Dragon's Met
Part Two
by peregrin anna
c. 2001


(Disclaimers and notes may be found on the introductory page .)





Chapter 10

I should not dare to leave my friend,
Because--because if he should die
While I was gone--and I--too late--
Should reach the heart that wanted me....

My heart would wish it broke before--
Since breaking then--since breaking then--
Were useless as next morning's sun--
Where midnight frosts had lain.
    ~ Emily Dickinson


Watching as Marissa told Piovani what had happened, Crumb had to admit he was impressed.  She was holding it together better than he'd thought she could, strength in the set of her jaw and the determined way she blinked back tears.  He was standing next to Marissa, their backs to the lake and the dive site.  Nick had positioned herself so that she could see all the activity out on the lake and down the pier with a single sweep of her dark eyes.

"...and we were talking as we walked to the end out there, then we turned back down the pier.  We stopped right here, and then there was the splash."  Fingers splayed as if to mimic the water pattern, Marissa pushed her hand toward the edge of the pier.  She drew in a breath and moved her hand back to rest on Spike's harness.  "I didn't hear anything more from Gary.  I got down and tried to reach out in his direction, but there wasn't any sound or movement at all.  People came, someone called you--and that's it, you know the rest."  She swiped at her nose with the back of her hand, but froze at the splash of divers going off a boat. 

"It's okay, just the rescue team," Crumb told her.

"What do you mean, you didn't hear anything?  You mean you couldn't hear him swimming or calling out?"  Nick had been watching the divers, but now her attention turned back to her witness.

"I mean," Marissa said firmly, "that there was nothing to be heard, nothing at all after that first splash.  Spike barked a couple of times, but if Gary had said anything, if he'd been moving around down there, I would have heard him.  There was absolutely nothing."

One foot planted to the side, Nick crossed her arms over her chest, cocked her head.  "But your dog was barking."

"Only a couple of times, just for a few seconds, and I still could have heard Gary," Marissa insisted. 

"Okay, okay.  What were you talking about before he fell in?" 

There was a moment of hesitation, Crumb was sure he'd heard it, then:  "Surely that doesn't make any difference--"

"It could."  Nick had heard it too, that much was obvious.  She was all over that split second pause like a pig after truffles.  Taking a step closer to Marissa, she lowered her voice just a fraction, not quite dangerous yet, but definitely interested.  "Anything you can tell us to help your friend could make a difference, Ms. Clark."

Crumb had a sinking feeling that there wasn't much of anything going to help Hobson at this point, but he sure as hell wasn't going to be the one to say it.  Marissa struggled with her words--choosing some, discarding most--before she spoke, leading him to the conclusion he should have reached in the first place.  As usual, there was more going on here than anyone was going to tell him, let alone Piovani.  But what Marissa said next still managed to surprise Crumb, mostly because it sounded relatively...ordinary. 

"Earlier in the day," she told them in a quiet, hesitant voice, "I opened the office door, and I didn't know Gary was behind it.  It banged him on the head and--do you--"  She blinked into the wind.  "Do you think that he might have had some kind of concussion?  Could that have made him fall in?"

Nick raised an eyebrow.  "How much earlier?"

"An hour--maybe an hour and a half?"  If possible, Marissa looked even more tense as she waited for a response, drawn into herself like a turtle. 

Nick shrugged, and something like sympathy snuck into her eyes.  It could have been something like that, they both knew it, but--sucking cool air through his teeth, Crumb came to an instant decision.  It didn't matter if it was possible.  The last thing he wanted--the last thing Hobson would want, he was sure--was for Marissa to think it was somehow her fault.  "No, no way.  Not if he made it all the way out here with no problems."  He flicked a glance at Nick, who pulled one corner of her mouth into a knot and gave another mini-shrug, tacit permission for Crumb to go on.  "He came here from McGinty's on his own, right?"

Marissa nodded.

"Well, then, it musta been something else.  Besides, Hobson's got a head as tough as granite.  Woulda taken more than a door to knock him out."

The wan lifting of her features might have passed for a smile, but Marissa wasn't assured yet.  She turned to Nick.  "Sergeant?"

Nick scuffed one foot against the concrete.  "Crumb's right.  The chances of it being that bump to his head are slim and none, and right now I'm going with none."  Pressing her lips together, Marissa turned toward the lake, listening intently.  Crumb flashed Nick a look of gratitude, but her frown deepened.  "Of course, that still leaves us in the dark here.  Anything else you want to tell us?"

Marissa opened her mouth, but hesitated again, biting her lip.  This was the part Crumb knew best, the part where all the spooky stuff that she didn't want to keep from him, but wasn't hers to share, came to the fore.  As if it mattered now.  Crumb reached over and put one hand on her shoulder.  "It's all right," he told her, leaning in close and finishing in a whisper:  "Even if it's mumbo-jumbo." 

The little sound she made, half laugh, half choked sob, told him he'd hit the nail on the head.  Damn Hobson and his secrets and voodoo...

Nick narrowed her eyes.  "What do you mean, mumbo-jumbo?"

"It's just a joke--" Crumb began, but Marissa found her voice.

"We--Gary and I--were talking about something he had been given earlier in the day.  He had it with him; he called it a crystal ball.  I held it for a while.  It wasn't very big, a polished sphere or, or globe, with a metal base."  Her hands shaped air before them.  "Kind of like those snow globe music boxes they sell in souvenir shops, but smaller." 

"Who gave it to him?"

Marissa turned back to him.  "That girl, Crumb, the one who came in yesterday.  Kelyn Gillespie.  She brought it to Gary."

Crumb drew in a deep breath, and didn't let it out until he realized Nick was staring at him, hard.  She had both hands on her hips now, pushing back her navy blue CPD jacket, and she looked about as thrilled as a balloon at a porcupine party.  He held out his hands helplessly--for cryin' out loud, he  wasn't the flake here!  Nick raised an eyebrow and dipped her head toward Marissa.  Great.  She wanted him to be point man.  He rolled his eyes.  "Why'd she give it to Hobson?"

For a moment, Marissa didn't answer.  She fumbled with Crumb's jacket, pulling one side over the other and wrapping her arm around her stomach to keep the coat closed.  "I think--I think she just liked him, after she saw him stop that accident."

Crumb couldn't look at Nick.  He watched Marissa instead, remembering how alarmed they'd both been when the girl had walked in yesterday, and how this morning he'd felt kind of sheepish, like maybe he'd overreacted.  "What did she tell Hobson about it?  What did it do?"

"N-nothing."  She lifted her chin the merest fraction of an inch.  Here it was--the cosmic cha-cha, the mystic mamba.  That shuttered look, so carefully controlled, with just the merest glimpse of "please don't make me say any more or I might tell you everything"--the lady was too honest, that was her problem.  "It--it didn't have any switches or knobs, and Gary said it was clear inside."

Nick sighed.  "You came all the way out here to talk an empty snow globe?"

"Well, yes and no.  We were talking about that, we were talking about--about a lot of things, about how we've been friends for a few years now and--well, that's all."  Marissa went still.

Had her voice caught at the end there because of something that had been said, or something that she'd left out?  Or was it just that she was upset over Hobson? 

"That's all."  Nick repeated, a hint of dubiousness in her flat voice.  Crumb knew why she was doing it--in her place, he would have pushed the same way--but he also knew Marissa, knew how loyal she was to that flake Hobson, and he saw the cracks in her armor starting to show again.  It was in the way she chewed her lip, clenched and unclenched her hands around Spike's harness. 

"Nick," he broke in quietly,  "If she tells you that's all, that's all."

Pursing her lips, eyebrows raised, Piovani regarded Crumb thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded.  "Okay.  Did he have this snow globe with him when you heard him fall?"

"Yes."  Marissa flexed her fingers, and Crumb let his hand drop from her shoulder.  Nick's skepticism hadn't abated much, but she turned and motioned to one of the dive team leaders.  The man stepped closer, and she told them what to look for. 

"I know, it's a needle in a haystack," she said when he objected.  "But our victim had it with him.  Maybe if you find it, you find him." 

"Okay."  Shrugging through his yellow jacket, the man pulled a two-way radio out of his pocket and relayed the information to those who were in the boats.  "But we're not staying out here after dark on a recovery, you know that, right?  Whatever might be down there, it's too dangerous for the divers." 

He moved off to consult with someone else, and Piovani was waved further down the pier by one of the patrol officers to deal with reporters.  She pointed at Marissa and then the shore, mouthing, "Get her out of here," to Crumb before continuing down the dock. 

"Whoever."  It was barely a whisper, but Crumb heard it.  Marissa had turned so that she was facing the lake, the direction Hobson had ostensibly gone.  "Not whatever.  Whoever."

Aw, shit.  Nick was right.  This was not the place for Marissa--for either of them.  He didn't want her around when they started packing up; the finality of that would be too much to bear all at once.  If the divers did find anything in the light that was left--and it was fading fast--Crumb knew for sure that he didn't want to witness it. He'd been around scenes like this enough to know that he didn't want to see someone he knew...well, like this.  And while Marissa couldn't see it, her other senses worked just fine and...no, they had to get off the pier.

"Hey."  He touched her elbow, stiff through the windbreaker.  "Let's go inside somewhere.  At least come back to my car.  It's gettin' cold out here."

She shook her head; shrugged his hand away.  "I'm not leaving." 

Spike looked up at Crumb with a little whine.  Crumb worked his jaw.  He wasn't often the recipient of Marissa's legendary stubbornness, but he'd seen it enough to know how tough this was going to be.  "Sweetheart, it's not going to do him any good, you freezin' to death."

"I'm not cold and I'm.  Not.  Leaving."  Might as well have been January--every word was entrenched in ice.

"Marissa--"

"No."  The wind tousled her hair, and she reached up to push it out of her face.  Her hand hesitated briefly over her mouth.  Through her fingers, she whispered, "We can't just leave him here."

"But it's getting dark."

"That doesn't matter to me."

"It won't be safe here at night.  C'mon."  He tugged on her arm, but she wouldn't budge.

"No, Crumb.  No."

"Marissa."  He put both hands on her rigid shoulders, facing her now, hoping that he could find the right words.  "I know this is hard.  I--hell, I wish anything but this had happened, but it did, and there's nothing more you can do right now."

"There has to be something we can do for him.  It can't just...not Gary, he's..."  Marissa's breath caught.  She spun wildly toward the shore.  "Crumb?"

"What is it?"  Had she heard something?

"Are any of those reporters from the Sun-Times?"

That was the last question in the world he'd expected, but before he could recover enough to answer it, or ask what it meant, there was a cry from the water, not twenty-five feet from their position on the dock.

"We've got it!"

A flurry of activity ensued, and Crumb pulled Marissa out of the way, up the pier.  She hardly noticed, so intent was she on listening to what was happening.  Cursing himself for not getting her out of there, cursing her for being so damn stubborn, Crumb fervently hoped that "it" would not turn out to be Hobson.

It wasn't.  In the fading light, Nick approached the pair with something in her hands, still dripping wet, something that flashed metal and glass in the searchlights, something that would have been easily hidden in two nervous hands, or the pocket of a trenchcoat.

"I think we found your crystal ball," Nick said dryly.  "Can you confirm that this is the thing you told us about?"  Crumb watched closely, taking Spike's harness so Nick could hand the globe to Marissa.  It looked like something from a new age crystal shop, that was for sure.  As soon as she had it in her hands, Marissa's shoulders sagged, but whether it was in relief or sorrow, Crumb couldn't tell.

"This is Gary's."  Her voice was careful, steady.  "If this was there, then--then shouldn't Gary be--"

"Not necessarily."  One of the divers, still in a wet suit, shook his hair out as he removed his close-fitting cap.  "There are always currents, and the way he fell in..."

