Snowflakes in Summer (Time Tumble Series Book 1) Page 2

  “Can’t she do them later, when I’ve finished my picture?”

  “No.”

  Prue groaned, like the spoiled brat she was. “Mum says that Caitlin should not be allowed to eat dinner with us. It’s not right.”

  After a moment’s thought, Mrs. Sedgewick relented because Prue was her one granddaughter and I was only the hired help. “All right. Caitlin, you’ll have to eat your meals at the kitchen table till Prue goes home.”

  It was a relief, in a way. Demoting me to the kitchen meant that I got to see the brat less, and that was always a good thing, but I won’t pretend that the treatment didn’t hurt.

  ~ ~ ~

  I blinked, pulling myself from the past. I was still in the room in Doral Castle, the room that looked like the original kitchen. By now my eyes had grown accustomed to the blackened stone walls. The place had been stripped bare. There were no kitchen-type things about, no hanging cauldrons, no wooden bowls and mugs, no stools, no earthenware jugs, nothing of that nature. But there was a little cupboard at the far end. For all I knew, it might be full of ancient riches. I yanked on the pint-sized wooden door; it groaned and then reluctantly gave way. Costumes: the cupboard was stuffed to brimming with old-style, original-looking clothing. I pulled a surcoat from the pile. These pieces were like nothing I’d seen before. The garments were clearly very old and appeared to be handmade. They looked original like they should be in a museum instead of here.

  I chose a kirtle next and shook it, releasing years of dust. The kirtle smelled musty like it had been the cupboard for a very long time. What a strange place to keep authentic vintage clothing. A film crew must have used this little kitchen at some stage in the castle’s past. Doral Castle was sometimes used as a setting for television shows or for filming commercials as well as for a heap of other functions like birthdays and weddings. A film crew must have left these vintage outfits behind by mistake.

  Next, I chose a narrow-waisted dress to inspect and shook the moths free. Dust motes danced about in the shards of sunlight. I flipped through so many outfits: a knight’s costume and then a child-sized nightgown, a blanket plaid, and even a Viking’s leather tunic. It was cold in this room; my dirty peasant’s costume wasn’t nearly warm enough. If I wanted to take that little nap, I’d better layer-up otherwise I’d never fall asleep on the stone bench by the cold hearth. I riffled through the cupboard one more time. What was that at the end?

  I pulled out a hefty fur cloak and underneath it, a dress made from wool, fur, and leather. It was an authentic copy of a late-Viking dress, the sort of thing a high-ranking Viking woman might wear. There was something about the costume that drew me in. It wasn’t just that it would be warm or that it looked about my size. More than that. I was drawn to the garment, as if it had been a favorite of mine, a long while ago. I tossed my thin and horribly baggy peasant frock onto the floor and stepped inside the many layers of Viking richness. There was no zip in the garment of course because this was an authentic piece with bindings at the side. I would have loved to spin and swirl in front of a mirror but there were no mirrors down here. Instead, dragging the heavy fur cloak over my shoulders, I settled myself onto the narrow stone bench and let my eyes drift closed. Once again, my mind slipped back to the past.

  ~ ~ ~

  It had taken me three years to save enough money to leave Mrs. Sedgewick’s home. By then I’d finally finished my correspondence schooling and also earned enough for a one-way ticket back to Scotland. I’d managed to put a little aside for accommodation, too. I reasoned that I’d be able to find a job and flat before my money ran out. Before I left, I wrote to Mum’s family in Scotland asking if she and Angus might come home to Scotland and stay with them for a while. As tactfully as I could, I suggested that Mum and Angus needed help with the airfares. But Mum’s loving family did not want to know. I couldn’t blame them really. I’m sure that Mum’s extended family had problems of their own.

  My news was hard on Mum, hard to hear that her daughter was going back to Scotland, leaving her and Angus behind. If only Mum had been able to help herself, but she was always so listless and couldn’t find the will to do anything let alone work. Dad would never leave Australia, not ever, he made that clear. He was simply having too much fun.

