I open my eyes to someone splashing water on my face.
“Where am I?” I ask as my vision clears, wiping away the water, remembering my journey through space and time. I’m lying in an open field, leather gauntlets on my arms.
“Kidding, aren’t you?” The stranger asks with a thick Irish accent, wearing strange clothes. “Surely it was a little fall.”
Light filters through an overcast sky, and a cold breeze carries the scent of damp moss and pine from a nearby forest.
Last I remember is being in the hospital. Not here.
“No, I am serious,” I say, picking myself up off the damp ground. I feel nauseous and fall to my knees, throwing up what little I had in my stomach, still remembering my trip through the stars and being told it wasn’t my time. I wipe my mouth, looking for something to rinse with. The stranger hands me a pouch. The liquid sloshes inside the leather as I pull the cork, swallowing a mouthful of what tastes like river water—immediately spitting it back out. I replace the cork and hand it back to him.
He looks at me strangely, furrowing his black brows, and tying the waterskin to his horse’s saddle. I have never seen this man before today.
I stand and look around, taking in the scenery. The only thing I recognize is the forest. The oak, ash and pine look like the ones back home, but that could be anywhere. I remember traveling through the cosmos and coming to a planet that looks like Earth. I thought I was dreaming. Maybe this is a dream. I should wake up any moment.
The stranger picks up a sword off the ground and hands it to me. He is wearing a leather vest over his yellow tunic and gauntlets covering his wrists. Saddled horses are waiting nearby.
I take the sword by the handle. It has a leather-wrapped hilt and guard—somewhat plain but featuring engravings that resemble Celtic symbols. There is no rust, but a few nicks along its three-foot blade.
“What’s this for?” I ask.
“Yours. Dropped it when you fell.”
My thoughts are spinning as I feel the weight of the sword—so many questions. I am wearing a leather vest over a white tunic, gauntlets over my sleeves, a leather belt with a scabbard, and black woolen trousers with leather boots. I attended Renaissance fairs before, and this reminded me of that period. But I never dressed the part.
I must be dreaming. I was just with my wife at the hospital. I need to wake up. Then I remember that trip through the galaxy and going through the black hole.
I wipe the mud off the blade, running my finger along its dull edge. My senses come alive—this is real. I am no longer in the hospital. I slide the sword into the scabbard, keeping hold of the hilt.
“Where am I?”
“Don’t recognize your own land?” the stranger asks, narrowing his eyes and tightening his square jaw.
“My land!” I exclaim. My eyes widen in disbelief, looking around the meadow that must be at least twenty acres. The only land I have is my little quarter-acre that served as my backyard. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”
“No,” he says, relaxing his eyes and scoping out the surroundings. “It’s been your family’s hundreds of years.”
I scratch my head, not quite understanding what he means. People don’t own land for centuries.
He sounds Irish, so I guess that this could be Ireland, but not in my time.
“Oh, I see,” I say, nodding my head, still confused. “And who are you?”
“Ah come on, sure it was only a small fall.” His lips curl up in a guilty grin.
“I think it was more,” I say, feeling the bump on the back of my head and looking down at the boulder I must have hit. I look at him, grinning like a boy. “Did you do this?”
He shrugs. “Sorry now, I went a bit hard on ya.” His black hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and he has a few days’ start of a beard.
I glare at him, remembering the bullies of my day. I tense my shoulders, ready to defend and hold my own. My heart pounds inside my chest. My blood pressure rises.
“Who are you?” I ask.
He stares at me for a long moment. “I’m Aodhán. What’s yourself called?” He chuckles.
So he’s a smartass and a bully. “My name?” I ask, looking at him and sifting through my memory. Should I reveal my name as Kristopher Knight or let him tell me? It may not be the same here. I am in a strange world as it is. I rub the back of my head and feel the bump beginning to swell.
“Kris,” I say casually and watch his reaction, hoping I am right.
Aodhán’s eyes flare wide. “Come on, John. Sure you’re only kidding.” He pats me on the shoulder and mounts his horse.
His Irish is unsettling. My name is John. Not only am I in a strange land, but I am not this person. How did this happen?
A horse stands next to me, nudging me with its muzzle, dark as midnight, with a neatly combed tail nearly reaching the ground. Its leather saddle sits atop a blue woven blanket. “Is this my horse?”
“We’ll take you home get the doctor to have a look. A strange accent you have on you.”
I take that as a yes, step into the stirrup, and pull myself up on the small horse. It has been fifty years since I last rode, but I remember to sit up in the saddle and hold on to the reins.
I follow Aodhán through a green meadow, trying to relax and waiting any moment to wake up. I pinch myself and I feel it. Then I look at the time on my watch, but there’s no watch. “Wake up… Wake up…,” I repeat to myself.
Aodhán’s up ahead, riding into the forest. Maybe he’s not that bad. Our path leads us by trees with moss-covered branches. I pat the horse’s neck and listen as it tromps along the muddy ground. The horse splashes my boots when it steps in a mud hole. Streaks of muddy water drip down its legs. The horse is about the size of the mustang pony I rode as a child.