"But he was holding it, and it's so much lighter--wouldn't a current have taken this, too, if there was one?" 

Crumb wondered if she knew what she was asking.  Nick obviously did; she shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose between her forefinger and thumb.  "Well, wait a minute.  Are you sure he fell in?"

Marissa drew back, set her shoulders.  "There was the splash, and then he was gone, I've told you--"

"Gone."  Nick exchanged loaded glances with the leader of the dive team, who had been looking rather pointedly at Spike.  "What were you talking about just before this happened?  Were you arguing?"

"N-no.  I mean, we had been, a little, I guess, but we weren't--why are you asking me this?"

It was Crumb who responded.  Though he knew the question had to be asked, he was worried that the wrong turn of phrase would cause her to shut down completely.  "Marissa."  He put one hand on her arm and she turned toward him, her face a mask of confusion and worry.  "Is it possible that he was upset, and that--well, that maybe he threw this in the water, and that was what you heard?"

"You--you think--no!  The splash was too big to have been just this, and Spike was going crazy."

"Are you sure?  Marissa, I need you to remember.  To *really* remember.  Is it possible?"  Crumb used his gentlest tone, even though Piovani shifted from one foot to the other with a sharp sigh and the dive leader rolled his eyes.

"But if it was, if Gary didn't fall in, where is--"  Understanding dawned on her face, then denial--if anything, she looked even more stubborn than before.  "No, he wouldn't *do* that.  If he had, he would have come back."  Marissa's voice rose a notch.  "I know what I heard and what I didn't hear.  There was no other sound. He didn't walk away, we weren't in the middle of an argument, and there was no one else here."  After a deep breath, she finished,  "Crumb, you know Gary.  He couldn't do something like that."

"I also know that the kid tends to go off half-cocked without explanations."

"But, Crumb--no.  No."  She swallowed hard, swallowed the possibility.  "He wouldn't do this to me.  He needs our help, please...you have to believe me."  Her voice tight, she turned the globe over in her hands, tracing the strands of its metal base with trembling fingers.  "Maybe it has something to do with this."

And maybe it was just a dumb, stupid accident, the kind that happened every day to hundreds of people whose friends thought it could never happen to them.  Crumb wouldn't say that to Marissa, not now.  Not yet.  He'd dealt with this enough times to know how long it took for people to let go of false hope.  Sometimes it could be dangerous to smash that hope too soon.  Heck, he wasn't even ready to face it himself. 

Gary Hobson was a lot of things, but not careless and not inconsiderate.  Crumb didn't believe that Hobson would have left his friend like this, any more than she did.  If it turned out he had, Crumb would make sure, damn sure, that the kid paid for it. 

But he knew in his heart that wasn't going to be the case.





Chapter 11

History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
    ~James Joyce


"Nothing broken?" Chuck--no, Fergus, Gary reminded himself--called from his perch on the trestle table
 that took up nearly a third of the little cottage's length.  Behind him a ring of stones encircled the embers of a fire, where he'd laid Gary's clothes to dry. 

"No, not that I can...ow!  No, just more bruises."  Gary ducked back behind the makeshift curtain that divided the little cottage into two rooms.  There was barely space for the two small beds and wooden trunk, let alone Gary.  Here, as in the main room, bundles of dried plants were hung from the rafters, and he kept brushing his head against them.  Gritting his teeth, he lifted his arms only as far as his shoulders when he pulled on a dry shirt.  Made of cream colored, homespun cloth, it was loose fitting and fastened with a couple of ties just below the neckline instead  of buttons.  It looked a little like something out of Woodstock.  Not exactly Gary's style, but it felt a lot more comfortable against his skin than the waterlogged sweater.  The pants were a tighter fit, and had obviously been made for someone shorter than he, but they were heavy brown wool and, again, far more warm and dry than his own jeans.  

"Guess we're really not in Kansas anymore, huh, Toto?" he asked Cat, who was curled on one of the beds, its tail swinging lethargically over the edge as it regarded him with an implacable expression.  Gary sighed, grateful that there wasn't a mirror in the place, and that Chuck, the real Chuck, wasn't there to see him in this get-up.  He'd never hear the end of it.

Morgelyn had dug the clothes out of the bottom of one of several trunks that were tucked into the corners of the cottage.  She had told him the clothes had been her father's, with a faint, sad smile on her face that had given Gary a shiver, but this was an old grief, long since healed.  How he knew that, he wasn't sure.  Maybe it was the slightly musty smell of the fabric. 

He took another look around the sleeping space.  It wasn't really big enough to be called a room, but still, he kind of wished he could just hide back here with Cat, rather than deal with the two faces out there and the vertigo they induced.  He sat down on the empty bed and rested his aching head in his hands for a moment before taking another look around.  There wasn't much to see.  The other bed was piled with folded brown cloth and more bunches of dried plants, and Gary guessed that there was no one other than Morgelyn living here now. 

Wherever here was.

It seemed like an isolated place, the forest that they had come through so deep that sunlight barely made it to the ground, even though what Gary had been able to see of the sky above had been bright blue.  Around the house the trees had been cleared for a garden, and there was enough light to see by, for now anyway.  He had no idea what would happen when night fell.  There was no sign of electricity anywhere inside, and there hadn't been a wire or telephone pole in sight on their trek back from the river.  Between that and the clothing that his rescuers--and now Gary himself--wore, he was deeply worried about when and where he was, to the point that he was almost afraid to ask.  This couldn't be anywhere near Chicago, not from what he knew of history and geography anyway.  Things had definitely taken a strange turn since he'd fallen in the lake.

The lake...Marissa...shoot, what was going on there?  Gary ran his hands over his face and up into his hair, wondering if everything around him was as real as his aches and bruises felt.  If he was really just knocked out, like he had been last spring when he thought he'd--no, he had --been pushed back to 1871 and the Chicago Fire, then everyone back home wouldn't even know that he'd been gone, right?  They'd just think he was unconscious. 

And floating in the lake.  At least, he hoped he was floating...

...better yet, he hoped he was dreaming, still curled up under his comforter in the loft above McGinty's--and that he'd wake up soon.

The curtain whipped back.  Cat jumped off the bed and went to explore the rest of the cottage, while Fergus blinked down at Gary's bare feet, his blue eyes round.

"Are you...dancing?"

Gary, too, stared down.  He hadn't even been aware of what he was doing.  "No, I was just, uh, clicking my heels.  It's a long story," he finished when Fergus's eyebrows shot up his forehead.  "Doesn't work anyway."

"Be sure he puts the ointment on those bruises!"  Morgelyn's voice, even bossier than Marissa's, brought Gary to his feet.  Morgelyn wasn't out there, but in the garden; she'd called her commands through the window, which was really only an ivy-draped opening between the timbers that framed the little cottage.  There was no glass, just a couple of heavy oak shutters swung back against the wall to let in light and air.  Out in the garden that fronted the cottage, he could see Morgelyn digging up plants with a stick, stepping carefully around bunches of flowers and leaves that waved in the light breeze.

"M'lady's orders." 

Gary turned back to the room, and Fergus held out an earthenware jar about the size of a sugar bowl.  The jar contained a brownish-green goo, which gave off an odor that was pungent, if not unpleasant.  Gary made a face.

"'Tis a poultice for your bruises.  'Tis naught but herbs and lard," Morgelyn called, as if she could read his mind.

"Vegetarian Ben-Gay?" Gary muttered.  He shook his head, but Fergus pushed the jar toward him again. 

"She will know if you do not put it on," he whispered.  "The smell alone..."

The door flew open.  "For pity's sake, Fergus, can you do nothing properly?"

"'Tis not my fault!  He will not take it."

Morgelyn strode over to the table, dumping an armload of root vegetables onto a wooden platter.  She brushed dirt off her hands and took the jar from Fergus, advancing on Gary with wide, innocent eyes.  "You can trust me, Gary.  I did not bring you all the way here to hurt you." 

There was that word again.  Bring.

"Lift up your shirt." 

He took a step back.  "Look, lady, I don't know what the heck that is, but I don't want it."

Fergus snickered and jumped back up to sit on the sturdy plank table.  Her free hand on her hip, Morgelyn blew out an exasperated sigh.  "Do you wish to be able to move tomorrow?"

Gary blinked.  Marissa's face, superimposed over Morgelyn's in his mind, gave him a lurching feeling, like that first long drop on a roller coaster.  If only to get rid of it, he muttered, "All right, fine."  He took the little pot and moved away, over near the window where the slanting light made it easier to see what he was doing.

Morgelyn stared after him, her mouth falling slightly open before it twisted into a wry smile.  "It would be much easier if you let me do it."

"I'm...fine." Gary tried not to wince as he reached under his shirt and touched the gooey mess to a throbbing spot on his left shoulder.  Not only did that hurt, but the movement reminded him that he'd banged up his right side as well.  Shaking her head, Morgelyn gave up, turning her attention to the vegetables.  Gary had to admit that, whatever the stuff was, it didn't feel altogether unpleasant, and the warmth it radiated took the worst of the pain away.  Having finished applying it to what bruises he could reach, he set the jar on the window sill and leaned back against the wall, trying to decide which question to ask first.

The cottage, although small, was neither dirty nor crowded.  This larger room was dominated by the table, with its long benches, and a pair of low stools near the fire ring.  A black kettle sat directly on hot coals, and something that smelled awfully good bubbled inside.  There was a flap in the roof propped open above the fire area to let out the smoke.  The large window next to the door overlooked the garden, and there were two smaller ones opposite, all with the same thick shutters flung back against the walls.  Four timber posts, spaced at equal intervals throughout the cabin, spread into y-beams overhead, where they supported the rafters.  The roof was thatched, the walls seemed to be a kind of clay or earthen mixture, covered with something white--plaster, maybe--and the floor was simply hard-packed earth covered with some kind of dried plant--straw or hay or something.  Shelves lined the walls, covered with little pots and bottles, oil lamps and candles, and dishes and utensils, most of which were made out of wood or pottery.  Strangest of all, there was a set of carvings--marble?  No, maybe even ivory, with that yellowing tinge--of elephants, giraffes, lions--about seven different animals that didn't match the place, the accents, or any of the hints and clues Gary had figured out so far.  And everywhere, plants hung upside down, some fresh and colorful, some dried to sage green and brown, tied with rough twine to the rafters and beams. 

Morgelyn rinsed off the vegetables with water from a pitcher while she and Fergus debated the price of a small woolen pouch he'd pulled from his pack.  Gary tried to pick out what it was about their language that was so strange to him.  It sounded like English, until he really concentrated.  Then it sounded beyond strange--not like some other languages he'd heard before, not like German or Spanish or French.  Blinking in surprise, he tried again.  Same result.  If he just let the words wash over him, he understood what they were saying as easily as if he were watching Monty Python.  If he tried to focus in, it got more difficult.  It was like looking at an Impressionist painting--made more sense from a distance than it did upon close examination.  He wondered if the effect went both ways. 

He didn't even want to think about what could be causing it, so he forced himself to relax--a little bit, anyway.

"It isn't worth half that price," Morgelyn  said mildly, sniffing at Fergus's pouch and shaking her head.

"But it came all the way from darkest India, I sw--"

"Do not swear, Fergus, or you will go to hell for telling lies.  Wherever you bought it, it probably came from France.  Lemon balm does not grow in India."  Morgelyn picked up a knife and began slicing something thick and white that might have been a turnip--Gary wasn't sure. 

Even though this place was so strange, even though he had no idea where or when he was, the sense of deja-vu was downright eerie.  It was the pair in front of him who created it; the cadence of their lighthearted argument, the undercurrent of respect that flowed through it, the faces Fergus made when Morgelyn shot down his elaborate stories--it was vintage Chuck and Marissa.  Gary gulped, realizing for the first time in all the months that Chuck had been gone that he'd missed this.  Even the way Morgelyn chopped the vegetables while she talked, looking at Fergus instead of the cutting board, using her fingers to find the spots to cut, her slices firm and sure...he'd seen Marissa do that, too, though of course she didn't have any option.