  I flew out on a scorching afternoon and arrived back in the Highlands during a wintery blizzard. I honestly couldn’t have hoped for a better homecoming. This was where I belonged: rain, sleet, wind, and all. No one was ever taking me from Scotland again. Now, five years later, I have a teaching degree and I’ve landed my first job. I sighed with contentment and nestled into the delicious warmth of the fur cloak.

  ~ ~ ~

  I felt like I’d only just closed my eyes. A moment later I was wide awake again. I bolted upright, peering around, struggling to remember where I was. Hadn’t I just drifted off to sleep on that bench seat in Doral Castle? I looked down and saw that I was still wearing the rich Viking outfit, but the old kitchen was, well, it wasn’t anywhere. It was gone. What the hell?

  Chapter 2

  Caitlin

  Strangely, there were animals all around me, and a strong smell of manure lacing the air. What was I doing sitting in an old-style animal pen surrounded by pigs and sheep? I didn’t think I’d wandered outside the castle, but I must have. Had I sleep-walked? I’ve never done that before. Perhaps someone carried me outside and dumped me here, their idea of a practical joke.

  How long had I slept for? I looked up at the menacing clouds and saw an entirely different sky from the one I remembered seeing a short while ago. I must have been asleep for ages. Lily would be wondering where on earth I was. Hopefully, she’d not worry too much and would think I’d wandered home early on my own. I do things like that because I’m quite independent. Both Lily and I live in Doral village, and although it’s quite a hike, we can walk to the castle and back from where we live.

  Looking around though, I barely recognized the place, and I knew Doral well. Doral Castle loomed ahead of me, but something was wrong. No, everything was wrong. My heart felt like a wild thing bouncing around inside my chest. My gaze flitted from one object to another desperately searching for the familiar. Could I, somehow, be outside another castle, not Doral at all? No. I recognized some of the landmarks, the loch that fed into the sea and the hills behind, the island and that strip of land that connected the island to the village. This was definitely Doral, but not the Doral I knew. How was this possible? And how had the castle shrunk? It wasn’t even sitting in the same place that it was in when I fell asleep.

  The road up to the castle was different now, too. Where’d the bridge gone? The road leading to the castle was no longer sealed. I blinked and looked again. Yes, the tarseal was gone, and now there was nothing but a rubble of rocks and mud in its place. I jumped up and shoved a fluffy sheep out of my way. My pulse was still thumping at a menacing pace, and my stomach rolling about. Had I eaten something in the lunch tent today, something that was off or laced with a drug, some sort of hallucinogenic? If this was a prank, or one of the perks of being in a film, then it wouldn’t be gratitude they’d get back from me.

  Just then someone grabbed hold of my arm. I swung around. “Let go of me,” I yelled, trying to yank myself free.

  “Nay, I’ll not be doing that,” he said, digging his fingers in.

  I stared at the little man. He was in a costume too, a tunic of sorts but his peasant shift was thicker than those I’d seen the men wearing earlier today in our film, and it looked more authentic, too. The wool of his tunic was coarse, like rough homespun serge. The material was matted with gunk and mud and heaven knows what else. The smell alone was enough to make me gag. His hair was long and oily. I looked down and saw that his feet were bare and crusted in animal dung. Even though the animal pen smelled of wet wool and manure, his odor was more offensive. I inched away trying not to come in contact with any mo
re of him than I had to.

  I clung to the faint hope that this was all part of the movie. “Are we filming still?” I whispered, but deep inside I knew we couldn’t be. Still, it was the only thing that made any sense. But then again, how could a film crew dispose of Doral Castle and Doral Bridge and the road leading there in one afternoon, all while I slept? And how would the local council and heritage board ever agree to any of that? How, in a few meager hours, had they constructed a new stone castle in Doral’s place? This new castle was in the style of the earliest stone buildings, like they built in medieval Scotland during the twelve and thirteen hundreds.

  I was still trying to figure it all out when the grubby, reeking peasant pulled my arm.

