Come Back to Me by Jody Hedlund
~ 9 ~
BLEARY-EYED after a sleepless night, Marian wrapped the comforter about her shoulders against the early morning chill that permeated Harrison’s home lab.
Her phone call with Ellen after returning from the hospital had been emotional and difficult. Marian had cried silent tears right along with Ellen’s heartfelt sobs. Even though they’d often commiserated over Dad’s obsession with his odd theories, Ellen had never harbored the same bitterness for his absence in their lives. Instead, Ellen had the capability of loving with her whole heart, unconditionally, in a way Marian hadn’t been able to.
Even so, the pain of the loss sank deep in Marian’s chest, a sick, dead weight along with guilt for not finding the ampullae in the crypt sooner, for not reviving him before it was too late. Now she and Ellen had no one left but each other.
At least Ellen was on her way. Within twelve hours, Marian would be able to hug her. And if all went as planned—if the holy water really was the ultimate cure—then by this time tomorrow, Ellen would no longer have tumors on her kidneys.
Marian stared at the last ampulla in front of her on Harrison’s desk. The glow from the desk light illuminated the workspace, which was now littered with all the equipment she’d gotten out.
Sighing, she reclined in the wingback chair she’d dragged over to the desk. Her sights traveled to the ancient coat of arms on the wall next to the window, the same shield that had been above the entrance to the manor in her first time crossing, with the crimson background, azure trim, and golden stag standing tall and proud. She guessed the heraldry belonged to Harrison’s family.
“Where are you, Harrison?”
She’d been in Harrison’s massive lab for the past hours studying the cork pieces with a high-powered microscope while waiting for the police to update her regarding the search for Harrison.
But she hadn’t heard anything, and she hadn’t been able to find traces of anything in the cork other than the usual water molecules consisting of one oxygen atom and two connected hydrogens.
Deep down she’d guessed that would be the case. Her dad wouldn’t have crossed into the past if he’d figured out a way to replicate the holy water. He wouldn’t have needed to. The lack of a solute within the water macromolecules explained why no formulas, tests, or even a hint of progress toward a new development existed in any of Dad’s stuff.
If neither of them had been able to find a trace of recognizable compounds in the water, then she could only speculate that the properties of the Tree of Life weren’t of this world. What other explanation did she have?
Marian tried to ignore the prick at her conscience, the one growing stronger with each hour since Dad’s passing, the one urging her not to let his lifework stop here, that she had to take up where he’d left off.
She wanted to give Ellen the holy water from the last ampulla. But at this point Marian didn’t know for sure if the water would truly heal Ellen. Even though the old stories pointed to that capability, her dad hadn’t tested the curative properties of the holy water on anyone. She and Harrison had speculated that he’d wanted to find the source of the water first.
Should she do the same? Ellen wasn’t deathly ill yet. Hopefully, she still had many months—maybe years—ahead. After all, their mom had lived into her late thirties.
Marian sat forward and plucked at a sticky note on Harrison’s desk—one of dozens having to do with Von Hippel-Lindau. She’d been surprised to discover how much research into VHL Harrison was doing so privately. His tests were extensive and detailed and every bit as thorough as her own. She guessed he was researching for Ellen, just like she was.
He was a good man.
Tears pricked her eyes, just as they had every time she thought about not only her dad but also Harrison. What were his captors doing to him? Although he was still young and strong and healthy, being without his wheelchair would limit his ability to escape.
Marian pushed back from the desk and stood, rolling and kneading her aching shoulders that had been slumped in one position for too long as she’d peered through the microscope. The slit in the curtain told her it was still dark outside, that dawn hadn’t yet broken. Even though she was tired, her mind was too awake and alert to allow her to slumber.
One thought persisted above all the others—she could go back in time and save her dad. If her dad’s time-crossing speculations were correct, she had the ability to envision any year outside her own lifetime. But even if she knew what year her dad had chosen, she wouldn’t be able to return to earlier this week to intercept and help him. She was still bound by the hour and months.
