Susan Squires: A Twist in Time

Suddenly, from out of the haze of unknown words, several rang very clear. The man said, “ Umerus humerus .” The Latin word for shoulder. Then he heard the word for loss of blood. They spoke Latin.

“You speak the tongue of the Christ Cult?” he asked in Latin.

The man didn’t stop talking, but the beautiful woman turned to him, surprise and relief glowing in her face. “I study—studied—Latin. I speak a little,” she said with a horrible accent.

Galen sighed in relief. This would make things easier. “Good. Is this the Christ Cult heaven? Are you an angel?”

She looked amused. “No.”

“Well, whoever you are, get me my sword now.”

“That is a bad . . . idea.” She turned to the man in green. “He speaks Latin, Doctor.” He recognized only the words “he” and “speaks.”

“I’ve called the police,” the man in green said, whatever that meant. “They’ll be here shortly. You can translate their interview, since I’m sure none of the city’s finest speak either Danish or Latin. He can check out tomorrow in the early afternoon. I’ll leave prescriptions at the nurses’ station. He should see a primary-care doctor for follow-up tomorrow.” He turned and left.

Whatever the man said, it made the girl look worried. “What is it?” he asked in Latin.

She shook her head. “Someone will . . . want . . . to know who hurt you.”

“That bastard Egil,” he snorted. “He never could have laid an axe on me if not for that chariot of iron wheels appearing out of nowhere.”

She looked appalled. “Did I change . . . the . . . the battle only by being there?”

Of course she did. He chuffed a bitter laugh. “ Ja .” But he had more important concerns at this point. Like where he was. “What is this place if it is not Valhalla or Christ’s heaven?”

She pressed her lips together. “That is difficult.” She chewed on one of those very clean fingernails and finally shrugged. “Where was the battle?”

She must mean “is,” not “was,” since the battle was no doubt going on without him even now. She spoke haltingly and sometimes had to search for words. “Anglia, in the Danelaw,” he answered. “Egil Ingvansen rebels against Guthrum’s son.”

“And when was it?”

“Are you feebleminded, woman? It was, is 912 as Christians count years.”

She took his hand. Hers were soft, uncallused. She had not done the hard work of a serving maid or a peasant tilling the land. Was she nobility or perhaps a prostitute or concubine? No decent woman would wear clothes that clung so to her body. Or maybe she wore the garb of a sorcerer. For if she was not angel or Valkyrie, she must be a wicce , to own such a chariot of bronze wheels. “Listen to me. This is the year of Christ 2010,” she said. “And you are in the . . . land beyond Iceland. Uh . . . Vineland your people call it.”

He stared at her in shock. “You lie. There is no land beyond Iceland.”

“Oh. The discovery of Vineland was after your time. But there is land beyond Iceland.”

“Why did you take me here? Get me back to the battle.”

“It was a . . . mistake. I did not . . . What is the word? . . . Intend it.”

“ Where is my sword?” Whether she lied or whether he was truly somewhere no man had any right to be, he was in deep trouble.

“I know not.” She looked around, then went to a tall cupboard and opened it. “Here, and your clothing.” Then she murmured in her own tongue, “What’s left of it.” He got the words “what” and “of” and “it,” but not the sense.

“Bring them, woman. I must return to the battle.”

He saw by the mulish set of her jaw that she was about to protest when two men in strange dark clothing with short sleeves and golden broaches walked into the room.

Great. Police . Just what she needed. She couldn’t have them arresting the Viking for vagrancy or something. She’d never get him back to 912 if he was sitting in jail. And he sure looked like a homeless person. Tangled blondish hair with crazy braids in each side, and a close-clipped beard—he had no address, no money, no labels in his clothes. He would give his name differently than he was registered. He was a mystery they’d love to unravel.

“Officers.” She smiled. Deceit, thy name is woman . She was about to lie through her teeth to the police. Way worse than lying to the registration girl. “Thank you so much for coming.” The nurse who had escorted them pulled a curtain around the bed that held an old man and left. Lucy turned back to Galen, meaning to tell him who these visitors were, but instead she just stood there, blinking. Even weak and woozy from the anesthetic, he exuded strength and masculinity. What did they call it in martial arts movies? Sai . Of course he was a Viking. What else would he be? Just now he was gritting his teeth and looking very dangerous. She smiled and patted his hand. Wow. That sent shivers through her. Then she turned to the police. “This is my cousin Bjorn Knudsen from Finland. Do either of you speak Finn?” she asked with feigned hope. “No? Neither do I, but we get by in Latin. I’ll translate.”

“Looks like he ran into a little trouble.” The fresh-faced young Hispanic officer flipped open a notebook.

“Gangbangers broke up a battle reenactment down in Golden Gate Park. Bjorn and his friends were doing the Battle of . . . of Anglia.”

“You were there?” The other officer seemed to be the senior partner. His dark hair receded on each side of his forehead, and his face was pocked with old acne scars.

“Yes, I saw it all.” At least that was true.

“Anybody else hurt?”

Oh, lots of people . But she couldn’t tell them that. “I don’t know. These guys took weapons. They attacked Ga—Bjorn. Then they squealed out in those low-slung cars. When I saw how bad he was bleeding, I hailed a cab and yelled to the driver to get him to the General.”

“Front desk says no insurance, no ID.”

“No wallets allowed in reenactments. His backpack got left in the park. I’ll vouch for him, and I told the hospital I’d pay for his care. He’s staying at my place.” She took out her wallet and showed her driver’s license. “That address is correct. And here’s a card for my store.”

The young officer took down the information while the older one asked, “Did you see what kind of a weapon was used? “

“It was an axe.” The shudder she gave was real as she remembered that blade coming down on the man lying in the bed over there. “They took it off one of the other reenactors.”

“Ouch.” The young officer winced.

“Did you get a look at any of them, Miss Rossano?”

“It was just getting dark. Everyone was packing it in for the day. And it all happened so fast. I’m afraid I couldn’t identify anyone.”

“Does your cousin have such a weapon?”

Lucy recognized the trap. She sighed. The staff probably already told them. She didn’t dare lie. “He has a sword.”

“And would it be in this closet?” The one with the scars was already opening the door. He whistled, then took out his handkerchief and picked the sword up just under the hilt. Even in this dim light it looked fearsome. A hilt wrapped with leather over a bloody blade engraved with writing of some kind. Behind her, Galen growled and clanked his restraint. The guy sure wasn’t helping. Could he possibly seem not crazy for a minute? She put a hand on his chest to steady him. The feel of hard muscle beneath the thin hospital gown was . . . interesting.

Now the one with acne scars had gone hard. “Looks like this thing’s done some damage. Like maybe assault with a deadly weapon.”