Thunderstruck

  Or had God never been?

  Lightning found her when God had not.

  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, feeling the crush of the rug beneath her bare feet and, making her decision, she wiped her eyes and, finding her way to the nearest pew, sat and rested her head on the back of the pew before her.

  Quietly, she prayed.

  Because sometimes there was simply nothing else to be done but take it all to the Lord in prayer.

  Chapter Ten

  He’d make a lovely corpse.

  —Charles Dickens

  Aboard the Pod

  His ears ringing with the sound of someone’s voice and sheep snuffling and bleating around their pod, Rowen woke.

  He recognized Jack’s voice.

  And Jack’s cursing.

  Rowen rallied. He was bleeding. Not much and not from a vital spot, but it was a red that matched nothing he was wearing and he hurt. It only took him a moment to join Jack in some cursing of his own. His was somewhat more creatively phrased.

  “Help me get unbuckled,” Jack said with a groan. “I’m bleeding.”

  Rowen dragged himself to his feet and lurched toward Jack. “You aren’t the only one,” he muttered. He reached for one set of buckles while Jack fumbled with the other.

  “You’re not the one who got kicked in the head by a mule …”

  Rowen grunted. “At least you didn’t say ass,” he said, freeing him. Extending a hand, he pulled Jack out of the seat, amazed the pod’s interior had so little damage. Even the glass panes making up the window only bore a few stars and one small, jagged crack.

  “Hear that?” Jack asked.

  Rowen froze. There were more voices coming from outside the pod.

  A colorful coat waved as someone walked near the window’s edge.

  “Who is it?”

  Jack’s voice lowered. “Don’t know. But that was clothing and the Wildkin aren’t fans of western dress. Or fans of much dress at all if you read accounts from the Fringe.”

  Rowen bent over and retrieved the gun. “Are they friendly?”

  “Friendly is questionable—optimistic—but human seems a safe wager. Open the door. Slowly,” he specified.

  Rowen did as he was told, the door’s hinges groaning, strained from the crash.

  Rowen got the first glimpse of the men standing outside. Short and dark with pale blue eyes, they wore boldly patterned clothing in bright colors. “Liberally aligned traders,” Rowen whispered to Jack a moment before he bent over.

  And vomited.

  The men jumped, suddenly animated. They had not expected that.

  “That was a delayed reaction …” Rowen groaned.

  “Better outside the pod than in,” Jack said, smacking Rowen’s back. He pressed between Rowen and the doorframe, appraising the men outside. “These are no liberally aligned traders,” he concluded. “These men are something far bolder. These men are Travelers.”

  They spoke to each other in a fluid language tempting Rowen’s educated ear with hints of Greek, English, and … Hebrew? And something else. Out of all of it, the only thing Rowen could be clear on was that their guns were leveled at him and Jack. “Any idea what they’re saying?”

  “I think I hear Gaelic … Maybe. Smile. And, for God’s sake, lower the gun,” Jack commanded, reaching around Rowen to place a hand over the weapon and press it down.

  The Travelers’ guns lowered, too, but their eyes remained threatening.

  One of their number stepped forward, thrusting his chin toward their ship. “You scared our sheep. Sheep are unhappy. Not good for milking today. Unhappy milk sheep mean unhappy milkmaids. Unhappy milkmaids mean—”

  “—unhappy men,” Rowen said, unfurling a grin. “We apologize,” he said. He swept an arm out, giving a generous bow. “It was not our intention to fall from the sky here—or anywhere.”

  “What caused your fall?”

  “Ala attack.”

  The Travelers looked at each other, a few words passing between them. “The Ala has harried our herds and crushed our few crops by bringing hail,” the man commiserated. “Voracious. Demonic. Children go missing.”

  “There is a reason men are paid to hunt these things,” Jack muttered.

  “I am sorry for your troubles. But—” Rowen’s expression brightened, and he said, “One less of their number will nip your heels. It lies dead not far from here.”