  “Stop that. I’m not going anywhere with you.” I swatted his hand, fighting his grip. But he didn’t put up with my protests for long. He yanked both my arms behind my back. I kicked him hard, going for his shins. My breaths were rapid and my panic level rising. Instead of backing away, he cuffed me on the back of my head. My vision blurred for a moment before righting itself. While I stood still, trying to clear my head, he bound my wrists together behind my back.

  “Stop that. Who the hell do you think you are?”

  He shoved me forward. “’Tis not who I am that matters. Ye belong to the Northmen—that be plain to see. They left ye behind, did they, after they raided Doral?”

  “What? No. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Untie me at once or I’m going to the police.”

  He peered at me, moving in close, bringing his stinking mouth right up to mine. “Mayhap you’re one of them Norse spies I’ve heard about? They left ye here on purpose, to learn our secrets, did they?”

  “No. Of course not. You’re talking nonsense. Now let me go or I’ll scream and yell until someone comes.”

  He pulled a face. “Scream, if hollering pleases ye. Ye’ll find no sympathy here on the Mainland. The raiders from the north are no friends o’ ours.”

  I decided to change tact because threatening him wasn’t working. “Please let me go. You’re mistaken. I’m not a North . . . woman, whatever that is. I’m really not. I’m just a film extra. I think I might be hopelessly lost, and now I’m also in trouble. There’s no more to my story than that.”

  “Is that so?” he asked, looking doubtful. Then he poked at my fancy Viking costume. “You’re no’ as brave as I’d expect a Northwoman to be. Ye bleat a lot and talk a load of midden.”

  “I was cold, you see,” I said, trying to explain and stay upright while he dragged me out of the animal pen. “I found this outfit. I put it on. That’s all. Surely you can tell that I’m no Vik . . . no Northwoman. You must have noticed that I’m speaking English. I don’t know a single word of Norse.”

  He dragged me between rows of smoldering mud huts. “Your English is strange, that be for certes. I’m a guessing it’s a Northman’s idea of English. But your raider menfolk haven’t taught ye quite right. Ye see, no fancy English woman really sounds like ye do so don’t try and tell me you’re English. I’m nay daft.”

  “But I’m not a spy or a Northwoman.” As much as I desperately wanted this to be some sort of freaky reality filming thing I’d stumbled into, it was becoming increasingly obvious that it was not. Where were the cameras, the lighting, and the officious assistants? No, this looked much more like real life to me. But how was that possible? The peasant man spoke an archaic form of English, with many Gaelic words thrown in. If I didn’t know better, I might actually believe I’d been sucked back in time. But that was too ridiculous an idea for a sensible, practical history teacher to take seriously. There had to be another explanation.

  Despite the fear churning in my belly, I couldn’t help but be fascinated by what I saw. Those smoldering mud huts looked like the original thatched wattle and daub huts that medieval peasants lived in. Only tufts of the thatched rooves remained though, because the bulk of them had been burned off, and recently, too. The smell of smoldering grass was thick in the air. Curls of smoke drifted upwards from the corners. The little medieval village was deserted but the inhabitants had only recently fled, that much was obvious. Everyday tools—pots, roasting sticks, old baskets and decrepit wooden bowls—lay tossed around in the mud.

  The angry peasant man shoved me forward, making me trip. He pushed me past a leaking barrel filled with water. I screamed when I saw what lay at my feet and nearly fell onto the bloodied body of an old woman facedown in the dirt. That did it. I stopped, stood rooted to the spot, ignoring his shoves. “Is she, is she . . . dead?”

  He kicked me hard, planting his grubby foot into the back of my cloak. I didn’t feel the pain though; my body was too wired with adrenaline to feel much of anything. But I was shaking hard and too giddy to walk straight. This wasn’t a film. I now know what film sets look like and they aren’t this good, this realistic. It takes a camera and its tricks to make everything seem like real life. So, this was real. This truly wasn’t my century. It couldn’t be. Dead bodies were not left to lie around and rot in twenty-first-century Scotland.

