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Arrowhead

1/8/2015

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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

Henry V of England - Illustration from Cassell's History of England - Century Edition - published circa 1902.jpg
"Henry V of England - Illustration from Cassell's History of England - Century Edition - published circa 1902" by Cassell's History of England - Century Edition - published circa 1902 Scan by Tagishsimon, 23rd June 2004. Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.

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A Token of Vengeance

10/21/2014

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As the blinding light fades, the first thing I become aware of is the hardness of stone beneath my knees and hands. I blink, confused, and jump as the shell crackles in my head and Matthew’s voice echoes like a stone dropped in a well.

“Beatrix? Are you okay?”

Relief washes over me—I’ve travelled twice since last speaking to him at Lindisfarne, and I was starting to panic I’d lost the connection.

“I’m all right.” I focus on the ground. I’m kneeling on a cobbled road. The stones are wet, and there is a distinct fishy smell in the air. “Have you worked out how to get me back?”

“Bea, you wouldn’t believe what’s happened.” Matthew’s voice fades in and out like an old radio being tuned. “...in the lab, and somehow they’ve uploaded a virus...”

I turn cold. “Matt? Who’s uploaded a virus?”

“Saboteurs,” he says, clear as anything. “Protesters. Not everyone agrees with our research. They think we’re... Accused us of interfering... Timelines...”

I screw up my eyes in frustration. “Matt?”

“Hang in there, babe. We’ll bring you back. It just might take a few days.”

Days? I have no idea what that means in my mixed up timeline. That could equate to mere seconds or a lifetime of travelling through time. “Wait, I...” But the connection’s broken, and the hissing in my head fades.

When I raise my head, I am in some kind of harbour. Boats are moored in rows, and the sea laps against the legs of a wooden pier. Although the day is warm, the water is grey and unwelcoming. It can only be the English Channel, I think somewhat wryly as I remember childhood summers splashing about in the icy water.

Voices sound from along the harbour, and I turn my head to see three fishermen hefting barrels of fish from a boat onto the dock. Vaguely, I wonder why none of them is helping me. They cast me suspicious glances, but none of them comes to see why I am still on my hands and knees. Have I been drinking? I don’t feel drunk, although I have a sour taste in my mouth, and my head aches.

I get to my feet, then stand there for a moment, hands on my knees. I feel weak, and it’s not only my head that aches—my whole body throbs. Have I been in a battle?

Finally, I stand upright and take a proper look around the harbour. The boats are wooden with sails, and the men’s clothing is basic: woollen tunics and breeches, with leather shoes. Medieval, then? It’s difficult to narrow it down, because peasants’ clothing changed so little over hundreds of years.

I stumble forward to lean heavily on a barrel. It’s full of fish, their glassy eyes blinking up at me.

“Ned—go away.” One of the fishermen comes closer, but stops about six feet away. “Don’t touch them.”

“I wasn’t going to,” I protest. My voice is deep—I’m a man, then, Edward, a distinct Saxon or medieval name. The fisherman’s face shows fear—although he knows me, he’s terrified of me.

“Go away,” he says again, swiping an arm as if to scare me. I turn and totter away.

Further along, I pause, exhausted, by a warehouse, and I lean my head on the wall to survey the scene. Other men are moving cargo from boats to the dock—I spy large flagons of wine, bales of cloth, boxes probably containing exotic foods. A man is chopping fish, throwing the sightless heads in a pile of rubbish. Rats skitter across the stones; a dog pees up against the wall.

Pushing myself off, I head farther down the road. It seems strangely empty—not what I would have expected from a bustling medieval town during the middle of the day. It’s hot, and sweat runs down my back. It’s probably because I’m wearing a coat in spite of the fact it’s obviously summer—or do I have a fever? I touch my hand to my brow, then lower it to find it moist. My head pounds.

I weave my way along alleyways, and if I do meet someone, they take pains to avoid me. Where am I going? To Ned’s house? I feel distinctly unwell. Why have I travelled to this point in time, to this person? I lurch against the wall, and my fingers fumble at the latch of a wooden door. Turning the handle, I stumble inside.

It’s dark, and it smells foetid. I blunder through the small room with its two wooden chairs and table, and through to a bedroom. I recoil at the smell. A woman lies on the bed, her head turned away from me. She is breathing—I can see the rise and fall of her chest, but it’s shallow, and her skin is whiter than milk. The blanket covering her is filthy, stained with a dark liquid. I shudder to think what it is.

“Maud?” I walk up to the bed and sit by her side. “I brought some bread.” I extract half a loaf from inside my coat, and drop the garment to the floor. It disturbs a rat gnawing on something mouldy in the corner, and it shoots off into the darkness.

The room is insufferably hot, and she pushes at the bedclothes, shoving them to one side. My gaze falls onto her pale body, as she’s naked beneath the dirty, stained blanket, and my heart stops. On the side of her neck is a large black lump.

I watch, horrified, mesmerised, as Ned removes the blanket, dips a cloth into a pail of water by the bed, and proceeds to wipe her with it, presumably trying to cool her, as she’s sweating and shivering at the same time. As he sponges down her thin body, I see similar black swellings in her groin. At one point, his cloth brushes the swelling, and she screams, then lapses into sobs.

Ned stands, pressing a hand to his mouth, and stumbles back into the other room. Now I know why he’s aching, why he has a headache. He lifts his woollen tunic and cranes his head to look at his throbbing armpit—the bubo glares back at him, promising death.

The same rat I had disturbed—or is it another?—runs across the floor to a pile of dirty cloth in the corner. It carries with it the fleas that have infected Ned and his wife with the Black Death, the fourteenth-century outbreak of the Bubonic Plague.

I know that graves dating to around 1338 in Kyrgyzstan bear inscriptions that refer to plague, and that it probably spread from there to China and India along the Silk Road, and thence to Europe on merchant ships. It is now June or July in 1348, and I must be in Melcombe Regis—the port in Dorset where a ship from Genoa brings rats and cloth carrying their plague-infested fleas. By autumn, it will have spread to London; in winter, it will turn into the even deadlier form, pneumonic plague, spread by coughing and sneezing caused by winter colds, and then to septicaemic plague, spread through the blood, which is almost always fatal.

Ned and Maud will die, and so will a third to a half of the population of Europe. Whole towns will be wiped out. It will be one of the most devastating pandemics in human history.

My head crackles. Before the scene fades to blackness, I say a silent prayer for Ned, and hope his death will be quick.

Freya
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    "As they say in the Temporal Mechanics Department, there's no time like the present." Captain Janeway, Star Trek Voyager

    THE TEMPORAL CHRONICLES

    The Temporal Chronicles are short stories set in a variety of historical periods. Some have an element of fantasy or science fiction. Others are straight historicals.

    The Chronicles include the adventures of Beatrix Viator - an archaeologist sent into the past, who then gets lost in time...


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