I focus on staying upright on the horse as I look at my surroundings. The forest is full of ivy climbing up trees with their trunks covered in patches of moss. Ferns emerge through the haze in the thick undergrowth. Aodhán has a lead on me. A damp, moss-covered branch crossing the trail smacks me across the forehead, almost unseating me. I wipe off the wet moss, regaining my seat.
Up ahead, the sun bears through tree branches with its golden rays, revealing a rainbow amongst the mist. So brilliant are the sun’s rays that I think I see an angel standing in the light, but when I blink, she is gone. The forest comes alive with birds of all colors flying down and perching on branches around me as I pass through the forest. Some are blue, red, and yellow. Their bird song fills the air as if greeting me.
A white rabbit hops ahead, and a red fox comes out of nowhere. The rabbit goes around a tree and disappears while the fox keeps circling. To my right, on a log lit up by a single ray of sunlight, sits the rabbit looking directly at me before it disappears again. I scratch my head wondering if any of this is real.
I leave the forest, entering a meadow of tall grass where the bully waits.
“Feeling better now?” Aodhán asks, raising his brow. “Having a bit of trouble riding?”
I stare at him, still not sure if I can trust him. “A branch almost unhorsed me back there.”
“Ah, I know the one. We’ll bring the axe next time.”
Aodhán turns his horse and continues on the trail. All I can do is follow him since I don’t know where I am.
We avoid marshes with reeds as tall as our horses. A walled fortress appears in the distance. Church bells ring from a steeple, towering over the wall. The sight reminds me of a medieval European village. I love history, especially this time period.
We walk our horses down a dirt road and around a church courtyard where men in brown robes are tending to gardens. Two horsemen pass us with bows strung across their backs, heading into the forest. We come to a wide river and follow it into a village. The river flows around the walls. In the distance, sailing vessels are entering the fortress.
The road is busy with many people traveling on horses and wagons. Boys in dirty trousers and worn leather shoes run up to us asking for food. They look thin and hungry. Aodhán tosses them a few coins as we enter the main road leading across the river.
A thin blond girl in her early teens, wearing a long blue tunic, a leather belt, and worn boots, runs up to me and grabs my horse’s bridle, waking me from my thoughts.
“Please help, sir,” she pleads in a thick Irish accent, raising her hazel eyes in sheer hope. She reminds me of my granddaughter.
I pull back on my horse’s reins, with my pulse quickening. “What do you need?” I don’t remember the last time someone asked me for help. Her tunic is dirty, but she looks well kept, like I can trust her.
“They’re trying to hurt me,” she says, pointing to two rough-looking men walking up the road towards us. One is limping in pain, pulling up his pants, while the other is holding a cloth to his nose.
“Get on,” I say, reaching for her.
She grabs hold of my hand and pulls herself up on my horse.
Aodhán circles around, raising his brow. “What are you doing?”
“She needs to get away from those men,” I say, pointing at them. The men are coming up the road, heading directly towards us.
Aodhán trots down the road to the men, stopping in front of them and barring their way. “What business do you have with the girl?”
They are wearing black woolen caps, leather vests over dark tunics, and trousers. It is obvious they come from the same household. They could be mistaken for brothers, but only one has red hair; the other, black.
“She’s our property,” the first man says, holding a bloody cloth to his nose.
“She’ll get what’s coming to her,” the other says, adjusting his pants and tightening his belt.
“My father sold me,” the girl whispers.
“She is payment on her family’s debt,” the man with the bloody nose says, clearly in charge.
I ride up to the men, staying behind Aodhán’s horse, my heart pounding. “She is no one’s slave.”
“We must pay them,” Aodhán says, staring at me as if I am doing something wrong. “She be belonging to them.”
“Don’t be letting them take me,” she pleads, her voice trembling, holding onto my stomach tighter.
“They won’t,” I tell her, trying to calm her fear. “How much?”
“He had two silver shillings owed to us,” the man says, grimacing as he pulls back his cloth revealing his broken nose.
Aodhán looks into his coin bag and shrugs. “I haven’t enough.”
My heart stops beating until I look down and see a leather pouch hanging from my belt. I untie it and look inside and find silver coins with a few that are gold. With a sigh of relief, I pull out two silver ones and hand them to Aodhán. “Is this enough?”
“Yes,” he says, turning to the men. “Give us her papers.”
“The cost for her release will be double for the trouble she’s caused,” the man says with a gleam in his eyes seeing the silver. He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a piece of parchment.
Without negotiating, I grab two more silver coins from the pouch and hand them to Aodhán, cinching up the pouch and tying it back to my belt.
Aodhán grabs the parchment and hands the coins over to the man. “She has her freedom now.”
The man inspects the coins and nods his head. “She is yours now. She was more trouble than she was worth.”
The other man scowls. “You’ll get yours someday,” he says to the girl. “I’ll be waiting.”
Two guards in chain mail and helmets with blue capes approach us, raising their visors. “Is there a problem here?”
“Not anymore,” Aodhán says. “We were finishing up our business.”
“No problem,” the man with the broken nose says. “We were just on our way.” He grabs the other by the arm and pulls him down the road.