  When I was able to speak, my words came out jumbled and run together. “Must-bury-her.” I’ve never seen a dead body before, a person that was laughing and moving one minute, and lying on the ground in an uncomfortable angle the next. But the idea of living in another time—that was worse than finding a dead body at my feet and simply too hard to accept. I’d heard of time travel of course, in movies or books, but never in real life. I stood on the spot, shaking my head, ignoring his shoves. I shut my eyes praying that when I opened them again, everything would be back to normal. Eventually, reluctantly, I let my eyelids flicker open. The medieval world was still all around me. Ears ringing now, stomach close to throwing up.

  “Move,” he ordered, shoving me harder.

  This time I complied, the dead woman’s twisted, swollen body was fresh in my mind. It wasn’t till then, to that very moment that I realized just how much danger I was in.

  “Your people did this,” he growled. “They killed my kin then burned my village.”

  I tried to shake my head, to insist that he was mistaken, that all this death and destruction had nothing to do with me, but I was in in a state of shock and couldn’t get the words out. I needed to think. I must not say or do anything to upset him; I was clearly his prisoner and he could do whatever he liked to me. If I didn’t tread cautiously, I’d also end up face down in the dirt, at the mercy of the scavenging birds and rats. Back in the animal pen, on that muddy patch of ground—where I’d first clapped eyes on the strange peasant man—I’d secretly feared rape. But rape was far from my worst outcome now.

  He barked at me and stopped walking, then pointed at one of the little huts.

  “In there?” I asked.

  Instead of answering, he kicked the little wattle door of the hut open with his foot. “Hands,” he snapped, and waved his knife in my face. I thought that he was offering to free my arms. I turned, closed my eyes and raised my clasped hands so that he could reach the bindings on my wrists. He slashed the plaited ties with his knife, and then shoved me hard through the doorway. At least my arms were free now.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, because he could have left me tied up. He nodded and then shoved me some more. The roof of this little hut was also missing, but that was good in a way because it meant that I could see inside. The dusky early evening light was still bright enough. I’d be able to look around and see all the features and objects inside and the opportunities for escape that the little wattle and daub house offered. I stumbled through the doorway, then stopped abruptly. I was not alone. There was someone else in here with me, another prisoner. His arms were still bound and his head was bandaged and hanging to one side. Even though he was standing, his eyes were closed and he looked asleep.

  The peasant man pulled the rattly door shut and put some sort of bar in place, a stick perhap
s. Then the peasant dragged a heavy object in front of the door, just to make sure. Did he really think I was that strong? No, of course not. It was the other prisoner he was safeguarding himself from. My eyes flew to the strange man in the corner. If I had to guess, I’d reason that he was Scottish because he had long, wild hair and wore a plaid, blanket-style kilt. But that’s where his similarity to other Scotsmen I knew ended. The prisoner looked nothing like the red-haired Scottish boys I’d mixed with at university.

  This hulk was huge, a colossus, a giant of a man. He wore one of those earliest garments that the clansmen wore in medieval Scotland. I was thankful that my smelly peasant had left this prisoner tied up. Otherwise I’d be cowering like a mouse inside a tiger’s cage.

  I edged to my side of the hut, keeping well away from him. I looked down at my own hands and saw that they were trembling and slick with sweat. My stomach was still in turmoil, too. I studied him for a while longer, watched while he tried to sleep standing up. Why didn’t he sit or lie down? More often than not, I should leave things as they are, hold my tongue and not question so much. But, unfortunately, I tend to speak up. It’s the teacher in me, I think.

  “Are you all right?” I whispered, because I had no idea what else to say to him. From the look of the battered Scotsman, he was anything but. I watched his chest rise and fall so I knew that he was alive. Anyway, no one can stand when they’re dead. This place was petrifying, filthy, and beyond primitive. Maybe I’d stumbled into some sort of secret religious sect? Had I been kidnapped while I slept, drugged maybe, and brought here? The man in the corner might know.

  The night sky was rolling in fast but luckily a good wedge of moon seemed determined to shine, standing up to the sweep of night. When I looked back up at the Scotsman, I jumped in fright, knocking my head against the dried mud wall. His face was up, his eyes open and he was staring right at me.