He was so lost in thought that it took him a few moments to realize that the conversation had died and the pair at the table were staring at him.  Cat wound itself around and between his legs while Morgelyn, eyebrows raised, asked, "Is something amiss?"

"Huh?"

"Is something wrong with the turnips?  Why are you staring so?"

"Well, I--no, it's just--you just look like a friend of mine, is all, I mean, you look just like her.  You both do--"

Fergus goggled at the stream of near-nonsense, but Gary, waving his hand to indicate the pair of them, couldn't stop.

"I mean, you look like two different friends of mine, not the same one--uh, and I, I was wondering--you know, how that could be, and whether this is all some big joke you two are pulling on me and--no, I guess not."  He sighed, approaching the table with Cat at his heels.  Morgelyn frowned at the animal and seemed about to say something, but, glancing back up at Gary, apparently thought the better of it.  She tossed the turnips into the kettle while Gary finally asked, "So...so what am I doing here?"

"Other than asking questions and smelling a wee bit...pungent?" Fergus asked with another smirk.

"I mean, how did I get here, wherever here is?"  Gary turned to Morgelyn, who straightened from the fire, wiping her hands on her long apron.  "And who are you, and why do you keep saying you brought me here, like I'm a sack of groceries or something?  When do I get to go home?"

Her hands still wrapped in the apron, Morgelyn considered him  with a tilt of her head.  "You truly do not know?"

"Of course I don't."  His voice tightened around the lump of panic that had settled in his throat since he'd realized that he was very far from home.  "I was just minding my own business, walking down the pier, talking to yo--to my friend, and the next thing I know I'm here, getting tossed around in a river like a banana in a blender and being told that I'm some kind of dragon slayer or something.  I don't even know for sure what a dragon looks like, let alone how to fight one."

"Banana?  Blender?"  Fergus screwed up his face as he repeated the words, as though they tasted funny.  "Those, I would assume, are the tools of a valiant dragon fighter."  He pulled a small knife from his belt and began cleaning his fingernails with the point, all the while whistling an aimless tune.  The sidelong glance he shot Morgelyn held a whole history that Gary couldn't read.

Morgelyn bit her lip and said, "I do not understand--"

Gary's hand shot out, palm up.  "Well, neither do I!"

It seemed as though a dozen different emotions were vying to take hold of her expression at once.  In the end, a carefully-controlled mask took the place of all of them.  Gary knew it was a mask because he'd seen Marissa do it before, pull calm over herself as if she was pulling down a shade.  The answer she gave him was deliberate and brisk; all that betrayed her were the fingers of her left hand, nervously twisting the edge of her apron. 

"Very well.  I shall tell you all I know, but let me prepare our meal first.  It is a long story, and I do not believe it should be told on an empty stomach." 

Gary finally nodded.  Not that it would have made a difference.  He was pretty sure that Morgelyn would follow her own course whether he liked it or not.  She brushed past him and around the table, where Fergus still sat whistling.  He broke off long enough to tell her in a stage whisper, "Whatever your plan may be, 'tis good to know you have the whole matter well in hand."

"Desist, Fergus.  Get off my table."  Snapping a few leaves off of one of the green bundles over her head, she added them to the pot.  She turned sharply to face Gary again.  Her voice was tight, controlled, as if she were simmering just like the concoction in her kettle.  "Tell us about these friends of yours."

Fergus slid off the table, eyes twinkling.  "I find it hard to believe that there is another man of my ilk in the world.  Surely the ladies must swarm around him like flies on honey."

"Ha!"  Morgelyn's scoff was so exactly like Marissa's that Gary jumped, his eyes widening as they met hers for an instant.  She frowned.

"In all seriousness, what is it about us that you find so...familiar?"

"Well, it's--it's almost everything."  Gary wasn't sure that he was adequate to the explanation.  The last time, with Eleanor, he'd given up when she'd given him an unbearable look, one that said she thought he was completely nuts.  He glanced in Cat's direction, but it was no help at all--too busy pawing at something in the sweet-smelling straw on the floor.  "You look just like them, except for the clothes of course, and you argue just like they do, and you--"  Warming to the topic, he pointed two fingers at Fergus.  "You're a smart aleck, just like Chuck, and, and, look at you, you're even bouncing like he does."

Fergus, who was rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, looked down at them in surprise.  "I am?  Who is Smart Alec?"

"And you, well, your hair's longer."  The sweep of Gary's hand took in the dark cascade of Morgelyn's tresses, and she self-consciously tucked a few loose strands over her ear.  "But other than that--geez, it's everything.  You say the same kinds of things she does, you get under his skin the way Marissa gets under Chuck's--it's so similar I figure I must be dreaming or something.  I know it's not a practical joke because you can see."

Morgelyn froze, the wooden bowls in her hands halfway to the shelf above the fireplace.  "What do you mean?"

"It's just--Marissa, she can't, since she was a baby, she was sick and her eyes, they don't..."  He trailed off, taking in the looks on their faces.  Fergus was all astonishment, while Morgelyn, though clearly surprised, also looked...he wasn't sure how to describe it.  Solemn, and yet...as though she was hiding a smile, and a satisfied smile at that.

"Your friend is blind?" she asked gently.

"You are friends with a beggar?"  Fergus's question was more incredulous.

"There is nothing wrong with that."  Morgelyn turned on Fergus in what was sure to be the beginning of another spat.  "It only means that he is a kind person, that he helps--"

"Whoa, wait, wait--"  Gary held up a hand.  "What makes you think that she's a--a beggar?"  He could hardly say the word.  The very thought of Marissa on the street like that was enough to make him cringe.  It was somehow too close to what he'd felt this morning, imagining those kids yelling slurs at her...

...this morning, which now seemed light years away.

He blinked back to the present...or whatever version of it he was currently trapped in, and to a pair of furrowed brows.  It was Fergus who answered.  "What other station could she possibly have than to beg for alms?  That is what the infirm do, is it not?"

"In--infirm?"  The word squeaked out of Gary's mouth.  Oh, he could just see the thundercloud that would pass over Marissa's face at this discussion.  "Look, I don't know about this place, but where I come from, that's not how things work.  Marissa is--well, she's more than capable of taking care of herself and she has a job and she would never beg from anybody and she--she would be offended if anyone told her she didn't have any choice but to be--but to--"  His hand waved helplessly in the air.  He couldn't say it.

Morgelyn's smile was no longer teasing or wry, it was genuine.  "An enlightened place, indeed.  Or maybe just an enlightened friend."  She patted his upper arm as she moved to a chest under the large window and pulled out a cream-colored cloth.  "Fergus, if you will not help me, the least you can do is get out of the way," she chided as she elbowed him aside.  She snapped the cloth out and let it settle onto the table in one smooth motion.

"Never let it be said that I did not do the least I could do for you."  Fergus gave Gary a broad wink.  "Come, my strange new friend.  We shall seek out adventure and justification for our existence as we wield the ringing ax in a frenzy of--"

"Fergus!"  Morgelyn shook her head ruefully, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from the table cloth.  "Why can you not say that you are going to chop firewood, as anyone possessed of their senses would?"

"Ah, but you forget, I am a teller of tales, a wielder of words, a player of the harp, a--"

Snorting, Morgelyn interrupted the elaborate list to ask, "You can certainly tell a story when it comes to peddling, but to entertain a crowd?  When was the last time anyone actually paid you for those services?"

"How am I to become adept enough at barding to be paid if I never practice?" 

"Oh, is that what it is?" Morgelyn laughed.  "Go, see if you can keep our guest entertained while the soup cooks.   I will call you when the meal is ready." 

Gary was surprised at the shiver that ran through him when he moved away from the fire.  Morgelyn clucked her tongue.  "Wait."  She disappeared behind the curtain that divided the cottage, and emerged with a brown leather bundle, which she held out to Gary.  "This should keep you warm.  You are even taller than my father was, but it should fit."

It was a vest, sort of--a sleeveless tunic that was open in the front and hung down below Gary's waist. 
He put it on numbly, sure now that there was no way that was really Chuck behind him.  Chuck would have collapsed on the floor laughing at the ridiculous picture Gary must have made in the decidedly old-fashioned ensemble.  For the moment, he didn't want to think about just how old-fashioned it must be.

"And these," Morgelyn added, handing him a pair of soft leather--boots?  Moccasins?  Gary wasn't sure; they didn't have the thick soles he was used to.  This, as it turned out, was a good thing, because although they were a bit smaller than his feet, they stretched easily.  He could put up with it, if it meant he didn't have to go out into the forest barefoot.

"Be sure you chop the driest wood, the pine, not the oak," she fussed after them as Gary followed Fergus out the door.  "And do not leave my ax lying in the dirt when you finish!"

"I am at thy command!" Fergus retorted, but his eyes twinkled as he turned back and made an overly dramatic bow in her direction.  Morgelyn shook her head, but flashed Gary an encouraging smile before she disappeared back into the cottage.

Cat trailed after them as they rounded the side of the house.  When they were safely out of earshot, Gary asked, "Is she always this bossy?"

"Oh, no," Fergus assured him with a wry, lopsided grin as he picked up the ax that leaned against the side of the house. "Usually she is much worse.  I daresay she would have told Queen Maeve herself how to care for her cattle.  She must like you, whether or not you are this dragon slayer of hers." 

Whistling again, he led Gary past a stone well and around the back of the clearing in which the cottage stood, down a trail that wound several hundred feet into the woods. There, in another, much smaller clearing, was a haphazard pile of timber and a large, flat tree stump.  Gary looked back in the direction they'd come, but the trees were so dense he couldn't even see the cottage roof, nor the smoke rising from it.  He thought about asking Fergus what all this was about, but decided that Morgelyn was right--it would be better to wait until he could get the whole story, straight and uninterrupted--with dinner.  His stomach rumbled at the thought.  Fergus was dragging a pine branch toward the tree stump, but he dropped it when Gary lifted the ax from the stump.

"No, no, no."  He lifted the ax out of Gary's hands.  "You, my friend, are in no shape to be swinging a blade.  She," he added, nodding in the general direction of the cottage, "would gladly add my head to that stew of hers if I let you hurt yourself any more than you already have."

"I can help--"

"You may watch."  Fergus hauled the thick branch onto the stump and began chopping it into smaller pieces with broad, firm strokes.  This guy might look like Chuck, but Gary suspected there was more power in that wiry build than Chuck would ever get working out at the gym.  The ringing sound of his efforts sent a flock of birds out of the surrounding trees, calling angrily as they flew off.  Cat sat watching them go, craning his neck and lifting one paw as if to call them back. 

"So," Gary asked hesitantly, leaning against the nearest oak, "you--you said you were a bard?"  This, after all, wasn't Chuck, so maybe the idea wasn't totally ridiculous.

What is ridiculous, he reminded himself, is you thinking you're in a time and place where bards actually exist.  Not to mention dragon slayers.

"I have not been properly trained, though the monks taught me when I was young--before I ran away, " Fergus explained as he went on chopping logs.  Gary moved to a different tree, one in front of the stump, out of the way of the wood chips Fergus sent out in haphazard flight with each swing of the ax.  "I have not had the funds, you see.  To be honest, I have, from time to time, but I have never quite managed to be near a true bard in need of an apprentice when I had the money in my purse to make the proper arrangements.  Every time I have the money, another opportunity arises."  He tossed another pine log onto the growing pile to his left. 

"Opportunity?"