  More words were exchanged between the group of strangers. Their self-appointed representative asked, “What did it look like?”

  “Tall as I am with dark feathers, black and bleak with a smattering of gold in its long sword-like tail.”

  “Its beak?”

  “It was split—cracked at the edges—”

  The man stepped forward, the single pace eager. “At the corner of its mouth … ?”

  Rowen closed his eyes, remembering. He caught himself, swaying. “Something glittered there …” he said. He still bled.

  The man spun to face his peers, exclaiming something that made them all chatter happily.

  “You killed their queen!” the man explained. Staring at the ship, he rubbed at his chin and then looked at the nearby gathering of brightly colored wagons. “How far did you wish to get in your ship?”

  “To Philadelphia. As fast as we can. Our goal is a just one,” Rowen assured.

  The man shook his head and stepped over to the ship’s wings, easing one skeletal frame open. The fabric was tattered, torn in a few places.

  Rowen’s heart sank.

  “Your wings need patching and there may be more that has been damaged. I doubt you are flight-worthy. Philadelphia …” He looked in the direction their pod’s nose still pointed. “We can take you by wagon, but it will take days …”

  Rowen winced. “We must get there sooner. Much depends on what we are doing.”

  The man nodded. “Explain your task and perhaps we might be inspired to speed your journey,” he offered warily.

  Rowen and Jack exchanged a hesitant glance and shrugged at each other. Their ship was down, they were lost and friendless. What more harm could be done? “We are headed to Philadelphia to express our displeasure in the inequality of men. We mean to encourage abolition. Freedom for all to seek the pursuit of happiness promised by our forefathers.”

  “Abolitionists,” the man said with a grave nod.

  The men behind him muttered among themselves, needing no translation.

  Rowen and Jack stood still, unsure and uneasy.

  A smile spread across the man’s face. “Come with us. We have an option that may suit your needs. And women who can patch those wings if you give us a night to do such work. We are a people who can mend anything,” he promised.

  Jack grinned. “That sounds promising.”

  The man again turned to his peers and said a few words, pointing toward the wagons and then the pod. They debated something a moment, and then an older man who spoke loudly puffed out his chest and strode away from the knot of them and toward a wagon. In a few minutes, he and his horses and wagon backed around in front of the pod. The other men surrounded the small ship, each of them placing his hands somewhere on its side. Their translator motioned for Rowen and Jack to join them, too.

  They stepped in, and the man said a few words and clearly began to count. On what they took to be “three” all the men grunted and together they hefted the ship up, heaving it into the wagon’s back. They slid it in, slinging ropes over its body and beneath the wagon and lashing it to any available fittings. The pod was secured in a matter of minutes.

  The men moved to their separate wagons and Rowen and Jack sat on the bench with the translator. He snapped the reins across the backs of the horses and, together, they trotted along, Rowen and Jack nervously eyeing their environment and smelling the air for the scent of nearby water. The gun rested in Rowen’s lap, his hand remaining on its handle.

  The translator noticed and gave a little cough. “You expect Wildkin?”
br />   Rowen shrugged, but his back was stiff and straight and he knew that his body language told more than any words.

  The wagon bearing their pod turned on the winding path, disappearing into the trees.

  The translator laughed. “There are no Wildkin threats here except those from the air. We have streams and lakes, that is certain, but the Merrow have never tried to come this far inland and their allies prefer the waters further down the mountain.” Now he shrugged. “Certainly keep your weapon at the ready—I would never tell a man not to do something that makes him feel safe, but it is unnecessary. By the way, my name,” the Traveler said, “is Tommy Toogood.”

  “A pleasure, Tommy. I am Rowen and this is Jack.” But he kept his eyes sharp all along the path as they became hemmed in by trees, the world around them growing dim. They were in unfamiliar territory with horses aplenty to tempt hungry Wildkin.

