. Which member of royalty received an arrow to the face? King Harold II, of course, at the Battle of Hastings, but he was older than this young man, and the clothes suggests it is a few hundred years later than that.

There was a prince wounded at the Battle of Shrewsbury, in 1403, if my memory serves me correctly.

He would live to become the future Henry V.

My heart jumps into my mouth. Is this he? If so, that would make me the London surgeon, John Bradmore. I remember reading about his innovative treatment of the prince. He saved Henry’s life, and although the future king presumably bore a scar, as his only surviving portrait shows his profile on the left side, he went on to live until his mid-thirties, winning the famous Battle of Agincourt along the way. The king beside me is, therefore, his father, Henry IV.

I have so much I want to ask him, but the room is already fading, and I am preparing for the next jump. I want to wail—no! Let me stay! But I watch John stroke the forehead of the young prince, tears in my eyes, and then the room goes dark.

Freya

“BEATRIX!”

The voice bellows in my ear. I jump and turn around to find the source, but realize it’s coming from inside my head.

“No need to yell,” I scold, somewhat grumpily. My stomach is churning, and I still dislike the blurred vision and spinning head that accompanies each time-hop.

“Sorry.” Matt’s voice is apologetic. “I’ve been trying to contact you for a while, but I couldn’t get a connection.”

“Well, I’m here, what do you want?”

“We’ve found the source of the virus,” he explains. “I’m running the clean-up program now, so it shouldn’t be long before we establish the recall link.”

“You mean you can finally get me back?” Relief rushes through me. I’ve been travelling for an eternity, and it’s been ages since I’ve seen my kids. At least, I think it’s been ages. I’ve journeyed across millennia, but I could have been missing mere hours back in my own time.

“That’s the plan. Just a couple more jumps, I think. You should be landing now.”

As if to confirm his words, my vision begins to clear. Yellow lights dance in front of my eyes, and voices rise around me as if someone’s turning up the volume.

“Make it quick,” I say to Matt. Although the thrill of travelling through time hasn’t quite worn off, I’d prefer the adventures to be my decision rather than being forced upon me.

“Over and out.” The shell in my head hisses, crackles, and his voice fades.

I blink, and the view before me sharpens into focus.

I’m standing at the edge of a crowd in a huge stone building. The ceiling is supported by large pillars carved and painted with vines and leaves. When I look down, my gaze falls on a mosaic floor made from tiny pieces of tile. The picture is mostly hidden beneath people’s feet, but they can’t hide the beauty of the craftsmanship. I’m pretty certain it’s Roman, although these floors have been found in Europe from Cornwall to Germany, so I could be anywhere.

I look around the building, and I’m stunned by the amount of candles I can see. On every statue, every wall, every shelf, there are hundreds of white candles, filling the air with flickering light and a veneer of smoke that drifts slowly to the high ceiling. The candles highlight everyone’s faces, and their eyes shine as they look up to the figure on top of the dais at the front.

I turn to look at him, and flinch as I see him holding up blood-covered hands. Something gross hangs from them—innards of some description—and my stomach clenches.

Next to me, a person sniggers. “You have turned whiter than milk. You have such a weak stomach!”

“It is the smell,” the person whose head I’m inside says in a deep, male voice. I have to agree—I’ve never liked the odour of fresh blood.

The man on the dais—a priest, I’m gathering, judging by the way he’s just sacrificed the lamb lying dead at his feet—declares the entrails to be clean and clear of decay, and the crowd cheers.

The sacrifice and the lettering carved around the building confirm to me my first thought—I’m in Rome. I’m standing in a temple, and I look around for signs of who it’s dedicated to. My gaze falls on the large statue next to the dais. The man looks a little like Father Christmas, with a thick curly beard, and he carries a scythe. Saturn, then—and this must be the festival of Saturnalia—the equivalent of our Christmas.

Normally, everyone would be wearing togas, but today these have been exchanged for colourful clothes, and everyone wears conical felt hats called pilleus. The priest’s head, however, is uncovered, and as I watch, he and a couple of others remove some wool bindings from the feet of the statue of Saturn. This, I know, symbolises liberation. Following this, the men lift the statue and lay it on an elaborate couch, as if Saturn himself is about to take part in the festivities.

“Come on,” the voice beside me mutters. “Before we get crushed in the crowd.”

I turn and follow the man through the throng of people. The front portico of the temple consists of eight enormous columns, and as we walk through them, I found myself in a huge open square—the Forum Magnum, and I know I am truly in Rome.