"A shipment of goods gone astray, in need of a merchant to peddle them; perhaps a wager on the outcome of a tournament....opportunities."  He leaned on the ax handle, his eyes looking at some point past Gary's shoulder as he reminisced.  "Once, I believe it was in London, I wagered the entire contents of my purse against a squire's claim that he could knock an apple off the top shelf of a stall at fifty paces.  I lost the bet, but it was worth it to see the look on his face when he realized that my purse contained a single silver piece and some tin scraps."  Fergus chuckled to himself as he resumed chopping wood.

For his part, Gary tried to repress a shudder at the hints that were adding up.  The clothes, the house, the accents, talk of knights and London...this was all far, far beyond anything he could have imagined.  Or dreamed, for that matter.  He tried to take his mind off that disturbing track by concentrating on the forest around him, bird calls and the scampering of small feet much more prominent than he remembered from Boy Scout camping trips along the Wabash.  The air was cool, but bracing, and fresh, incredibly fresh, almost like it had been that time he and his dad had spent a week fishing at the Lake of the Woods--but there was a different tang to this air, something he couldn't quite identify.  When he listened carefully, he could hear a low murmuring off in the direction of the river, and to the--south, he guessed from the position of the rapidly-setting sun.  Not quite the rush of cars on the interstate, but at the same frequency.  Water, he decided, either the river, or something...something bigger. 

"Nope, not Kansas at all," he murmured in Cat's general direction.  Fergus either didn't hear the comment, or chose to ignore it. 

"How do you earn your keep, stranger?  When you are not slaying dragons, that is?"  There was an impish twinkle in Fergus's blue eyes.

"I uh, I run a bar--um, a tavern," he amended at the blank look on the other man's face. 

"And how many dragons frequent your establishment?"

'Well...none," Gary admitted sheepishly.

"I fear I find myself as much in need of an explanation as you.  I certainly hope Morgelyn has one.  There."  Fergus split one more log, then nodded, apparently satisfied with his output.  "This should be more than enough to replenish her wood pile.  Shall we?" 

They both took armloads of wood and headed back through the trees to the cottage.  Fergus protested that Gary shouldn't carry any at all, but he was too weighed down himself to do anything about it.  With a last glance up at a scolding squirrel, Cat trotted along at Gary's heels.  Gary frowned at the feline's behavior, shifting his burden in a vain attempt to save strain on his injured shoulder.  He couldn't remember Cat ever sticking this close for this long, and didn't know if it meant he should be worried about what was to come.

The fact that he found its presence strangely comforting was perhaps the most disturbing thing of all.





Chapter 12

Oh the leaves they fall they go so far sometimes
Do I blame the wind or the tree that let it go
Or do I
Wave good-bye
Settling
    ~Tara MacLean


Discouraged, resigned, the players in the little scene began to pack up equipment, moving to the cars and trucks that were parked near the shore.  The last few rays of sunlight streamed between the buildings downtown, across the park, into Crumb's eyes for a brief moment--then they, too, faded away. 

Piovani approached them again, more subdued than before.  "Uh, Zeke..."  She let out a sigh.  "I'm sorry.  That's all we can do for today.  Tomorrow we'll get a team out to drag the area, bring in the dogs, they can--"  She looked from Crumb to Marissa and bit her lip. 

Crumb nodded.  The second day was always the best for the dogs.  The scent was stronger by then.  It was a simple fact.  Not the kind of thing that should twist his stomach up in knots.  Not the kind of thing that should have left a rock in his throat. 

"As long as you're sure he's not--somewhere else?"  Nick left the question open, her earlier irritation with the possibility that all of this had been a wild goose chase muted by the defeated mood around them.

"Nah."  The possibility was still there, but Crumb just couldn't bring himself to believe it.  He snuck a glance in Marissa's direction.  She stood a few feet away from them, facing the lake and clutching that thing, that crystal ball or whatever the hell it was, protectively to her chest with one hand.  Spike lay next to her, head on his paws.  "Hobson's not--he just wouldn't do this to her."

Nick's gaze followed Crumb's.  "Okay, Zeke.  If you say so."  She blinked back at him and nodded.  "I know you well enough to believe it."

Clearing his throat, unsure of how to acknowledge her trust, Crumb twisted his mouth into a weak attempt at a smile.  He knew that half the reason she'd wanted to believe it was because she'd wanted the happy ending, just as he had.  "You did good work here today, Sergeant."  He also knew what it was to go home after a day like this, and was glad Nick had a couple of kids she could hug and play with.  Helluva lot better than a bottle, or any of the other so-called solutions he'd seen cops fall into over the years.  From the set of her mouth and the exhaustion around her eyes, Crumb knew Nick was going to need a solution tonight, and need it badly. 

He had no idea what his own was going to be.  Or Marissa's. 

"Good work," he repeated, awkwardly patting Nick's shoulder.

"I just wish it could have been good enough."

"Nick--"

"It was."  Marissa's voice, barely audible over the engines starting up, surprised them both.  She turned in Nick's direction, her hand outstretched.  "You did everything that you could, all of you.  Thank you.  Thank you for trying."

The police sergeant stared at the proffered hand for a brief moment, then took it, squeezing tight and covering it with her left as well.  "I'm very sorry for your loss," she murmured, nodding once at Crumb before she left them alone on the pier.  He didn't want to rush Marissa if she wasn't ready, but it was getting cold fast; his skin was turning to goosebumps under his oxford shirt, and there wasn't any point that he could see in staying. 

"You know," Marissa said, her voice steady through God alone knew what effort as she rubbed the glass ball with one thumb, "I've always hated that word, sorry."

Crumb cleared his throat, scuffed one foot along the cement.  "So I've heard.  But Nick, she meant it."

Marissa nodded.  "I know.  It isn't her fault, though." 

"It's no one's fault."  Crumb waited for a response, but there wasn't one.  She pivoted toward the lake again and stood so still that she could have been a statue, abandoned there on the chipped cement walkway.  "So, are you--are you ready to go?"

Marissa took a deep breath, and didn't let it out until several seconds had ticked by.  She was turning something over in her mind, some decision, or prayer, maybe, Crumb couldn't tell.  Maybe she was saying good-bye.

He glanced back to the shore.  They were all gone now, his the only car still on the lakefront.  Beyond the park, up on Lake Shore Drive, the evening rush was dying down; soon most of the streets would be deserted. 

"We have to go, don't we?" Marissa whispered.

"Yeah, we do.  There are things to take care of, people we should call."

It was like he'd stuck a knife in her gut, the effect was that instantaneous, the expression on her face that pained.  One hand flew up to cover her mouth, muffling her distress.  "Oh, no, Crumb--Bernie and Lois..."

"Have a right to know.  Look, don't worry."  Crumb put an arm around her shoulder, gently guiding her in the direction of the shoreline.  "I'll call them, okay?  I've done stuff like this before, it was part of my job."  He didn't mention that it had been the worst part of his job, nor that it had never become any easier, no matter how many times he'd had to do it.  Sometimes he really hated being a cop.  Having been a cop.  Same difference. 

"And the bar, the people who work there, Patr--oh, God, Chuck--"  The words came out of her mouth in a desperate rush, and he knew that they were cracking the dam of her resolve as she realized that the hardest part might be what lay ahead.

"Hey.  Stop."  They were at the end of the pier, where he'd found her earlier in the day.  Crumb's cop brain registered all the footprints and wheel tracks that marked the sand, the last sign, other than the three of them, of the tragedy that had unfolded here today.  He released her shoulder and cupped her elbow, afraid he'd have to hold her up once this really hit her.  "Take one thing at a time.  Where do you want to go?  Back to the bar?  Do you want something to eat?"  She shook her head.  "Okay, then.  Here's what I think.  I'll make some phone calls, and I can go make sure things get taken care of at the bar, button it down so that you don't have to worry about it for a few days.  The rest can all wait until tomorrow.  You wanna go home?  Is there a friend you can stay with?"

She flinched again, pulling free of his touch, and Crumb could have kicked himself.  Yeah, she'd had a friend like that, and now he was gone.  Brilliant move, reminding her like that.  He'd driven her right back into her shell.  Usually Marissa at least turned her head in the direction of the person she was talking to.  Whether it was out of politeness, or because it helped her figure things out better, he didn't know.  But now she pointed her nose at Lake Michigan--still waiting, he knew.  Still hoping.

Damn.

The breeze had shifted directions as the sun went down, and it rustled the drying leaves in the trees along the shore, grating on what was left of Crumb's nerves.

"I'd rather just be alone," she finally said.

Crumb didn't like that thought, but he knew what the set of her jaw meant.  This time, he wasn't about to push.  "You sure?"

"Yes.  Please."

It wouldn't be ideal, but maybe the only way she would let down her defenses was if she was by herself.  It didn't mean that he couldn't check on her, announced or not.  He knew surveillance techniques.

The wind picked up, and they both shivered.  "C'mon, let's go.  My car's right over here."

"Crumb?"  Marissa steeled her shoulders and faced him.  He thought maybe her lower lip trembled just a bit, but it was too dark to be sure.  "Thank you.  I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come."

Thanks for nothing, Crumb thought to himself.  For all his so-called expertise, Hobson was still gone. 

As if she'd read his mind, Marissa continued, "I just--I wish I could have done something, helped him, or..."

He didn't plan it; didn't think about it.  Just reached over the dog and put his arms around her.  The glass ball she still clutched pushed into his chest, but it didn't matter now.  "No one could have done anything.  It was an accident.  You hear me?  I'm glad you called me, it was the right thing..."  He kept talking, not saying much of anything, for what felt like forever, but was really only about a minute, until she nodded and pulled back a little.  Surprisingly, her eyes were dry.  Maybe the dam wasn't as ready to burst as he'd thought.

"I'll be okay, Crumb.  Thank you.  I mean it.  I just--I'd like to go home now."

"Sure thing."  Crumb took one last look at the lake, and reined in his thoughts before they could stray from the tasks at hand to the reason behind them.  People die every day, he reminded himself.  No one has a right to a charmed life, and luck always runs out, sooner or later.

Still, he couldn't help but think, as he let Spike in the backseat, then helped Marissa into the front, that in this case, as in so many others, 'later' would have been easier on all concerned.  He had no idea how he'd break this to Fishman, let alone Lois Hobson. 

When had he become responsible for this motley crew, anyway?






Chapter 13

In moments of great stress, every life form that exists gives out
a tiny subliminal signal.  This signal simply communicates an
exact and almost pathetic sense of how far that being is from
the place of his birth.
          ~ Douglas Adams


"As beautiful as she was rich, she would have followed me to the ends of the earth.   Our passion knew no bounds."  Fergus winked broadly across the table at Gary.  "But, alas, her husband was a jealous man."

"Husband?"  Morgelyn shot him a sharp, disgusted glance and dished yet another bowlful of stew from the kettle that hung over the fire. 

"I did not know!"

"More likely you did not care."  Handing the bowl to Fergus, she slipped back onto the bench next to him. 

"What's more, he was twice her age, and a gluttonous, fat, old lout." 

"The husband you did not know about?"

"Well," Fergus said through a mouthful of stew, his shrug unabashed, "not until he caught us."

"Oh, Fergus, not again.  Which village are you banned from this time?"

"Town," Fergus declared with a hint of pride and another wink at Gary.  "Bayeux, in Normandy." 

"You do not even speak French!"  Morgelyn rolled her eyes.

"We needed no words, I assure you..."

Their conversation washed over Gary, who still couldn't figure out how he could understand them; every now and then a word popped up that he didn't understand at all.  He watched the scene with a numb, bemused detachment as it played out in the light from the fire and a few thick, white candles clustered at the end of the table.  As he and Fergus had returned with the wood, the sun had dropped below the horizon in a fiery blaze of orange and pink. The sunset had helped Gary orient himself, though how much meaning 'west' could hold when he didn't even know what country he was in, he wasn't sure.  Cat, on the other hand, seemed right at home, curled up next to the fire and drowsing as if it didn't have a care in the world.  Must be rough.