Instead, she could visualize the May one year earlier and leave a note for him in the crypt, a warning to be more watchful. She doubted it would revive him in the present. But at the very least, she could prevent the death in the past, couldn’t she? That was better than losing him completely.
In crossing into the past again, this time more extensively, she’d also be able to do her own research into finding the original source of the holy water. When she revived from her coma, then she could begin excavations and testing.
Ifshe revived . . .
She shoved that thought from her head. She would revive. She had to. After all, she was resourceful and smart. She’d locate flasks of the holy water to leave in the crypt like Dad had done—one to revive her out of the coma and one to heal Ellen. With so many recorded healings, she suspected the flasks were a dime a dozen in the Middle Ages, that she’d probably be able to purchase them at the cathedral. No doubt that’s what her dad had done with the coins he’d taken with him.
However, before she could even think about drinking the holy water and going back to warn her dad, she had to discover what year he’d traveled to. With determined steps, she headed up to her bedroom. The mansion was dark and silent, the long hallways spooky. At any moment, she half expected a thief or stalker to jump out, point a gun at her, and demand to have the ampullae.
When she reached her bedroom and stepped inside without a confrontation, she released a tense breath. The bedside lamp was still on and her papers scattered across the bed where she’d left them after she’d gotten the call from the hospital that Dad was dead. Before running off, she should have put the papers in Harrison’s home safe as he’d advised. But she’d been too distraught—was still distraught.
Clutching the blanket closer to ward off the early morning chill, she couldn’t hold in a shiver. At the same time, a yawn pushed for release. Reflexively, she pressed her hand against her mouth in an attempt to stifle it.
The moment her fingers made contact with her lips, warmth blew through her and spread along the length of her arms and legs. She knew immediately what was happening, and she eagerly touched her fingertips to her tongue, hoping to ingest more of the residue left there from handling the corks.
She could feel her pulse accelerating, her blood heating, and her heart palpitating. The breeze blowing in her veins was lighter than the gust she’d had during her first vision, but it was there nonetheless, making her eyes hazy for an instant before clearing.
The light from her room was gone, as if someone had flipped the switches. Now darkness shrouded her. Even so, she could see the outline of a canopied bed, only it wasn’t the same bed anymore. It was smaller, and the tapestries thicker, more luxurious. While she couldn’t tell what color the material was, one glance at the mattress told her it was occupied.
A breeze came in through the open windows. It was cold and curled around her legs and brought with it the damp scent of earth and woodsmoke that she’d experienced previously.
A shaft of early morning moonlight entered the room and fell across the bed. There, tangled in the covers, was the man she’d seen before, his arm draped casually across his eyes.
Her breath caught. Before she could think or move, his hand darted out and encircled her wrist in a pinching grip. The movement was so sudden and unexpected, she released a tiny yelp.
In an instant, he was out of bed standing only an inch from her, his fingers tightening like a chain. She flexed against him, amazed to find that his touch was solid, his hand warm, his calluses rough.
“Who are you?” His voice was low and harsh, but she wasn’t frightened, though she knew she ought to be.
How should she answer him? Maybe it was better if she said nothing.
This time, he was clad in white linen undershorts that looked like boxers—only with a drawstring at the waist. His upper body was once again bare. Up close, there was no mistaking the chiseled beauty of his form, and she could feel the heat radiating from his torso, see the rise and fall of his chest, and hear his ragged breaths. Although the darkness shrouded the blue of his eyes, the intensity and power of his gaze pierced to her soul as it had before.
A deep part of her quivered at the realization she was having such an encounter. But another part of her couldn’t believe he was real, and that disbelief emboldened her so that she lifted a hand to his face and grazed the stubble.
The scratchy texture felt authentic. But still, she couldn’t be touching him, could she?
She skimmed his jaw and then his cheek. Dampness made a line down his rough skin. Had he recently shed tears? If so, why?
He did nothing to stop her. In fact, he released his grip on her wrist and dropped his hands to his sides, his breathing hoarse and rapid. The tension of his body told her his sleep was haunted by unspeakable terrors, nightmares that brought silent tears to his cheeks. She didn’t know this man or what had happened to him, but she had an overwhelming need to console him.
Maybe this was why their paths kept crossing, because she was meant to see him and offer him a measure of solace. Besides, she might never see him again after tonight, so it wouldn’t hurt to make the most of this moment.
Before her rational side could urge her to use caution, she shifted her hand to his other cheek. She glided over his scruff until she felt the warmth of the lingering tears. With her fingertips, she brushed them away.
He leaned in so that she felt his breath near her forehead. But somehow she sensed his restraint, that he wanted to touch her in return but was forcing himself to hold back. Maybe he thought by moving he’d frighten her or make her disappear.
Whatever the case, his reserve again gave her a liberty she wouldn’t otherwise have taken, and she allowed herself to caress the hard line of his jaw, wishing she could somehow soothe him and take away the tension.
She willed that he’d feel her strength reaching out to him, holding him up, and alleviating his nightmares. She wanted to say something, but before she could speak, he was gone.
The bedside lamp cast its glow upon the papers still scattered over her bed. She stood at the edge, her mind spinning, trying to process what had happened. Disappointment tightened her chest. She wanted to linger with him a few moments longer, not only to comfort him but to discover more about him—at the very least learn his name.
After their encounters at Chesterfield Park, she believed the manor was his home. He likely claimed this room as his own. But what era was he from? The glimpse she’d had of the manor from the outside suggested an early time, certainly before Elizabethan or even Tudor-Jacobean times when the architecture had become more elaborate.
For several heartbeats, she waited, hoping for another glimpse of the stranger, a sound, a scent, anything. But the room remained unchanging.
As with the other times she’d crossed into the past, exhaustion swept over her, and she wanted to drop down onto the mattress. But she didn’t have time to sleep. She had too much to do to get ready if she hoped to travel back in time and attempt to rescue Dad. Even so, she had to rest. If she didn’t, she suspected she’d collapse.
With a yawn, she lowered herself to the edge of the mattress and pictured the smaller bedframe set lower and tried to imagine that she was sitting in the past again. How was it possible she kept seeing the same man in the same era?
Perhaps her dad’s crossing was creating some kind of time-space overlap, so that whatever past period he’d visited was somehow bumping into the present causing her to go there too.
But what period was it?
She guessed the late 1100s or early 1200s after the death of Thomas Becket when the miracles associated with the holy water were still being recorded.
Her attention shifted again to the papers on the bed—specifically to the sheet with the Bible references about time. What if that’s where she’d find the date, somewhere amidst all the numbers? Why else had her dad left the verses, unless they contained another clue?
Picking up the sheet, she smoothed a hand over the verses she’d written out.
Romans 13:11: Knowing the time, that now it is high time to awake out of sleep. Was this a clue telling her she needed to wake her dad from the coma?
Psalm 31:15: My times are in thy hand. Was this one indicating that Dad was relying on her?
Of course she could speculate on the meaning behind each of the ten verses. Her dad had likely specifically picked them to tell her a message. But did they also convey a time in history?
As she read the verses again, she studied the number patterns, searching in particular for a year near the time of Thomas Becket’s death in 1170, the period when the holy water contributed to all those healings the monks had recorded.
She added, subtracted, multiplied, even divided. She tried to formulate a reason for accepting one verse over another based on themes. But nothing came to mind. The only oddity was with the verse in Ecclesiastes. The first thing she’d noticed was that it had been abbreviated while the others hadn’t.
Eccl 3:82: A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace. A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.
The second issue was that none of the chapters in Ecclesiastes had contained a verse 82. As she’d read through the chapter earlier, she’d surmised that Dad had been referring to verse 8 or verse 2 or perhaps both. So she’d written out each to be safe.
Of all the references on the list, the Ecclesiastes passage was also the only one where he’d spaced the book name closer to the numbers, almost as if everything was connected—Eccl3:82.
1382.
Her heartbeat stumbled before racing forward. That was it. He’d gone back to 1382. And he was telling her that he’d gone to pluck up what had been planted from the Tree of Life.
What had happened in 1382 to make it significant? Why hadn’t he chosen a time closer to Becket?
Perhaps the crypt hadn’t yet been completed in the 1100s. Maybe he’d needed to locate an era when the crypt was not only finished but safe in order to ensure the ampullae he hid there would survive to the present day.
In truth, it didn’t really matter why he’d settled on 1382. That’s where he’d gone. Where he’d died. And now she needed to go back to May of 1381—a year earlier—and attempt to intervene in some way.
She had a sudden and overwhelming urge to touch her fingers to her lips again and travel back to the blue-eyed stranger. He was only inches away, alive, warm, and breathing. She sensed he was dangerous, but something about him drew her nonetheless.
No. She quickly stuffed her hands into her pockets. The next time she traveled to the past, she would do so intentionally and with a plan. First she had to research the year 1382 and develop a solid hypothesis for why her dad had selected that particular time. And then she had to get ready for her own departure to the year 1381. That needed to include writing out some kind of explanation for Ellen.
She wouldn’t be able to disclose everything. If the note fell into the wrong hands, she’d jeopardize the details of the ultimate cure, everything Dad tried so hard to keep hidden, probably from people who’d abuse the information.
Maybe she should wait to enact her plan. Until the police located Harrison and she had the opportunity to discuss it with him. Or until Ellen arrived. Or maybe she should call Jasper and finally explain what was going on.
“They won’t understand and will just try to talk me out of it.” That’s what she would have done with Dad if he’d revealed his plans. She suspected even Drake and Bojing would try to stop her.
She started to gather the pages on the bed, but she paused over a sheet torn from a newer book than the others. The top of the sheet was titled “Pilgrimages During the Middle Ages.”
She’d already read the article several times. The author noted that after a long period of silence in Canterbury, a slew of supposed miracles occurred in the late 1300s, the last ever to be recorded there. But he claimed the leaders falsely invented the miracles in order to entice more pilgrimages as a means of filling the Church’s coffers.
What if the resurgence of miracles hadn’t simply been Church propaganda? What if something really had caused a reappearance of miracles in the late 1300s? Like the rediscovery of the holy water?
She extricated her phone from her pocket and typed in a search for the year 1382 in Canterbury, England. At the sight of the results, her mouth dropped open.
There had been an earthquake in Kent on May 21, 1382, with an estimated magnitude of 5.8. It had a great enough force that the shock was felt in London. Interestingly, the earthquake interrupted a synod of religious leaders who had convened at Blackfriars in London to challenge the writings of John Wycliffe, accusing him of heresy for translating the Bible from Latin to English.
The earthquake damaged the Canterbury Cathedral belfry, dislodged the bells, and sent it crashing to the ground. It also caused severe structural damage to other churches, manors, and castles. Perhaps the shifting of the land had allowed a dormant spring at St. Sepulchre Priory to bubble to life.
She scrolled to the bottom of the article, noting that an aftershock had occurred May 24 with a 5.0 magnitude. Her dad had gone back five days ago on May 21. He’d probably timed his visit to occur right after the chaos of the earthquake to have the greatest chance of locating the wellspring that may have sprung to life after years of dormancy.
Obviously he’d found holy water someplace—if not from the cathedral then maybe from the wellspring. He’d had time to put those ampullae into the crypt. Then the aftershock hit.
What if somehow he’d been hurt during that second earthquake and it led to his death? After all, most of the structures of the Middle Ages wouldn’t have been built to withstand such tremors.
Whatever had happened, now she was more convinced than ever she had to go back. She couldn’t allow her dad to die somewhere in the past, not if she still had any chance of helping him. And not if she still had a chance to carry on his life’s work and find the ultimate cure.