I glance up over my shoulder, and my gaze falls on the pediment above the pillars. It bears the inscription Senatus Populusque Romanus incendio consumptum restituit. I struggle briefly with the Latin—it means “The Senate and People of Rome have restored what fire consumed". It confirms to me that it is at least the late third century, as this is the third temple to stand here, rebuilt after a fire destroyed the previous one in 283AD.

Ruins of the Temple of Saturn (eight columns to the far right) in February 2010, with three columns from the Temple of Vespasian and Titus (left) and the Arch of Septimius Severus (center)

The Forum is packed with rows of wooden tables heaped with plates of food, and the atmosphere is carnival-like. There are people singing and playing instruments, groups of others gambling with dice and knucklebones, and everyone is eating. At first glance, it looks as if everyone is dressed the same, but when I peer more closely, I see that those serving the food are wearing elaborate jewellery and their clothes are of a far finer material. Saturnalia was a festival of role-reversal, and the masters are serving the slaves, although I am certain the slaves would have prepared the food themselves.

“You want something to eat?” The man I inhabit seems oddly out of place here. He fidgets at the edge of the festivities, his hands behind his back, either nervous or uncomfortable, I’m not sure which.

“In a moment.” My friend also hangs back. I glance across at him. His gaze is distant, looking out to the hills. “Do you think they will come?”

I shrug. “Nothing is certain.” I hesitate. “But the priest predicts good news, so we should not worry.” I am conscious of trying to reassure my friend. I wonder to whom he is referring. Who is coming? And why are they not welcome?

“I miss my wife,” my friend says glumly. “She will have roasted a whole pig, and my son will have organised a play. Did I tell you he writes?”

“You did. I hear he is much to be admired.”

“He has talent, that is true. I am proud of him, although sometimes I wish he had a little skill with a sword. If the tribes do cross the Rhine, they will head for Gaul, and it would be good to know he was able to defend his mother.”

“They will have to get through us first, Gaius,” I say, somewhat fiercely. We are soldiers then, awaiting the hordes of barbarians who nibble at the edges of the Empire, trying to find a weakness.

Gaius nods. “They might not come.”

“No. They might not.”

Our silence suggests neither of us believes that.

Common thought is that the Vandals, Alans and Suebo tribes crossed the Rhine in 406, possibly on the thirty-first of December. If that is the case and it is indeed that year, then the soldiers are right and we are standing on the brink of an invasion, observing the Empire as it teeters around us, about to crash around our ears.

“I will be a grandfather soon,” I say. “I am expecting word any day now.”

“We grow old, my friend,” he says with a smile. “We have seen good times, have we not?”

“We have.”

We lapse into wistfulness, watching those around us celebrating, but the shadow of invasion hangs over our heads too heavily for us to join in. I muse that it has always been the same at this time of year. Everyone wants to be with their families, to watch their children and grandchildren grow up, and to be at peace.

“Come on,” my friend says eventually. “We grow morbid. Let us play at dice, and you can lose all your coins to me, and that will make me cheerful again.”

Laughing, we descend the steps, and lose ourselves in wine and dice in an attempt to forget the doom that hovers over us.


Freya

Saturnus Polidoro Caldara da Caravaggio 16th century

It was the smell that first struck Beatrix, yes and struck was the right word. It was almost a physical jolt, so rotten, deathly and sickly sweet. 

She slowly opened her eyes to a total blackness, the kind only miners are used to. She blinked and tried to focus on something, and gradually misty shapes began to appear. If her vision was empty of information, her hearing was bombarded by sound…human snores, shouts and distant crying, as well as a more chilling mechanical sound, faraway blasts from dropping bombs which could be felt as much as heard, together with a strange high pitched fizzing sound that temporarily lit up the blackness, only to allow the dark to regain the field after a short while.

Very carefully she reached out to try and a gain a ‘feel’ for her surroundings, and it was damp mud that her fingers explored. This allowed the final penny, in this case bearing the head of King George V, to drop. 

“Cuppa?” The voice was hushed, which seemed odd considering the noise all around. A dirty, scared hand reached up to take the chipped mug of steaming tea.

“Cheers,” said Beatrix as she took a sip. It was very sweet, but it was the warming aftertaste that was a surprise.

The bearer of the tea laughed. “I stuck a bit o’ rum in it, purely medicinal o’ course.“ 

Shaking herself awake, Beatrix could see that she was one of many Khaki clad figures standing or leaning in the trench. To call them uniforms was a bit misleading. Some wore leather jerkins, others woollen Balaclavas, named in memory of another, earlier conflict, to keep out the cold. Hand knitted scarves and gloves were also popular it would seem, gifts from worried but proud loved ones back in ‘Blighty’.

