Timeless (22 page)

He beamed at me, standing straight up and
walking over towards me. He had kind, light blue eyes and looked to
be about sixty years old. He indicated that I should take a seat on
the last pew, which I did, and he assumed a professorial stance,
looking as though he were about to give a lecture on the church’s
history.

I was not, I reckoned, the average American
tourist, though it was hard to imagine any tourists out here in
such a remote place. Nevertheless, he looked eager to tell me more
than I wanted to know.

“The edifice around you was built in 1235, or
rebuilt, I should say, on the ruins of a much older structure
destroyed sometime before then. The records do not indicate when
the original foundation was laid. We do know that the church was
stripped of its wealth and all but destroyed again by Henry VIII
during the dissolution of the monasteries in the 1530s. It was
nevertheless not immune from the king’s destructive vendetta
against the true church,” he said emphatically, as if these were
current issues, not ones from long ago. So it was a Catholic, not
an Anglican chapel, I thought, somehow relieved. That might work in
my favor when I cast the spell to bring Damien forward.

The priest finished, nodding at me as though
he expected me to know all about sixteenth-century politics. I was
only dimly aware of the Protestant Reformation in England, having
little interest in history after 1216. I smiled politely, wondering
how I could extricate myself. I was anxious to begin but also
extremely nervous.

He looked as though he might begin a
lengthier discussion of monasteries in England, so I quickly
thanked him and asked if I could look at the paintings on either
side of the altar. I wanted to find the exact spot where Damien and
I had stood in our dream, and I needed complete quiet to
concentrate.

“Certainly,” he assured me, asking if I
wanted to know about the history of the pictures. I almost snapped
at him in my impatience to get started but forced myself to decline
politely.

“Well then,” he said, disappointed, “I’ll
leave you to it.”

He looked meaningfully at the donation jar on
the table at back of the church. I reached into my wallet and
pulled out five pounds, placing the notes in the jar. I hoped it
was enough for him to leave me alone.

“You’re too kind. Please stay as long as
you’d like,” he said, again all smiles. I wondered who attended
this church, so deep into the woods, and started to ask him. But I
really did want to begin my spell.

The priest went back to folding brochures,
and I stood up. I wondered what he’d make of Damien when he
appeared out of thin air. But then, would he just appear? Would he
walk through the door? I was unsure how this was going to
happen.

I walked up the center aisle, concentrating
on the spot where light poured from the rose window above the
altar.

I stopped directly in the small circle of
light. Though the church felt cold, a sensation of warmth filled
me, just as it had in the clearing outside. I pulled out the rosary
from my pocket and closed my eyes, first imagining Damien standing
in this spot so long ago. I unpinned my hair, letting it fall to my
waist. I wasn’t exactly sure how to cast spells, but Ramona had
told me to concentrate—harder than I ever had before—and to make
sure I covered everything in the spell. There was no dress
rehearsal, no second chances. Either I did it right the first time,
or…I didn’t let myself finish this thought.

I looked up at the rose window, feeling the
warm colors bathe my face in the red, blue, and green hues. A
tingling started in my stomach and then filled me, from the roots
of my hair to my toes. I had the sensation of something pulling at
me, and I knew I was caught between two worlds, two times. Almost
unconsciously, I began to repeat Damien’s name to myself, over and
over again, calling to him through the vortex of the years. I could
feel the swirling around me, but I concentrated only on his face,
his intense, sparkling eyes.

His face had burned itself into my memory. I
clutched the rosary Ramona gave me tightly in my hand—so tight that
it came apart. I spilled the beads on the stone floor below,
breaking my concentration.

“Miss? Miss? Are you quite alright?” I heard,
as if from a distance.

I staggered back and opened my eyes to see
the priest standing a short distance away, regarding me with
concern.

“Yes,” I said, slightly breathless.

“Would you like to sit down?” he inquired
politely.