"He caught us."  Fergus leaned forward over the wooden soup bowl, lowering his voice conspiratorially.  "We were in the midst of--"

Morgelyn cleared her throat.

"--the hay meadow," Fergus finished with a twinkle.  "One final kiss, one last look at my love, and I was off like fox."  His arm shot forward, demonstrating, and the contents of his spoon sloshed all over the table.  "For two days he followed me, hounded me like a--like a--"  Waving his arm in the air, he tried to find the right word.

"A hound?"  Gary asked over the rim of the tin tankard he'd been given, and Morgelyn, laughing, choked on her own drink.  She'd called it ale, but it didn't taste like any beer Gary had ever had.  It was flat and thin, and he had to fight to keep his nose from wrinkling whenever he took a drink to wash down the thick stew and coarse bread. 

"I was in true danger, and you mock me!"  Fergus threw his hands in the air.  "Every time I meet the right woman, fate intervenes!"

Where had Gary heard that one before?  Except for the accent, this Fergus sounded just like Chuck...

Suddenly, everything around Gary seemed to click over into slow motion. This wasn't Chuck he was talking to.  Gary realized that the pair across the table were staring at him, again; he, in turn, was fixated on his spoon, poised midway to his mouth.  He'd barely noticed, so hungry had he been at first, that this wasn't metal.  It was made of some other material--smooth, off-white--not ivory, certainly not plastic. 

"What is wrong?" Morgelyn asked gently.

"Wh--what is this spoon made of?"

She exchanged a glance with Fergus, and the look that passed between them was not unlike the one Gary usually got from Crumb.  "It is horn," she explained, as though that should have been patently obvious.  "Probably from an ox or cow.  Gary, what is it?" 

Slowly, deliberately, Gary set the spoon back into the bowl--not because of what it was, but because a cold hand was squeezing his stomach, and he couldn't be held responsible for what might happen if he tried to force anything more into it.  He was far, so far from everything he knew, and he finally let that realization slam all the way home.

Glancing over at the fire, Gary saw that Cat was now watching him through half-closed lids, its head barely lifted above its paws.  Great, just great.  He had one ally in this strange place, and it had to be the one being in his life that he would never understand.

Head tilted to one side, Fergus peered across the table at Gary.  His tone was only half-teasing.  "Why does the spoon disturb you, dragon slayer?"

"The spoon?"  Gary looked right into his eyes, no longer attempting to hide his uneasiness.  "The spoon isn't the problem."

"Then what is it?"

"Wha-what is it?  Lemme ask you something, here, does anything about, about this--"  Gary waved his hand, encompassing the table and its occupants.  The candle flames wavered, sending their shadows flickering over the cottage walls.  "--is there anything here that bugs you at all?"

"Bugs?" Morgelyn yelped, casting a wild-eyed stare around the room.  "My house is clean, I've no--"

"Bother--do you know that word?  Bother."  Gary drew in a breath.  "Does it bother you that you're sitting here eating dinner with a complete stranger?  One who doesn't--doesn't talk like you or dress like you?  Or that we seem to be able to understand each other even though I'm pretty sure we're not speaking the same language?  Does it bother you, either of you, that I just fell down a waterfall and into your fishing lines, out of nowhere, and now here we are, acting like it's old home week or something while we eat soup out of spoons made of cow horns, for Pete's sake, in the middle of nowhere on the set of some sword and sorcery movie?"

He paused for air, and Fergus stood, reaching across the table to feel Gary's forehead.  "He has no fever."  When Gary pushed his hand away, Fergus gave a little shrug and sat down again, shaking his head.  Morgelyn set down her own spoon deliberately, moving her bowl of soup off to the side so that she could fold her hands in front of her on the table. 

"You are," she said slowly, as if she were choosing her words with great care, "something of a surprise to me.  And you are right, it is time we answered each other's questions."  She waited, her expression calm as she regarded Gary in the flickering firelight. 

He curled his hands into fists to control the urge to reach across the table and shake her by the shoulders.  Just having her look at him was unnerving enough, and Gary didn't need to be more unnerved than he already was.  "Ladies first," he countered peevishly.

"Very well," she said with a nod, infuriatingly calm.  "Your name is Gary--"

"Are you sure about that?" Fergus cut in.  "It is not Gareth, or Gawain, or--or something we might have heard before?"

"It's Gary.  Gary Hobson."

Morgelyn tried a placating smile, but it was tight around the edges.  "Gary Hobson.  And you have come to us from--?"

"Chicago.  Illinois.  The United States of America," he said, enunciating each syllable.  Not a spark of recognition lit either of their faces. 

"It sounds vaguely Mediterranean," Fergus told Morgelyn, out of the corner of his mouth, "but I have never heard of it, and Iam sure I would have remembered such a name.  Besides, he does not look nearly swarthy enough to be a Greek or a Roman."

Gary shifted, then got up from the wooden bench, which was quickly becoming uncomfortable.  His turn.  He paced over to the window and back. Folding his arms over his chest, he pinned Morgelyn with what he hoped was a steady, no-nonsense look.  "You wanna tell me where I am?  And when?  And how the hell I got here?"

"You do not know?" Morgelyn asked, just as she had earlier in the afternoon.  Maybe she thought the answer would change, but Gary again shook his head.

"Not a clue, lady."

Sighing, Morgelyn slipped off the bench, taking a few short steps closer to the fire, hands clasped in front of her.  She turned to face Gary.  "This is Cornwall.  You are on the southern edge of the peninsula, near the village of Gwenyllan."

Gary's mind raced.  Cornwall, that was...somewhere in England, wasn't it?  What geographic prowess he possessed had been focused on Chicago's neighborhoods for so long now, he couldn't be sure of anything beyond the basics.

"And this is the year of our Lord, 1351."

No.  No, he must have heard it wrong.  His arms dropped to his sides.  "W-when?"

"1351.  Are you sure you are not deaf?" Fergus asked, as though speaking to a small child. 

Running his right hand from his forehead to the nape of his neck, and holding it there, Gary sank slowly back down onto the bench.  "Thirteen--but that's, that's--"  He could do the math.  It was believing it enough to say it that was the problem.  "That's more than six hundred years ago.  Six hundred years and--"  How many thousand miles? he wondered.  At least three, maybe four.  "Oh, my God.  This is a joke, right?"

"I assure you, it is not a joke at all."  Morgelyn's voice was solemn and laced with worry, like Marissa's when he talked to her about the most catastrophic stories in the paper.

But if this was...well, no wonder they had never heard of Chicago, or the United States.  Did these people even know that North America existed?  That the world was round?  No wonder they couldn't understand him, no wonder they looked at him so strangely, no--no. 

No, the wonder was that he was here at all.

"Wait, wait a moment."  Fergus pushed his bench back from the table, bouncing to his feet.  "Did you say, 'Six hundred years ago '?"  He turned to Morgelyn.  "I thought you said he was a dragon slayer, as in the old legends--like St. George."

"I--I thought he would be."  Her voice faltered, the first in the smooth facade of calm she'd worn since Gary had met her.  "That is what grandmother said when she--."  Frowning, she added, almost to herself, "Perhaps I misheard..."

"Excuse me?"  Incredulous, Gary jumped up and strode toward Morgelyn, both hands on his hips as he stared down at her.  "Are you telling me that I'm here because you made a mistake?  What, are you--you're some kind of witch?  You sucked me out of my own life, into--into this--"  His voice rising, he finished, "Into this nightmare ?  You did this to me, and you didn't even know what the hell you were doing ?" 

Morgelyn opened her mouth, but nothing came out, and she backed away from him, steadying herself by clutching at the shelf behind her.  Her eyes were round with a fear that unnerved him even more.  It was Fergus who spoke, interjecting himself between the two as he frowned up at Gary.  "Sire, I do not know what formalities you hold where you come from, but that is no way to speak to a lady, especially one who has offered you her hospitality."

"I didn't ask for any hospitality," Gary pointed out, his voice an ominous growl.  "She--I still don't know how, but she did this to me, and now she's telling me it's a mistake, and I'm supposed to be nice about it?"  He jabbed a finger over Fergus's shoulder at the target of his irritation.

Fergus's hand went to his side, where the hilt of a hunting knife hung from his belt.  "You are supposed to be a gentleman," he told Gary, "or you may go back to where you came from."

"That would be just fine with me, but I don't know how!"

"Sir--" Fergus began, an edge in his voice, but Morgelyn intervened, stepping from behind him and holding out a hand.

"Fergus, enough."

"But--"

"It is all right."

"But Morgelyn, he called you a witch."

"It is all right, Fergus," she repeated, but it was Gary's eyes that she caught and held with a steady gaze.  "He is a long way from home.  I daresay either of us would feel the same in his place."

Fergus looked from Morgelyn to Gary and back, and then his hand dropped slowly away from the knife.  His expression still wary, he nodded briefly as he and Gary both relaxed just a fraction, standing down.

"How?" Gary asked Morgelyn, still petulant, barely in control.  "How did I get here?"

She pulled her shoulders up, swallowing and holding Gary's gaze steadily.  "My grandmother gave me a scrying glass shortly before she died.  It was old, very old, and it came with a prophecy, a promise, that it would bring help in time of need.  When need intersected--"  She laced her fingers together, stiff and straight, and held them before her.  "--with faith.  She told me that I had to have faith, that the village--this village, Gwenyllan, would need me.  That we would all need you.  Or at least, that was what she tried to tell me." 

What village? Gary wanted to ask.  All he'd seen so far was a cottage and these two people.

Morgelyn sighed, looking down at her hands.  "Fergus has tried to help."  She flashed a weak smile at her friend, who was still watching Gary through narrowed eyes.  "He brought me books that speak of such objects, things that were made by the old ones, the Celts who lived here before the Christians.  I learned a little, enough to know that there are objects like this that are conduits across time, but I could find nothing that explained the exact meaning of the object Grandmother left me.  She said it would bring us a dragon slayer, and so I tried holding it and praying, and I--I tried to have faith that he would be sent in our hour of need.  I have tried it so many times before, and nothing ever happened, but today was the first time I had it down by the river, and--and you came."  Shaking her head, dropping her hands, she looked up at Gary without any subtrefuge in her eyes.  "I thought it was because you wanted to.  There has to be an intersection, that's what she said.  Need and belief.  I needed help, we needed help, and you--you must have believed you could help."

"Help you?" Gary asked weakly.  "I didn't even know about you."  Well, he'd known what Kelyn had told him, and what was in her grandmother's letter to Snow--but that letter hadn't said anything about...about this. 

"But--do you not--"  Morgelyn's eyes pleaded with him, but he didn't know for what.  "You must have one with you.  That is how such things work; I am sure I translated that part correctly."

"One what?" asked Gary, confused.

"The scrying glass.  It works across time.  'Tis a conduit, it pulls the dragon slayer to those who need him..."  She trailed off as she saw realization start to dawn on Gary's face.

"This, uh...crying?"

"Scrying."

"Yeah.  This glass thing.  It wouldn't be about so big?"  Gary framed an imaginary tennis ball with his hands.  "'Bout like this, with a bunch of twisted metal at the bottom, would it?"

"Yes, that's it!"  Her face lit up.  "You have it?"

Gary closed his eyes for a brief second.  "I did.  I did when I--when I fell in the lake, back in 1998."

Fergus mouthed, "1998?"  Gary acknowledged his astonishment with a brief nod.

"Well, if you had it, then you must be the right one!  It was not a mistake after all."  One hand flat against her chest in a gesture of relief, Morgelyn smiled at him encouragingly.  But Gary was far from assured by this.