The trenches themselves were quite a sight, and Beatrix allowed herself a few moments to fully take in her surroundings while sipping on the steaming mug in her cupped hands. The sides of the walls were dug away here and there to produce a shelf on which some of the men tried to catch some rest. They reminded her of the catacombs underneath Rome, not a pleasant thought. Thick, wooden posts stood Atlas-like, holding the covered areas upright, while at the bottom of the trench timber planking fought in vain to keep back the tide of mud, with as much success as King Cnut. 

“Oy, why you so quiet?”

Beatrix turned to look at her companion for the first time since taking the tea. He was a short, rather thin man. His uniform was made for a much bigger frame, and the puttees made his lower legs look like they had been through a pencil sharpener. He smiled though, and his eyes still held a sparkle, in spite of the horror of his surroundings. He hung his Lee Enfield on a stiff grey hand that poked out of the side of the trench.  “Gawd bless you, my son,” he muttered at the decaying limb, and turning back to Beatrix he continued, “You still waiting for your missus to write? I ‘eard the post is fucked, so her letter has most likely gawn missing in action.” He chuckled to himself at the last line.

Beatrix shook her head. “Nah, just ‘ad enough of this lark.” The voice that came out of her was quiet, and weary. It sounded like the voice of an old man, not a soldier in the prime of his life. ”I want to kip in a bed, with sheets and that, drink tea that tastes like tea, not dish water, no offense.”

Her comment was met with a hearty laugh. “Leave orf, my tea is the same you’d get at the bloody Ritz mate!” The two men smiled and then silence took over again. 

Taking hold of a wooden box, much like a malt whisky box, Beatrix held it up over the lip of the trench. ”Bloody kid’s toys eh, talk about investment in the War,” she whispered to herself. The periscope worked a treat though, and she could make out No-man’s Land. Thinking back to her History lessons at school, she had a set idea of what kind of view she would get. This was not it. There were patches of green grass, not too much to be sure, but between the banks of barbed wire, shoots were beginning to sprout. The blasted trees of her imagination were also missing; instead the muddied ground gently undulated away from her, up towards a ridge in the distance, unremarkable except for the occasional glint of thin sunlight off the barbed wire that protected the German trenches. There were shell holes of course, and if you looked closely, bizarre twisted shapes like bags of old clothes carelessly dropped off in a homeless shelter. These were the real cost of war, the detritus of conflict that had littered battlefields since before the Battle of Megiddo, which had seen ancient Egyptian ‘shapes’ dotted about the sands.

She felt suddenly very weary, and the niggling bites from the huge community of parasites that called the seams of her uniform home was fast becoming unbearable. Still, bear it she would, and like all those around her, when the whistle blew, and when her officers called on her to put down the tea, and pick up her rifle and pack, she would ascend the wooden ladder that promised to take her from this world into another one.

“Dulce et decorum est,” came flooding into her mind, a memory from Fifth Form English… and she smiled.


Tony

 A German trench occupied by British Soldiers near the Albert-Bapaume road at Ovillers-la-Boisselle, July 1916 during the Battle of the Somme. The men are from A Company, 11th Battalion, The Cheshire Regiment.

“Come on honey, we don’t want to miss a good spot on the route!”

The voice was female, and was heavy with a southern drawl. Beatrix noticed at once that her perspective on her surroundings was lower than usual; she was clearly a child this time. She glanced down to see a red skirt with white socks pulled up above her ankles.

“Sorry Mom,” she said, as she reached up to grab a white jacket that hung like a limp flag on the rail.

She was aware of the clock ticking loudly, and as the door opened on to the front lawn, she squinted into a bright, sunlit day.

Good, she thought, the rain has stopped, he will appreciate our city more in the sunshine, and with a sudden laugh, the girl in the red skirt skipped out of the hallway and into the waiting car, where her mother was busy putting the finishing touches to her lipstick in the vanity mirror.

Beatrix watched the houses speed by from the window, large spacious homes, complete with picket fences and large powerful looking motor cars on the driveways. For the first time she was able to take a good look at her surroundings. One of the most disturbing aspects of the time hopping was that she was never sure where she would be next, or for how long. The historian in her led her to try and determine the time and place as soon as she could, although this was not always possible.