I stumbled backwards into the first pew and
then looked around, hoping I’d brought Damien forward. I realized
in a panic that I’d forgotten to cast the spell correctly. I hadn’t
said anything but his name. And had I actually said it? I knew I’d
not mentioned anything about modern language or life. I moaned to
myself. Could I cast the spell again? I realized with a dreadful
certainty that the moment had passed; the portal—if such
existed—had closed. I’d not even uttered so much as his name.

Damien certainly hadn’t appeared beside me,
but I still held out some hope that he’d come over. I crossed the
roped-off section of the church and peered behind the altar.

“I’m sorry; I can’t allow you to go back
there,” the priest warned.

I began to make a search of every pew, but in
vain. Damien had not appeared. I knew the priest thought my
behavior odd, but I didn’t care. I’d look over every inch of this
church before I was through.

I asked to inspect the rest of the church,
but the priest told me there were only two other rooms. I could see
inside the one to the right of the altar. It looked like they kept
candles, vestments, a chalice, and the wine and wafers for
communion there. I saw another door leading off from the left side
of the altar and made my way there.

“Wait! You can’t go back there!” he
protested.
I tried the door. The room contained a few choir robes and a small
piano. There was no sign of Damien.

So much for being a witch, I thought sadly.
If I couldn’t work magic to save the one person I loved the most
then what did it matter?

I apologized to the priest and turned to go.
My first thought had been to return to the castle, to try again,
but I thought it unlikely he would have come through there. If I
couldn’t do it here, where I felt Damien the most, there was not
much purpose in getting my hopes up again, only to feel intense
disappointment.

It was starting to get dark when I left the
church, and I dreaded leaving the clearing and making my way
through the forest again. A great lethargy weighed down my limbs
and a drowsy numbness overtook me. I still clutched the cross
attached to the rosary beads. It had made an imprint in my hand. I
sent out a quick prayer for deliverance. It was going to take a
much higher power to return.

I stumbled through the woods, trying to
ignore the sense of desolation that I felt. Just as before, the
trees seemed to close over me, trapping me inside. The perpetual
silence drowned my senses. Despair beckoned, and I nearly answered
its call when I caught sight again of the pond where I’d drowned
again.

I knew Damien had been real, but I wasn’t
strong enough to save him, to bring him to me. I’d held back the
tears while I wandered in the forest. When I thought I’d begun to
walk in circles, the woods finally cleared, revealing the spot
where I’d first entered. Though grateful to have found my way out,
to leave the darkness behind me, I didn’t want to turn my back on
all my hopes.

I found the overgrown path, still marked by
the bus’s grooves, and followed its interminable length. Night came
upon me, and I stumbled twice, feeling the depression pull at my
heart. I didn’t care now whether or not I returned to London. Mr.
Dean had tickets for us to see Hamlet at the Globe tonight. How
fitting, I thought, feeling a great kinship to the mad, lonely
Ophelia, drowning first in her lovelorn despair, then in a fit of
madness. He is dead and gone, lady,... And will he not come
again?... Her words echoed in my mind. Alone in her torment, she
had ended in the place where I began.

It was a seductive thought. Maybe I wouldn’t
go back, I thought. Maybe I should return to the pond and relive my
past. I was just as separated from Damien as I had been before. But
I’d already passed the pond, and the woods closed again behind me,
refusing me entrance. I knew I would not find my way again.

Grief finally overtook me. After miles of
fruitless steps, I fell beneath a yew tree into a deep and numbing
sleep.

I expected to dream about him again and hoped
I would. It was the only way to see him now. But I slept heavily,
without dreaming, and awoke sometime later to find a large man with
a graying beard, about fortyish, towering over me.

Still groggy, exhausted, and disoriented, I
wondered if I imagined him. Grief hit me like a fist, almost
physically doubling me.

He said something to me. I thought it was my
name. But that would be impossible, wouldn’t it? He couldn’t
possibly know that.