"I keep telling you, I'm not who you're looking for.  I'm not a dragon slayer.  Where I come from, we don't have dragons.  We don't even believe in them."

A dragon slayer with a newspaper for a sword, some annoying part of his brain quoted at him, but he pushed that thought away.  He had *no* qualifications for...for whatever it was she wanted him to do.

"He told me he is nothing more than a tavern-keeper," Fergus told Morgelyn, a note of derision in his voice.

"Is that true?  Then how did you get the glass?"

Gary flashed a glare at Cat, who was now awake, watching the proceedings with its usual mysteriously blank expression.  "I got it because someone gave it to me.  I didn't understand what she was trying to tell me about it.  I honestly don't think she knew the truth."

"Why you?  How did it come to her?" Morgelyn pressed.

"Her--her--her grandmother," Gary said, and despite his proximity to the fire, his lower arms broke out in goosebumps at the hope that flashed across Morgelyn's features.

She dared a half-step closer.  "Why did she choose you?"

"Because, because of--"  Gary broke off, turned to where his clothes lay drying on the floor behind him.  He reached for his coat while the other two watched in silence, and there, tucked into the inner pocket where he'd stuffed it before stalking out of McGinty's, was the paper.  Still damp, it came out reluctantly, one corner tearing off the back page.  Remembering what had happened the last time he'd been transported like this, he was grateful that he at least had it, this one tenuous tether to his real life.

His hostess watched, her eyes wide, as he set it down on the table, surprised and relieved to find that the front page was still the same; a shot of the downtown skyline with the header:  "Expressway Expansion Approved". 

"Because of this."

The paper seemed so innocuous, now that he was too far away to do anything about any of the stories in it; it was benign, its power exhausted, as it usually was by the time Gary called it a day.  And yet, the effect it had on Morgelyn and Fergus was anything but innocuous.

They approached it cautiously, almost...almost reverently, Morgelyn grabbing Fergus's wrist before his outstretched fingers could even brush the pages.  Her mouth was open, slightly, as she turned to Gary with wonder on her face.  "How--how in the world...this is magic, indeed.  What do you call this?"

"It's a newspaper."

Fergus contorted his face, appearing to roll the word around in his mouth before repeating it.  "Newspaper?" 

"Yeah.  It comes out every day and tells what happened the day before, " Gary explained.  He lifted one of the candles from the other end of the table and set it close to the paper, so that they could read it better.  "You know, the news.  And it's on paper, so we call it a newspaper."

"Every day?" Morgelyn peered more closely at the Sun Times.  "But--but some of the print is so tiny!  It would take the monks at the abbey weeks to do this page alone.  The illuminations are so small, I cannot even see the lines where you inked them, and this is only one page.  I do not see how you could possibly--may we?" she finished in a breathless rush, her hand poised over the bottom corner of the cover.  When Gary nodded, she turned to the second page, and then the third, so delicately that even the wet edges of the paper didn't tear. 

Fergus peeked over her shoulder, his eyes practically bugging out of his head.  "What manner of drawings are these?" he asked.  "You have a very odd imagination, my friend.  And what is this language?"

"It's English, like we're--sort of--speaking--look, I didn't make this."  It was almost laughable: here they were in awe of Gary's paper, and they had no idea that it was tomorrow's.  It wasn't its magical qualities that impressed them, it was the fact of what it was.  He caught himself looking over at Cat, the only one in the room who'd get the joke--then shook his head. 

"But then where--how--"  Morgelyn seemed nearly as overwhelmed by the newspaper as Gary had been by his dislocation in time and space.

"This is where I come from," Gary explained, reaching over to close the paper so that the front page showed again.  He pointed to the photograph that took up half the page.  "Here, this is the city of Chicago.  These are buildings where people live and work.  Lots of people--"  He spread his arm wide.  "--thousands, millions of people.  And a lot of them, the adults anyway, they get newspapers like this everyday.  No one sits and writes them out, not by hand.  Well, I mean, real people do decide what words to use to tell the stories, but there are computers and printing presses--uh, machines, special machines, that put the words on the paper, over and over again." 

They both blinked at him.  "Really fast,"  he added.

When they still didn't seem to understand, Gary asked, "Well, well, what about you?  I mean, in your village, how do you know what's happened to other people?  How do you know what's happening in the world around you?"

"Oh."  Morgelyn thought for a moment.  "In Gwenyllan, the news usually travels when people tell each other.  Or if it is important, the town crier will call it out in the village streets.  Travelers bring us news from far away."  She nodded at Fergus.  "Sometimes, if it is very important, the chronicler at the abbey will record it for posterity.  But ink and parchment are so dear, we could never have anything like this.  Do you really mean that all the people receive their news this way?"

"Well..." Gary began, but then decided that radio and television were beyond his power to explain.  "Well, yeah, pretty much."

"They can all read?"

"Yeah, most of them."

Fergus shook his head, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.  "I am convinced now that you really are not from the past.  If such wonders existed then, we would surely know of them now."

"That's what I've been trying to tell you--"

"Unless you're from the lost city of Atlantis!" the peddler interrupted.  His eyes sparkled, and he waved his hands in the air, weaving a ridiculous story.  "Yes, and you came up from the sea, from the lost springs under the world, and you--"

"I'm not from Atlantis!  I'm from Chicago!" Gary stabbed a finger at the paper.  "It's not the city that's lost, it's me."

Trailing a finger down the front page pensively, Morgelyn turned to look at him.  "You said, though, that everyone gets this--this newspaper?"  Gary nodded.  "Then I do not understand.  You also said that you were given the scrying glass because you had this, but if everyone else in this Chicago has one as well..."  She left the question hanging in the air.

Rubbing his right thumb over the palm of his left hand, Gary fumbled for the best way to explain.  "Yeah, well, that's--that's where the story gets--I guess you could say that's where the real magic comes in."  When Fergus raised an eyebrow, Gary told him, "All the rest of this, it's no big deal.  It's, it's science.  You'll figure it out."  He waved his hand toward the paper.  "Or someone will.  Guy named Guttenberg.  In...oh, a couple hundred years or so."  He'd never been very good at remembering dates. 

"The thing is," Gary rushed ahead, when Fergus opened his mouth, presumably to interrupt with more questions, "the thing is, I don't get the same paper as everyone else.  It takes a day to record what's happened, and to put it through the machines and stuff, and deliver the copies to people.  But the paper I get tells about things before they happen.  I don't know why I get it, or where it comes from, except that it comes with this cat every morning."  Cat meowed and padded across the floor, rubbing its back against Gary's leg.

"So, you know the future?" Morgelyn asked.

"Well, some of it anyway.  I mean, okay, look at this--"  Gary started to explain the freeway expansion story, then realized that it would involve all kinds of issues he really didn't want to get into at the moment, starting with cars, running through toll booths and beyond.  That would never do, nor would most of the stories on the front page.  There were stories about the boom in technology stocks,  an airline pilots' strike, the possibility of impeachment hearings in Washington--good God, no.  Gary turned to the second page and found something safer. 

"Here.  See that?  It says that a new library is opening."  He was met by two still-blank faces.  "A library is--it's a big building where people keep books."  Morgelyn had mentioned books, so they would understand that much, at least.  "And, and all the people who live in the city can borrow them.  Except that here it says that the library opened yesterday, but really, it opened today.  I read about it a day before, because my paper comes early."

Uncomfortable with the silence that followed his pronouncement, Gary took a step back from the cluster at the table.  Maybe he shouldn't have shot his mouth off so quickly, but what choice did he have?  If they didn't believe him though...

What did these people do to those they considered insane? 

Fergus cleared his throat.  "Morgelyn, what did you slip into the ale, and did you put it in his glass, or mine?"

But Morgelyn, having caught on far more quickly to what Gary was trying to explain than anyone since--well, since Marissa first found out about the paper--ignored the question in favor of her own.  "What is the purpose, then, of you receiving this newspaper a day early?"

Good question, Gary thought; he'd been wondering the same thing for the past two years.  "Well, I--I'm not sure why it's me, but you see, bad things happen, too, and I try to stop them."

"So, you are a hero?"

"Nah.  I'm just a guy with a--with a--"  Gary's stomach did a flip at the memory of Crumb's voice, accusing him of having a crystal ball, but he broke off in mid-sentence, his eye caught by a story at the bottom of the next page.  He moved closer, pointing at it.  "Look, here's a perfect example of why I need to be back there, now I can't stop--"

For a moment he forgot to breathe.

"Cannot stop what?" Fergus asked, but Gary couldn't answer.

Morgelyn stared first at Gary, then at the spot on the paper where his hand had frozen.  "L--L--o--"  She covered Gary's fingers with her own, gently pulling them out of the way so she could read.  "I know the letters, but the words mean nothing to me."

"It says--"  Gary gulped.  "Local--Local Man Missing, Presumed Drowned."

"What--" Fergus began, but Morgelyn silenced him with a shake of her head.

"Gary?" she asked. 

"It's me."  His knees gave out.  He sat down heavily on the bench.

"I do not understand."  Frowning down at the paper, Morgelyn said quietly, "I wish I could read this."

Gary slid the paper out from under her hand, trying to form words of his own around his shock as he read the rest of the story to himself.  "It's me, the guy they think drowned."  And he had, he'd drowned in gulls crying, colors swirling, icy-dark water, Marissa shouting at him to take her hand...

This was nuts.  He was going crazy...

"That's okay.  I've taken courses in nuts."

Swallowing hard, he mumbled, "I was talking to Marissa and we were walking on the pier and then that damn globe started changing and I fell in and she--she must have--she couldn't see me and according to this they can't find--they all think--oh, my God." 

He closed his eyes, too late; snippets of print had lodged themselves behind his eyelids. 

"...search and rescue teams worked for over three hours but were unable to retrieve..."

"...Chicago police at the scene said they do not suspect foul play..."

"...only witness, a blind woman and friend of Mr. Hobson..."

"You have to get me home."  His head came up, and Gary turned pleading eyes to Morgelyn.

"But I do not--"

Gary's hand shot out, knocking the paper to the ground and clamping around Morgelyn's arm just above the wrist.  "I mean it.  This has gone far enough.  A joke's a joke, but this isn't funny anymore."  He knew, of course, that it was no joke--if it had been, that story wouldn't have been in the paper-- but it didn't matter, what mattered was that Marissa thought, that everyone by now would believe--"My friends think I'm dead ."  He jumped to his feet without releasing Morgelyn's arm.  "I can't do this, I can't let them think I'm--they'll--"

She didn't try to struggle out of his grip, but Morgelyn began to shake, ever so slightly.  "I want to help you.  I--I do, truly, but the only way I know to get you home is the same way you got here."

"Then do it!" he demanded, his face so close to hers they were nearly touching. 

She winced, then whispered, "I cannot." 

The reflection of the flickering flames danced in her huge, troubled eyes, and Gary gritted his teeth, torn between anger and a weird kind of sympathy.  She looked so much like--he drew in a breath.  "Look, I know you need a dragon killed or something like that, but we've already established that I'm not the guy, so--"

"No, I mean--"  Closing her eyes, Morgelyn drew a deep breath.  "I no longer have the scrying glass."

Gary dropped her arm, took a step back.  "What?"

"I--I lost it in the river," she admitted in a tremulous voice.  "It fell out of my hands when I called you here."

Behind her, Fergus clapped a hand to his forehead.

"How--how could you--" Gary stammered.  It was bad enough he had to believe this fairy tale was real, now he had to be trapped in it?

"You just popped up in the water!"  Morgelyn retorted, her voice was gaining in strength.  She spread her hands wide.  "You were drowning right in front of my eyes!  I could not let that happen.  I reached out for you without thinking and it fell in, but the river carried you away, and I did not see the glass.  I wanted to make sure you were all right, I did not-I could not think about it--"

"She was trying to save your life," Fergus cut in, but Gary whirled on him, jabbing a finger at his chest.