From what she could see as the car slowed down at intersections was a large, prosperous city, the shops complete with vast window displays. Everything seemed to be busy. The pavements were thronged with people, the women in wide and colourful skirts, and the men in suits, or casual shirts, each wearing the obligatory hat. Beatrix made a snap decision that this was the 1950’s or 60’s, but being more specific would take a bit more detective work.

In the front bench seat of the car, her mother and a female friend chatted animatedly between cigarettes. Clearly something was exciting them.

“She always looks so, so...cool!” her mother exclaimed.

“Oh yeah, almost a European style, and what I wouldn’t give for a few hours with either of the boys,” replied her friend with a wink.

“Oh Flora-Mae, you are too awful, you really are,” said her mother, smiling.

The car finally pulled up opposite a structure that bore the words “U.S Post Office Building”, and when Beatrix looked around, she realised she was standing in the shadow of what looked like a huge railway overpass. By this time other cars were pulling up, and she could see that many of the occupants were as animated as her mother had been, and the general feeling she got was one of anticipation and excitement.

A short walk along the grass that ran alongside the roadway gave Beatrix time to cast about in search of a few more clues to her whereabouts. The area around her was a curved triangle of land, bounded by roads that were edged with gathering crowds; a few tall stone buildings overlooked this ‘Plaza’, and to the left and right of the main roadways stood a pair of covered walkways, raised from the surroundings by a grassy mound. Things were starting to fall into place, and Beatrix had a very strong feeling that she had seen the red skirt and white coat she was wearing before.

Finally, they reached a tight corner where the crowds were thickest.

“This will have to do, honey,” said her mother smiling down at her, “the motorcade will come down Houston and turn right about here, we should be able to wave and cheer at the car as it slows.”

Beatrix at once knew the name of the large red brick building that stood across the road from her, and raising her eyes heavenwards she saw the Hertz Rental sign and the digital clock, counting down to 12.30. The name of the building was picked out in bold letters, “The Texas School Book Depository”.

The cheers of the crowd grew, and Beatrix was aware of people craning necks to catch a glimpse of the open topped limousine that carried the 35th President and his wife around the turn into Elm Street. She tried to focus on the windows of the Book Depository, but she was simply an observer here, and the girl in the red skirt jumped up and down with excitement. As the limousine slowed to make its turn, Beatrix began to skip and run alongside the vehicle as it slowly progressed along the street.

The sound was distinct but not immediately recognisable—a backfire from a car, a crack from a bull whip or, most likely, a shot from a gun. Beatrix felt the girl stop and turn to see where the noise had originated from. Most of the crowd seemed to miss the sound, but she noticed that the President stopped waving.

What occurred next unfolded in slow motion. The girl in the red jacket skipped alongside the road for a few more metres, and she could hear her mother call on her not to go too far. Shots rang out around her… gasps from the onlookers… the limousine began to speed up… a man standing on a plinth recording the events on a small ‘Super8’ camera… a woman dressed in bright pink had climbed out of the car onto the boot desperately trying to retrieve something… a cop on a motorbike… a man with a black umbrella… the grim sight of a faint cloud of red exploding above the head of the President…

It was over so quickly, Beatrix desperately wanted to run over to the grassed area that lay to the right of the President’s car, but she was not in control of this body, and all she felt was not horror, but confusion, and as her mother ran over and bundled the girl up in her arms, she became aware of tears streaming down her mother’s cheeks.

Tony

The light was dazzling, fractured like a migraine. The brilliant white took on a distinct bluish tinge as the shapes slowly began to develop….Rigid horizontal bars reached to the heavens it seemed, and the cross beams glowed like the halo on a renaissance painting. The bars became a framework and the shimmering light the glass panels in between. This was a building, but a building the like of which Beatrix had never seen before.

From a distance it gave the appearance of a religious house, a monstrous cathedral of glass and iron, but the gods worshipped here were those of the factory and the forge, human muscle and the hiss of steam.  This was Hyde Park in 1851, and this was the Great Exhibition.

A visit to the ‘Grand Exhibition’ was a ‘Must’ on the social calendar of the Victorian, whatever class they identified with. Special ‘One Shilling’ days were included to allow as many as possible to wander and wonder around the giant palace of glass that dominated the area for miles around.

A gaggle of children pushed and shoved each other while tickets were bought, and Beatrix made a mental note that even Victorian children could be heard and seen! Those who bought the cheap tickets were scrubbed clean, red faces glowing with anticipation as well as coal tar soap.