He offered his hand to me. I took it, and his
electric grip literally shocked me. I abruptly released him and
stood up, brushing off the dirt from my jeans and pulling leaves
from my hair. I couldn’t find my balance. He reached over to steady
me, I thought, but his hands seemed to claw at me. I instinctively
recoiled, and he immediately became very still. I didn’t want him
touching me again, and I felt a strong surge of adrenaline nearly
propelling me to run away, despite my weariness.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked in his
deep voice. A strange look appeared in his dark eyes, resurrecting
the fear and terror I felt yesterday in the woods. He gave me a
look I remembered from somewhere. But where?

“Yes,” I replied hesitantly. “I need to get
back to London.”

He offered his hand again, but I declined,
not quite able to shake the strange feeling he inspired.

He said nothing further but pointed out a
path I had not seen before. I’d not remembered it the night before;
it seemed to appear from thin air.

“Thank you,” I said hastily, almost running
down the path, despite the exhaustion I still felt. Several minutes
later, I looked back. He seemed to walk towards me, I thought,
though it could have been my imagination. Regardless, I ran on,
fearful that the stranger still watched me, a menacing figure
looming on the horizon.

****

The rest of the day passed in a blur. I
realized later how lucky I was that I hadn’t been raped or killed
despite the seeming safety of the English countryside. I thought
again about the stranger whose touch had terrified me. I later
attributed the feelings to my seriously addled wits, wondering if
I’d actually even met a stranger there or just dreamed him.

I finally found my way to civilization, and
someone in Salisbury gave me directions to the train station. I saw
Ben and Mr. Dean outside talking with a police officer. Ben spotted
me first, a look of relief on his face as he ran towards me. He put
his arms around me, clutching me to him.

“Emily, your head!” he exclaimed.

I’d forgotten about the wound I received
yesterday, but between the scraping branches and falling stone
gargoyle, I knew I looked dreadful.

“I fell,” I said meekly.

“Into what? A pack of wolves?”

“Something like that,” I said, taking the
Kleenex he offered and wiping my face.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he
demanded, not waiting for my response. “We were worried sick!”

His arms had never felt as good around me as
they did then. I broke into sobs, knowing he’d understand. He
always did.

After the heaving subsided somewhat, Mr. Dean
cleared his throat.

“Emily, where have you been? Did you get lost
trying to find your relatives?” he asked.

Ben shot me a puzzled look. He knew I had no
relatives here.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you,” I
mumbled.

I didn’t have the strength to explain myself.
Despite getting some sleep in the woods, I still felt drained.

We entered the station together, and Ben sat
down with me at a small side table, while Mr. Dean looked at the
train schedule, keeping one eye in my direction to make sure I
wouldn’t bolt again. The next train wasn’t for another hour, so we
went inside the small station café to find breakfast.

Mr. Dean hadn’t said another word to me,
waiting, I could tell, for me to recover before he began firing
questions. I must have looked terrible. I could see the concern
written on both of their faces. I knew I was lucky the police
officer hadn’t lectured me severely. I guessed that student
tourists likely went off on adventures all the time.

We ate in silence, waiting for the train to
arrive. I finished my croissant and went into the ladies’ room,
promising Ben—who looked ready to follow me—and Mr. Dean that I
wouldn’t try anything sudden. I splashed my face with some water
and took a long look at myself in the mirror. Most of my hair had
escaped the rubber band, and leaves and dirt had collected in the
frizzy curls. Long scratches crisscrossed my face, and my arms had
bruises all over them. I could feel the knot on the back of my head
from the gargoyle, and the gash on my forehead looked nasty.
Altogether, it was not a pretty sight. I did the best I could with
water and paper towels, knowing I’d have to leave my hair for
later.

The train arrived shortly thereafter, and all
three of us got up to board. Ben didn’t put his arms around me
again, but he sat very close, ready, I knew, if I should need
him.

After the train pulled out of the station,
Mr. Dean cleared his throat.

“I would never have expected this of you,
Emily,” he began in a severe tone of rebuke.

“I’m sorry,” I said, ashamed to have caused
him so much worry. I should’ve worked harder on a good cover
story.