The guards lower their visors and continue on their way.
I turn to look back at the girl. “You are free now.”
She looks at the men leaving, shaking her head. “Thank you.” She lowers herself to the ground, tears begin falling.
“Are you okay?”
She looks up at me with sorrowful eyes. “I have nowhere to go. My mother died last year, and my father gave me away.”
“Won’t he take you back?” I ask.
“I can’t go back. He’ll do it again.” She looks down the road at the men watching us. “He drinks.”
“Let’s go,” Aodhán says, turning his horse and riding up to me.
“Wait,” I say to Aodhán, my heart reaching out to the girl. “Don’t you have any other family?”
She shakes her head and begins to turn away.
“Then you’re coming with us,” I say, holding out my hand.
“I can’t trouble you no more, sir.” She looks into my eyes. “You’re good.”
“Get on,” I say, grabbing her arm and helping her back on.
We urge our horses toward the bridge.
“You can’t save everyone,” Aodhán says, loosening the reins and taking the lead.
“Thank’s, sir,” the girl says, grabbing on tighter as we trot behind Aodhán.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Clodagh.”
“You’ll stay with us,” I say.
“How can I repay you?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. I have no idea where I am going, but I know there will be enough room for her.
I follow Aodhán along the road, looking at the impressive fortress across the river with round watchtowers at least four stories high. We ride up to the stone tower. Guards wearing chain mail, blue capes, and gleaming helmets lower their pikes, blocking Aodhán’s way. When they see me ride up next to him, they raise their pikes and touch their visors in recognition, letting us pass.
We ride through the arched gate onto a wooden bridge about two carts wide, with posts and rails on the sides, crossing over the river into the fortress. Aodhán passes a horse-drawn cart of sheep’s wool, driven by a gray-haired man wearing a woolen cloak, riding next to a girl who looks young enough to be his daughter.
I follow, nodding and shrugging my shoulders as an apology for passing them before the gate. The old man just waved me on. The girl with long red hair and pale blue eyes smiles as I pass, glancing at Clodagh riding behind me. I wonder where the red hair comes from. This could be Ireland, but I see some Viking influence.
The guards stationed at the inner tower dress similarly to the others. They recognize us and wave us through without question. We pass another stone archway where a metal clad gate hangs above us. No one questions the girl behind me.
Aodhán leads us down the wide dirt road between rows of two- and three-story buildings. We pass through an outdoor market selling all kinds of goods. A blacksmith pumps the bellows and watches as we pass a table displaying various household items, including hammers, pots, and knives.
Vendors are selling freshly caught fish, using balance scales with iron weights. Others are selling candles and baskets. A boy darts in front of us, chasing a loose chicken across the roadway into a stall where a bonnet-capped lady in medieval dress is sitting and weaving a floor mat. The chicken jumps up on a stack of rushes, knocking over her display of baskets. The lady screeches, picks up a straw broom, and chases the chicken out of her stall into the boy’s hands.
I smell the stench of urine as we pass an alleyway where a lady in a headscarf and apron tosses a bucket of soapy water onto a urine-streaked wall, waking a man in dirty clothes who picks up his hat and darts away.
We pass a building with a placard of a mug and a loaf of bread mounted on its entrance. Two men are sitting at a table on the wooden porch, dressed in fine medieval clothing, wearing gold embroidered cloaks and woolen caps, holding mugs of ale. They are in deep conversation.
Another man in leather working pants and a sweat-soiled tunic runs up to one and says in a thick Irish accent, “Some of the wool from Galway gone into the sea from the fierce storm.”
The man stands up, finishes drinking his ale, and sets the mug on the table. “Let’s go have a look,” he says, bidding the other gentleman goodbye. “There has to be a way to salvage this shipment.” They walk ahead of us.
Aodhán catches the man’s attention. “Sir. A wagon load of wool now comes through the south gate.”
“Thank you, Aodhán,” the merchant says. “We might need their load.” He turns to the worker. “Go find this merchant and bring him to me, as I have a look at the Galway shipment.”
I ride up to Aodhán. “Did you know that guy?”
Aodhán says a little impatiently, “They work for your family.” He kicks his horse and trots ahead.
We continue and cross another wooden bridge where workers are hauling off barrels and sacks of goods from a single-masted wooden ship docked along the walkway.
“The castles!” Clodagh exclaims, tapping me on the shoulder and pointing at the round towers on both sides of the water entrance into the city. “Does the king and queen live there?”
I look at the round stone towers that are bigger and taller than the wall towers they stand next to. One has a turret and the other a terrace. They are part of the city wall. A gate stretches between the two castles, controlling the entrance of ships into the city. I couldn’t imagine a king or a queen living in those structures on the exterior wall.
“I don’t think the king or queen lives in them. There is no protection.”
On the other side of the bridge, sailboats, and rowboats move along the water leisurely. People are out enjoying the sunny day. A boat enters a building through an archway where people sit on an upper deck enjoying mugs of ale.
We pass an inn, more rows of taller buildings, and a cathedral before we come to another gate in front of a large mansion.