Upon entering, Beatrix was drawn to the centre of the nave, where stood a fountain of such fancy construction that it both amazed and slightly repelled her at the same time. The overblown intricacies of the glassblowers had made the Crystal Fountain (for such was written on a wooden board underneath it) a crowd favourite, and a place where lost youngsters could gather to be picked up by fretting parents.

The crowd flowed every which way; some stayed on the ground floor to admire the cotton fabrics that made Manchester so famous and the ornate carriage works that stood opposite like peacocks proud in their fine livery. The north side of the ground floor was also where one could fine the ‘refreshment area’ which would usually be a magnet for those with tired feet, hoping to sample the fine selection of teas from around the Empire. There was however another, more prosaic reason for visiting the refreshment court. Here you could ‘Spend a Penny’ for the first time in the public conveniences created to showcase the advances in sewage disposal, but popular because, for the cost of the aforementioned coin, you could relieve yourself and be waited on by a team of servants who dusted down your coat while you washed your hands in one of the new blue and white china basins.

The sheer scale of the place was breath-taking, the huge trees that stood inside the ‘Palace’, the echo of footsteps on the hard wooden floor, dusted in some places with saw-dust, and the tinkling of the fountains that were liberally sprinkled around the ground floor... Beatrix was struck by the seemingly haphazard way the displays were arranged! True, the British exhibits were standing proud in the western wing, while the ‘Foreigners’, American, French, German goods crouched in the area to the east of the building, but the only power source was along the northern side of the structure, so the large machinery was to be found clustered here.

Napoleon III, Empress Eugenie, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, seated on a dais with floral decorations at the base, during their visit to Crystal Palace Exhibition

The centre of the building saw the British Empire holding court, and any visitor would be struck with the power and pomp of an empire on which the sun was too busy to set.

The smell of bodies mingled with the tang of fresh paint, and the tide of humanity ebbed and flowed around the building marvelling, as one, at just what wonders this modern world could produce… a Floating Church, space heaters made to look like renaissance statues, the newest design of Locomotives, even tiny walnuts filled with hundreds of minute items… ”all in a nutshell.”

Beatrix found the excitement and the energy of the Exhibition intoxicating, and whilst waiting in front of the huge stuffed Elephant in the Indian exhibit, she overheard a slight, but well-dressed gentleman say to his male companion, “I think the first impression produced is bewilderment, It looks like a kind of fairyland. As far as you can look in any direction, you see nothing but pillars hung about with shawls. Carpets, etc with long avenues of statues, fountains, and canopies...”  She recognised the man at once, it was Charles Dodgson, and he should know what a fairy land might look like… Beatrix knew him better as Lewis Carroll.


Tony

Read Part 1 of Vikings here.

The story continues...

*

Deorwine stands looking to the east at the longboat sailing slowly toward the island of Lindisfarne. Inside, I’m screaming, Run, run! But imprisoned inside his body, looking out through his eyes, I can only observe the events unfolding before me.

Absently, part of me thinks that this isn’t how I'd imagined it would be. Not the invasion itself—that is panning out exactly as I’d envisaged it. But experiencing it is a whole other matter. I’d thought it would be like watching it on TV—I am a fan of bloodthirsty historical movies and have sat and chomped my way through bags of popcorn while watching armies massacre each other on the screen. But of course these aren’t actors, and I’m not just watching, I’m in the thick of the action, and I can feel the way Deorwine’s heart has begun to pound, how his breathing has quickened.

I open my eyes. My heart is thudding at twice its normal speed. Half of me expects to see the white room, the panel of buttons at my fingertips, to feel the padded leather chair beneath me, and I prepare myself for the rush of disappointment I’m certain will follow.

Instead, I find myself seated on a low wooden bench at a large table. It’s quiet, surprisingly so considering there are about thirty other people in the room. They are all men, although some have mere fluff on their cheeks, and cannot be more than fourteen or fifteen years old. They are all dressed in long woollen tunics, dyed a patchy brown, and all of the older men have tonsures. The only person speaking is one man standing at the end of the room, reading from a book on a lectern. I would have recognized the Latin, even if the shell in my head hadn’t translated it—it’s from the Gospel of St. Mark.

“Et erat in deserto quadraginta diebus et quadraginta noctibus et temptabatur a Satana eratque cum bestiis et angeli ministrabant illi.”

“And he was in the desert forty days and forty nights, and was tempted by Satan. And he was with beasts: and the angels ministered to him.”

I know monasticism owes its origins to Christ’s followers wishing to replicate His time alone in the desert. Clearly, the monk is reminding them why they have dedicated their lives to vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience.