Old Magic(50)

If those two buildings are stone keeps – castles! – then Jillian’s magic was dead on.

As I think about this my body starts repairing itself, so I try standing, carefully, my head doing a slow throb, and look for Jarrod. We must have been thrown apart somehow during the leap. He’s alive though, I did hear him.

‘Jarrod?’ I spin around on this dirt road and take in the different view. Here there are fields divided into long strips. Some have been recently ploughed, others have crops that look as if they’ve been roughly hacked at.

As I stand contemplating, Jarrod comes up beside me, brushing dirt off his tunic. ‘Where do you think we are?’

I glance up at him, his negative attitude, as always, leaves me bewildered. His grey tunic is covered in dirt all over one side, right up to his face. I help him get some of it off.

‘Can you believe it?’ I say as the throbbing in my head eases and excitement replaces it. ‘We’re here, Jarrod! In medieval Britain! Where else do you think?’

His head comes up, his eyes narrow as his gaze does a full 360 degrees circle, pausing for a second on the distant buildings, like he’s assessing them. ‘I have no idea. We could be anywhere.’

‘Come on, Jarrod, have some faith.’ My mind starts spinning, not with pain now but adrenalin. Excitement accelerates, making me light-headed. I start laughing, dancing around in circles, lifting my skirts, brushing the dirt out of them with a couple of good shakes. ‘This is so unbelievable! I’m the luckiest person who ever lived!’

Jarrod’s face creases in a deep frown, his eyes flat and unemotional. I want to probe his mind, feel what he is feeling. But it isn’t necessary I guess. He’s been distraught ever since his father’s attempted suicide, worried like hell about his family. But he’s here now, and soon we’ll find the reason for the curse, and somehow stop it. At least that’s our plan. I lower my skirts and smile at him, offering encouragement. ‘C’mon, Oh-Great-One-Of-Disbelief, let’s find some shelter before it gets dark.’ I hook my arm through his, content that I have enough enthusiasm for us both.

We head off in the direction of the twin peaks. Of course those buildings are too distant to reach before dark, but if we’re lucky, we’ll find a cottage, storehouse or some other structure on the way that will offer protection. I’m guessing by the chilly air it’s going to be a freezing cold night.

We walk and keep walking as dark clouds roll over our heads, snatching any remaining light with it. The air grows even colder, and without coats we’re both feeling it and start to shiver. But at last we hear noises, the low hum of voices, and grunting, rumbling sounds.

The road leads us straight into a ramshackle village, little more than a group of huts haphazardly thrown together amongst a scatter of trees. The first thing I notice is the smoke. You’d think the cottages were on fire. Smoke is billowing out of holes in the top of thatched roofs, pouring out of windows. There are no chimneys.

We stand still at the sight, overwhelmed. There’s no denying it now: we are actually standing on the outskirts of a peasant village in early Britain. Not that we can tell the exact date from the cottages. Our link to the past is through the curse. We can’t say for sure when the curse was generated, we could be years before or after the event, though either should do as long as Jillian isn’t too far off the mark.

The thought that I am now living history sets my heart pounding. But I have to control my enthusiasm. This is not a game, our lives could be in danger if we get careless.

I glance up at Jarrod. His mouth is hanging open, his green eyes enormous. He looks as if he’s gone into shock. ‘We should find shelter,’ I prod, pointing toward the third cottage on the left side of the dirt road. ‘It’s the only cottage that has no smoke. What do you think?’

His gaze follows my finger and I’m glad to hear he still has a voice. ‘Could be a trap.’

I stare at him intensely. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. No one’s expecting us.’

He seems to calm at this, hauling in a ragged breath. ‘Yes, of course.’ He sounds embarrassed. ‘I suppose no one’s in it then.’

We decide to take the chance, but walking directly into the centre of the village seems foolish. We’d probably be heard, and spotted too, through the wooden shutters or window openings. A dog barks from inside one of the cottages and there are muffled voices of humans and animals mixed together. We skirt silently around the small buildings.

The cottages are full of life. It’s incredible to think they are filled with people who know nothing of computerised technology, nor even running water, sewage systems or electricity. And yet here they live. Surviving.