  ***

  The Wilds of Pennsylvania

  The scents and the sounds reached them before the sight of the Travelers’ camp unfolded in their view. It was sprawling and strangely liquid; small campfires marked the forest and spread between tents, wagons, and tree trunks. From every tree hung dozens of flickering pierced paper lanterns. Horses were tied to tree trunks and munching on handfuls of hay and small piles of grain, their tails flicking against flies or mosquitoes.

  Rowen’s stomach growled at the smell of meat roasting over a fire. He ran the tip of his tongue along his lips appreciatively.

  Tommy pulled their wagon to a stop and hopped down from his seat, Jack and Rowen leaping down to help him release and secure the horses.

  The sound of a violin singing through the tree branches caught Rowen’s ear, somehow familiar. He paused by the wagon, scanning the area and wondering.

  A small dog raced between the campfires begging for scraps from each small gathering’s cook. It teased them with entertainment, hopping on its hind legs and dancing in tight circles. Rowen froze, recognizing the dog. He knew that the violinist was the same he’d listened to in Bangor. He squinted. In the distance he saw her—long and lithe, her bow sliding across the violin’s strings in a supple way that seemed magickal—otherworldly.

  Magnetic, people drifted toward her, carried by the tune, and the crowd around her campfire grew. Dozens settled, lounging at her feet.

  Rowen and Jack watched her, struck dumb by the sad song she spun out with only her bow and violin, her body swaying under the weight of the notes.

  “She is lovely, is she not?” Tommy asked. “She wandered into our camp again a day or so ago. She is always welcome. Older than she looks, they say. She travels the New World—searching, always searching. Always somewhat sad and soulful.”

  “Searching for what?” Rowen whispered, his eyes never straying from the mesmerizing violinist.

  Tommy shrugged. “Some say she searches for the son magick stole away many years ago. But she never speaks of such things. At least not to me.”

  “A son magick stole away? Sounds like another Witch the Tester snared,” Jack grumbled. “Sad stories those. And far too many of them. No doubt there are many mothers missing their children—many families will never be reunited.”

  “What if the boy’s become a Wraith,” Rowen murmured. “Kissed by Lightning and deaf as a doorstop. He’d never even hear her song …”

  “That’s depressing,” Jack muttered. “Would a Wraith even remember a time before Lightning toasted him from brains to biscuits? Not being able to hear his mother play seems less pitiful than not even remembering her.”

  “Now that’s depressing,” Rowen conceded.

  They fell silent again, simply listening to the music weaving through the woods.

  Rowen’s stomach growled again.

  Jack chuckled. “That was a beautiful mood you ruined,” he said, smacking Rowen’s shoulder. He leaned around Rowen and addressed their guide. “We’d best get my friend some food before he starts to gnaw on things at random. Would you …”

  “Be so kind as to feed you? Of course.” Tommy led them to a modest campfire where a small boy turned meat on a spit. “Lamb,” Tommy said. “Fresh and tender.”

  The boy lifted the lid of a nearby pot. Inside was bread so fresh and warm it steamed. Rowen’s mouth grew thick with moisture. The boy closed the lid again and lifted the lid on another, last pot.

  “Mutton,” Tommy said. “We have both mint sauce and mint jelly,” he added, crouching by the fire. He motioned for them to do the same.

  Jack crouched and Rowen sat in the moist loam by the fire, transfixed equally by both meat and music.

  The boy pulled out the loaf of bread, split it handily with a knife bigger than any Rowen might have imagined him carrying, and slapped long strips of dripping slow-cooked mutton on pieces for each of them before putting another slice of bread on top. He handed it over, Rowen waiting neither for jelly nor sauce but attacking the sandwich.

  “What did that ever do to you?” Jack chuckled.

  Rowen grunted. And kept eating.

  “Amazing how quickly you recover. We crash landed, you spewed your guts, we took a bumpy ride through a forest where fading light was flashing, and yet here you are downing your dinner as if you needed to kill it again.”

  Rowen wiped at his mouth with a fist. “Emptied guts require refilling.” He returned to devouring his food. His eyes drifted from the crackling, popping fire to the still-performing violinist. She changed songs and a new tune drifted in their direction. Rowen could not help but sway in time to the music while he munched.

  Tommy Toogood talked as he pulled apart a leg of lamb, separating the slightly charred meat from the bone, “We will put you in a wagon to sleep tonight, giving you our finest hospitality. In the morning, as part of our camp begins again on its way south, you will take to the air.”

  “How exactly?” Jack asked. “Our pod—”

  “Your glider’s wings are being mended by capable hands,” Tommy assured, “but we will take you up in the air our way.”

  “Your way?”

  Tommy tossed the bone into the fire and brushed his hands over his trousers, brushing ash from them. “If you are ready, I will show you.” He rose.

  Jack followed, looking to Rowen. He twitched, pressed his lips together and began to rise but hesitated, looking back at the pots and the campfire.

  And the young cook.

  The boy grinned at him, opened the two pots and put another sandwich together.

  “Thank you,” Rowen said, his pained expression gone as he stuffed the sandwich into his mouth.

  Jack rolled his eyes. Tommy grinned and led them through the woods, around campfires where Travelers reclined in colorful clothing, and past the area their pod still rested in the back of a wagon. Lantern light fluttered in shadowy tree limbs. The pod’s wings had been stripped, making it look like a giant wood and metal hickory nut with bare branches poking out of either side. Huddled around the nearest fire sat a group of young women sewing with needles the length of fingers, the slim metal darting in and out of the thick fabric of the pod’s wings.

  While they worked, they sang. Rowen picked up the tune easily, humming as the men skirted the group. The girls noticed and turned, looking at Rowen and smiling around the song. One motioned to him, inviting him to join them. For a moment Rowen hesitated, the easy openness in her expression, the generous lips curving in a smile, and the thickly fringed laughing eyes forming an expression he’d seen in many women.

  Many times.

  But he shook his head, clearing it, and realized the thing that attracted him to her was the thing he missed most about Jordan—the laughter. The smiles. Those were the same things he was determined to bring back to her. So he left the singing girls behind because he loved a girl who still felt she had no voice with which to sing.

  He trotted after Jack and Tommy. The trees thinned, finally parting, and they came to the foot of a hill. Spread across its base were huge swaths of fabric attached to ropes and baskets large enough
to hold several people.

  “Hot air balloons,” Jack exclaimed. “A mob of them.”

  “We’ve given up on government-sanctioned transportation. But we are not ready to align with other established trading organizations, so we have found our own way. It is not easy and it requires us uncovering some information the government kept quiet, but …”

  In the distance someone straightened, seeing them, and moved away from where he had been bent over examining the fixtures on one of the large baskets. He moved toward them instead.

  Quickly.

  “We should return to camp,” Tommy whispered. “Now,” he suggested, turning back.

  There was a shout and Rowen and Jack straightened, hearing a woman’s voice come from the seemingly male silhouette. The tall top hat, waistcoat, and trousers could not completely disguise the curves of their owner once she was directly before them.

  Yelling at them.

  Not exactly yelling at them but yelling at Tommy.

  “You bring strangers here—”

  Tommy protested. “Friends. They killed the Ala queen.”

  “That makes them friends? Makes them trustworthy?” Her voice rose and she tugged off her top hat, long hair tumbling free. She waved the hat at Tommy in exasperation. “So the enemy of my enemy must be my friend?” She threw the hat on the ground between them.

  Tommy calmly leaned over and picked it up. Gently brushing it off, he straightened its brim as she stormed on about secrets no longer being secrets and not being able to trust her own people to keep their technology quiet. Tommy kept quiet and let her finish fuming.

  Finally she stood still, silent before them. She snatched the hat from Tommy’s hands and awkwardly stuffed her hair back underneath it. Thick strands of it stuck out but she straightened her back, pulled back her shoulders, and regained some small part of her masculine posture. With an exhale that sent hair hanging near her eyes fluttering, she stomped away.