"You--you stay out of this--this is all her fault.  You--"  Gary glared at Morgelyn.  Anger was winning now.  "You used this thing, you said you weren't even sure how it worked--"

"Like you and your paper?" she asked pointedly.

"I do not try to mess up people's lives, I try to save them!"

"As am I!  There are two hundred souls in this village who need help."  Her eyes flashing defiance, she placed both hands on her hips.

"And what about my soul, huh?  What about me?  And my friends, and the people who count on me, even though they don't know it?  I've got a life, lady.  I've got plenty of responsibilities of my own, and if you needed help, you should have thought to ask before you went and yanked me into the wrong time, the wrong place--you had no right to--to--"  He took a step toward Morgelyn again, but she didn't back down.

"I did not yank you," she told him, and her voice was solid steel.

"Well, of course you did, you said..."

"You had as much to do with this as I did."

Gary heard a ringing in his ears, and it wasn't church bells this time.  "What the hell are you talking about?  I didn't want this, I didn't ask for this."

"I told you, " she insisted, locking her fingers together again, "there has to be an intersection.  We must have been holding the glass at the same time...Or I had to wait until you had it, or..."  She shook her head and looked totally perplexed.  "I thought it was a paradox, but it is time, time in a circle, time in a knot--"  She twisted the fingers of one hand around those of the other, then separated them.  "--and the glass somehow came down to your time, and when we both held it, and our need and our faith were greatest, our times intersected, and we met."

Cat was weaving its way around Gary's legs, and he tried to shake it off as he glowered at Morgelyn.  "I have no idea what you're talking about, but you damn well better un-intersect it, before--before--"

"That is what I am trying to tell you, Gary.  I cannot undo this until we have the glass again, and even then--"  She gulped and didn't look away, but the bravado fled as she admitted, "Even then, I believe someone from your own time will have to call you back."

"But--but in my time, they think--"  Oh, God, Marissa, on that dock, and when he wasn't found, she would...

"There's only one person who would even begin to believe this, and if she thinks I'm dead, she won't think she can do anything."  The ringing in Gary's ears grew louder, and he staggered back against a bench and sat with a jarring thump.  "The only thing they're gonna believe is that I'm at the bottom of that lake!  I can't stay here.  I have to go home."

"We will find a way, I promise, I will try everything, but right now I--I do not--"  Morgelyn's voice caught, and in the firelight her eyes were suspiciously bright as she held out a hand in apology.  "I am so sorry, Gary."

Something inside of him split in two at those words, the words Marissa hated, coming from what might as well have been her own mouth, and Gary leapt to his feet again.  He had to get away from it, had to get out of the confining cottage, away from her.  Grabbing his coat, his own bomber, from the floor, Gary strode toward the door.

"Where are you going?"  The question was quiet, not an accusation.  She wasn't trying to stop him, though Fergus took a step forward, as though he might.  Morgelyn placed a restraining hand on her friend's arm.

"I gotta think," Gary muttered, and he pulled the door open.  Cat darted outside ahead of him as he stalked off into the night.






Chapter 14

And the white breast of the dim sea
And all dishevelled wandering stars
    ~ W. B. Yeats


Gary's anger dissipated as he walked, but he couldn't say the same for the anxiety that every step sent churning through his bloodstream.  His bruises, especially those on his shoulder, were starting to throb again, but they were a mild annoyance compared to his concern over what everyone back home would be thinking right about now.  That he might never be able to go back and assure them that he was still alive was the worst part of the entire twisted scenario.

What a mess, a horrible, tangled mess--and how much of it was of his own making?

He made his way through the forest, guided as much by the sound of rushing water as by the trail, a dull track in the starlight and the close-to-full moon.  Here, there were no cars, no rattling El trains, no jet engines roaring overhead, but that didn't mean that it was quiet.  Insects chirruped, the underbrush rustled, and once an owl hooted so close to the path that Gary jumped, his heart racing even faster than before.

Maybe it was stupid to wander around completely unfamiliar territory in the dark, but he needed to think, and there was no way he could do it in that cabin, not with those two watching him, expecting him to do...what?  That was the problem; he wasn't even sure he wanted to know.

Before long, he was at the river, watching the charcoal water cascade over the falls and send up spray as it hit the rocks below.  He was lucky, Gary thought as he rubbed his sore shoulder, that he hadn't been completely smashed in the twenty-foot tumble he'd taken. 

Lucky.  Now there was a relative term if he'd ever heard one.

If--and this was still a big if--if he accepted that what was happening to him was real, then how in the world would he ever get back home?  Where was home from here, anyway?  He wasn't sure where this Cornwall was; heck, he wasn't even sure if those people had been telling him the truth.

But what possible reason could they have for lying?  Especially Morgelyn;  Gary just couldn't picture her being part of a plot against his sanity. 

Now, a plot to ruin his life, that was a possibility.

Scooping up a handful of stones from the river bank and tossing them one by one, halfheartedly at first and then with increasing force, he recanted.  Nah.  Whoever she was, whatever it was she wanted or needed from him, he couldn't believe that she would deliberately hurt him--or anyone, for that matter.

But then, maybe he thought that because she looked, and acted, so much like Marissa.  The final stone clattered on the far bank of the river.

"Meow."

"What do you want?" Gary demanded.  Cat sat on its haunches, looking at Gary, then back into the woods, in the direction of the cabin.

"Not yet."  Gary told it.  He turned in the direction of the falls, but even along the riverbank the drop was steep, and he wasn't sure he could climb it in the dark.  He turned to follow the river downstream instead, just to see where it went.  Not too far, but far enough to distract himself for a little while, far enough to just calm the hell down.

Before too long, however, the path veered away from the river, and Gary, unsure of his footing the slippery bank, chose to stick with it.  He could still hear the river, but it seemed to be slowing down, and from what he could see through occasional breaks in the trees, widening.  Eventually the path led up a hill, one of those that was so gradually graded that Gary didn't realize, until he stopped and looked behind him, just how far he'd climbed.  Cat stayed with him every step of the way--unusual behavior, but, in a strange way, welcome.

The path was bordered with bracken, low bushes that brushed against Gary as  he hurried...where?  He didn't know, and at this point, he didn't really care.  He'd go back to the cottage when and if he damn well felt like it, and as long as Cat wasn't complaining too loudly, Gary was pretty sure there wouldn't be any harm done.

A few more feet up, and he gradually became aware of a constant, wild, thudding noise.  Water, but not the river, it was too...too dispersed for that. 

The southern coast of Cornwall, Morgelyn had said...Gary took the crest of the hill in two long strides, and there it was, at the bottom of what must have been a fifty-foot drop, spread out before him in indigo blues and blacks.

He could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen the ocean.  A couple of vacations in Florida when he was a kid, a road trip out to Southern California with Chuck and some other frat guys in college, and, of course, that time sailing with Marcia.  He'd seen the Atlantic and the Pacific, and the Gulf, but never anything like this.

White-crested and glowing in the light of the moon, towering waves hurled themselves at the monolithic boulders scattered along the coastline, crashing in constant explosions of sound and water and light.  The crystal spray refracted back the rays of what had to be thousands, absolutely thousands, of stars.  For the second time that night, several moments ticked by in which Gary forgot to breathe.

The sky was littered with constellations he remembered from childhood: the Big and Little Dippers, the North Star, Cassiopeia, and, dancing just above the horizon, the Pleiades.  Even more amazing, though, were all the stars that glowed in and around the familiar groupings and gave the sky depth, some faint, some so bright he felt like he could reach up and grab them--stars for which he had no names, in clusters and strings, separate and together, as if a child had taken handfuls of silver glitter and sequins and flung them, willy-nilly, across the sky. 

He stared at the spectacles above and below, all other thought suspended for what might have been hours or mere seconds.  Cat leaned companionably against his leg, delicately licking one paw, then another, unconcerned and bored, as if it stood before marvels like this every single day.
 
Heck, for all Gary knew, maybe it did.

Just off the path there was a flat-topped rock, bigger than Morgelyn's table and slightly shorter than Gary.  Finding stair-step juttings and handholds, he clambered up it and sat, staring down at the panorama of incalculable gallons of water.  How long had it been since he'd been this far from the city?  Years, sometime way before the paper had started to arrive--well, except for that one failed attempt to outrun it.  Not since early in his marriage.  Marcia had never been big on the great outdoors.  But Marcia didn't fit here, and the thought winked out like a falling star.

Tempted by the thought of placing himself in the midst of the wild display, he would have gone down to the shore, but the drop off was as steep as it was high, and trying to find a way down in the dark didn't seem like such a hot idea.  Maybe tomorrow, he thought, and then chastised himself for planning on staying here, when he should be trying to figure out a way to get home. 

But this seemed almost too big to run away from.  Big, it was all so big, the ocean and the stars, and as the waves threw themselves relentlessly against the rocks below, cracking open and apart with dull, echoing thunder, something in Gary, something that was maybe, just maybe, nearly as big as this, opened up as well.  His earlier rage seemed completely ineffectual compared to this display, and while he was still sick at the thought of what must be happening in Chicago tonight...no, not tonight, or was it?...well, anyway, it was, somehow, a lot easier to deal with out here.

He should have listened to Marissa's, and Crumb's, initial concerns about what Kelyn Gillespie had wanted with him.  Had she known what would happen?  Probably not, or surely she would have told him more...but then Gary wouldn't have taken the thing at all, would he?  Brilliant move, Gar, really.  He could hear Chuck now; Chuck, who'd always told him he trusted people far too easily. 

And speaking of trusting people...he came back again to Morgelyn and Fergus, and the incredible fact that he had just had dinner with two people who, by rights, would have died half a millennium before he existed.  Who were these people, and how could they just take something like the sudden appearance of someone from the future in their stride?  Gary still wasn't sure how any of this had happened, despite Morgelyn's attempts to explain.

The answer wasn't out here, but...Gary sighed.  Some measure of peace was.  One wave after another rolled in.  Those that didn't crash on the rocks would push in, closer and closer, and then break somewhere beyond the boulders, their white crests spiraling outward from the centers.  Lying back with a sigh, his hands behind his head, Gary turned his attention to the thick canopy of stars above him.  A meteor streaked across the sky. 

They could see this every single night, and they thought his newspaper was magic?

Newspaper or no, magic or not, he finally admitted to himself, they probably thought he was a first-class heel.  He hadn't meant to hurt Morgelyn's feelings, any more than he'd meant to hurt Marissa's earlier that day.  That day that was now...he swallowed hard...six hundred years in the future.  And so far away that even if he could find a boat to sail this ocean, no one, no one at all, would believe in, or even understand, where he wanted to go.  The only one who could get him home was Morgelyn--well, and Marissa, if what he'd been told was true.  The rock's cold had seeped through his jacket, carrying its damp chill into his bones, and Gary sat up stiffly.

What was this called?  A Catch-22, wasn't it?  He couldn't get home unless someone--and it had to be Marissa, who else could it be?--would not only believe that he could come home, but also do something, he still wasn't sure what, with that crystal ball.  Which was probably at the bottom of Lake Michigan.  But there was no way for her to know that, to even know he was alive, unless someone told her, and Gary couldn't tell her unless he could get home. 

Cat, who had been prowling around the rock while Gary thought, leapt up into his lap in one smooth motion, purring like a Thunderbird's engine when Gary absently began to stoke its ears in time with the rhythm of the waves.  He had no idea how long they sat like that, while he turned the situation over and over in his head, and Cat dozed, probably dreaming of mice.  But then again...when he stopped stroking its fur, it looked up at him with eyes that gleamed in the moonlight, and Gary shivered at the depths he saw there.

"Why you gotta go and make my life so difficult, anyway?" he demanded.  Cat blinked.

"Well, yeah, I know it wasn't you this time, it was her, but she wouldn't have been able to if I didn't have that--that thing, and I wouldn't have had it if it hadn't been for you and the damn paper in the first place."

The tabby, of course, didn't answer; it put its front paws on Gary's chest and stared at him for another moment, then curled into a neat ball in his lap.  Gary watched the water for a few more heartbeats before he admitted to himself that, while he still didn't know where the paper came from, or why he had been chosen in the first place, he did, in fact, know why it kept coming.

Because he did what it needed to have done.  He helped people--maybe not forever, maybe not always in ways that changed their attitudes or their hearts, but for long enough to give them a chance to make those changes, sometime in a future they might not have had without his interference.  And while he didn't like having his life ruled by a dictatorial cat and a few measly sheets of newsprint, he most definitely wanted to help.

So what made this any different?  Instead of the paper telling him who to help, someone was asking him directly.  A tad bit imperiously, perhaps, but still...she was asking.  Asking him, even though he wasn't who she had hoped for.  How could he say no, when she--well, that was the catch, wasn't it?  She was so much like, both the people back in that cabin were so much like, the two people in the world for whom he would have done anything. 

Maybe that was why the paper had sent him.  Maybe he was here for a reason.  It had happened before. 

Going back in time to help Eleanor and Jesse Mayfield, that had been for a reason; his actions in the past had changed something in his own present.  Gary didn't really see how this particular situation tied into Chicago, 1998, and surely not even the paper, or whatever guided it, could run a direct line tying cause to effect across six and a half centuries.  Then again, he hadn't understood the purpose of being in 1871 while he was there, either. 

As far as what was happening back in his own time, well, that was clearly and completely out of his control, awful though it might be.  If that article had already happened, Marissa, and the others who knew by now, had to be going out of their minds with worry--or, more likely, he admitted as his stomach knotted, with grief.  But Marissa was the one who always said that things happened for a reason, wasn't she?  Things happened for reasons he couldn't even begin to explain.  And in the end, they worked out.  They had to.  If he never got home...well, then he was dead, as far as they were concerned.  It didn't hurt as much, out here, to admit that. 

But--no.  He would get home.  There was no alternative.  The cat had followed him here, and that meant that whoever or whatever sent the paper hadn't given up on him yet.  He was still expected to do what he could.  Especially for the people who were, somehow, connected to his friends, even if that connection existed only in Gary's mind.  He knew that there was no real chance at all that he would withhold whatever help he could give.  What right did he have to refuse to help someone who looked and acted just like Marissa?

What right did he have to refuse anyone at all?

He shook off the voice in his head, the one that sounded suspiciously like Chuck, telling him that he had a right to live in his own home, to not be dead to his parents and friends.  The responsibility of the paper was all about putting others' needs before his own, especially when, if Morgelyn was right, the fate of a whole village of people hung in the balance.  His friends would have understood, had he been able to explain it to them.  At least Marissa would have. 

At least, he was fairly sure she would have.  Heck, she was the one who had teased him about being a knight in shining armor.

But he was not going to wear a tin can. 

"All right," he finally said with a sigh.  "All right, look, Cat, you got me into this, you get me out.  I don't know how you got here, but if you did, then you can get back, right?"  The feline uncurled itself enough to lift its head and regard Gary with its implacable gaze.  Wrapping both hands under its front legs, Gary lifted Cat until they were eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose.  "I'll make you a deal.  I'll do this--for them, not for you.  But you have to make sure I can get home in the end.   I don't think I can live in a world where I have to dress like this for very long."

"Re-ow," said Cat, and Gary had to assume it was a bargain.  Cat settled back into his lap, and Gary watched the ocean and the sky for a little while longer before sliding down from the boulder and returning to the path.  The moon had risen higher during his reverie, so it was easier to pick his way back down the path than he would have expected.  Before long he was back alongside the river, and Cat was stepping daintily at the water's edge, a grounded, four-legged tightrope walker. 

The bushes behind him rattled. 

Heart pounding, Gary jumped and turned.  A pair of glittering green eyes peeked up at him from the underbrush, and he backed away on tiptoe, reminding himself that whatever it was, it was probably just as startled by him as he was by it. 

Fox, he thought to himself.  Raccoon, possum...did they have those in England?  Badgers, he was almost sure there had been a badger in some English kids' book his mom had read to him when he was little...yeah, that's what it must have been, he decided, when the eyes blinked away departed with another rustle.  Badger. 

"Nothing to worry about," he muttered to Cat, but he picked up the pace even as he said it. 

Except there was no Cat to hear him; it had disappeared.  "Hey, Cat!" Gary called--softly.  He was afraid of what else might respond.  An answering mew came from several yards ahead, and Gary hurried to catch up, tired now and aching from the bruises and the cold.  It was definitely time to return to the warmth of the cottage, if they'd take him back.

Moonlight streamed through tree branches, illuminating the pebbled riverbank.  Orange and yellow fur gleaming, Cat sat right in the center of a moonbeam, casting a lion-sized shadow on the river's surface. 

"Whatcha sittin' there for?"  Gary asked.  Cat pawed at the surface of the shallows, and, as he approached, Gary could see something else shining in the moonlight.  Glass, a round, spherical surface...Gary dropped to his knees, plunging his arm into the same river that had nearly done him in a few hours ago. 

"Hey!" he exclaimed as he extracted the now-familiar globe from the half-built, long abandoned beaver dam in which it had become trapped.  "Hey, you did it, you found it!  I can go home now, can't I?" 

Cat cocked its head to one side. 

"I know, Marissa has to--to do something, but she's smart, she'll figure it out, we just need to...to..."  Rocking back on his heels, Gary trailed off, reading accusation in Cat's stare.  "Hey, I know, I said I'd help them, and I will.  I will," he added firmly, when Cat refused to look away, or even blink.  "Okay, look."  He slipped the treasure into the inner pocket, the one where he usually kept the paper, and held up his empty hands.  "Here, see?  It's gone.  Nothing going on here, not until I find out what needs doing, all right?  All right?"

"Me-OW. "

"I promise.  Whaddya think I am, some kinda jerk?"  He ignored the voice inside his head that said, yeah, a completely insane jerk, you're talking to a cat and you think you're six hundred years and four thousand miles away from where you started your day. 

Apparently satisfied, Cat turned, head held high as it took a few more steps upstream.

"You just better keep your end of the bargain," Gary warned.  At that, Cat paused, tilted its head to one side as if listening for something, and then darted off like a streak through the underbrush, leaving no sound at all in its wake.

That had to be some kind of sign, but Gary wasn't sure whether it was good or bad.  Nonetheless, he found himself whistling as he patted the lump in his jacket and picked his way, thin shoes and all, along the path that led to Morgelyn's cottage.





Chapter 15

Half moon hiding in the clouds, my darling
And the sky is flecked with signs of hope
Raise your weary wings against the rain, my baby
Wash your tangled curls with gambler's soap
    ~ Paul Simon


Marissa was afraid Crumb would plant himself on her sofa and refuse to leave, but he seemed to understand that she needed to back away from the edge of this precipice on her own.  Either that, or he was as exhausted as she, too battered to put up a fight.  He saw her to her door, promised to call later, gave her a quick hug, and was gone. 

Locking the door with a sigh, Marissa leaned her head against its smooth surface and inhaled the scent of varnish for a moment.  The echoing silence around her was almost more than she could bear.  She came very close to opening the door, to calling Crumb back before he could get in his car.  The insistent clicking of Spike's nails on the hardwood floor, making a beeline to the kitchen, decided the matter for her.  She pushed away from the door and slipped out of her shoes before following the dog through the foyer and living room.

One thing at a time.

Set the...the crystal ball on the coffee table.  Do not hurl it against the wall.

She clenched her fists and made her way into the kitchen.

Food in the dog's bowl.  Water in the kettle.  Kettle on the stove.  Mug and tea bag...second cupboard from the wall.

Collapse in a chair, wait for the water to boil.  Deep breaths.

Think...

...but not too hard.

Thinking was entirely too hard.  It involved remembering, and that was all she had done for the past few hours: stand on the pier and remember thirty individual seconds--every word, every sound, every scent, every texture, over and over and over, until they were etched in her ears and nose, imprinted on her fingers in their own Braille code of confusion and fear. 

She remembered it all, every agonizing detail, and it didn't help one bit.  They would never know what had happened to Gary.  She would never--

"Oh, God, Gary..."

She wrapped one arm over her stomach, pressed her other fist against her mouth, and fought the urge to cry, to scream, to rail against fate.  A whimper, a pathetic echo of the storm of emotions raging inside her, escaped.  The relentless crunching over by the back door stopped; Spike's tags rattled, his nails clicked over the linoleum, and then his head was in her lap. 

"Good boy," she mumbled through her fist, scratching behind his ears, gulping down the overwhelming tide of emotion.  "It's okay, Spike."  He must have been satisfied with that--he padded back over to his dish and started eating again.

Forcing her palms flat against her knees, Marissa inhaled deep, slow breaths.  She couldn't do this.  She couldn't lose control.  She couldn't lose--

Trust.  Hope.

Don't lose hope.

Don't lose your mind is more like it, she scolded herself.  That little voice had been there, niggling at the back of her mind, all afternoon.  Why should she listen to it? 

She had to think, but it was so damn hard.

Propping one elbow on the kitchen table, she rested her forehead in her hand.  The effort of holding herself together while straining to hear, to feel, to find any clue about what had happened to Gary, had exhausted her.  Her throat was tired and tight from the tears clenched inside it.  A stabbing pain just over her left eye threatened to overwhelm all thought.  Some practical voice, suspiciously like her mother's, cautioned that she needed rest, but Marissa knew that sleep wasn't going to come easily tonight, if at all. 

She wasn't sure she wanted the dreams that would come with it.

Lifting her head, she flopped her hand down on the table, and her fingers brushed the handle of the heavy ceramic mug she'd chosen from the cupboard and carried over here, not even realizing that doing so made no sense at all.  Nothing about today made any sense.  The reassuring smoothness of the glaze, broken here and there by tiny, imperfect grains, was her only anchor to normality at the moment.

In high school, she'd taken a pottery class.  She'd never quite managed a set of mugs, but she remembered throwing clay on the wheel, and how a little pressure from her thumb or finger could change the shape of the whole pot.  The point had been to keep the wheel spinning at just the right speed.  Too fast, and the clay would fly apart.  Too slow, and it would remain shapeless, a helpless blob.

She couldn't slow down.  Not yet.  She had to keep moving, keep following her spinning thoughts until the right shape emerged--until a reason for what had happened took form.

There were pieces that didn't add up, didn't make sense, and she needed to understand them before she could accept that Gary--

Don't accept.  Don't resign yourself.  Hope.

The kettle whistled.

Rubbing her forehead, Marissa pushed herself to her feet.  Three steps to the range. 

Gary fell in the lake.

She had to go back to the table once for the mug, and again for the tea bag.

The splash--there was nowhere else he could have gone.

Shut off the gas burner.  Line up the cup and the kettle's spout.

But he wasn't there now. 

It took exactly three seconds to fill the mug.  One part of her brain counted them, registered the warmth of the steam and the sweet spicy scent of the tea, while the other continued the litany.

They would have found him if he was there. Everyone had tried so hard...

She set the kettle back down.

Hope.

No, she had to think.  What reason was there to hope?  It might be easier, it might be less painful than accepting this, but easier wasn't necessarily right. 

It isn't right to give up.  Not yet.  Don't give up on Gary.

If she wanted to hope, she had to have a reason.

Reporters had been there.  Even if they didn't name names until family had been notified, even then there would still have been articles in the papers.  Gary would have mentioned a story about some