Unforgotten

  I start loading the extra apples that Mrs. Pattinson has allotted into the back and then climb onto the bench. Blackthorn snorts in disapproval and stamps his foot. But Zen is quick to put him at ease, as he does everyone who seems to distrust me. He walks up to him, pats him gently on the face, and whispers in his ear, “Don’t worry, old man. She’s not that bad.”

  I let out a huff. “Well, thanks.”

  Zen smiles, grabs the reins, and hops up to sit beside me. He gives Blackthorn the signal to go and suddenly we’re off, trudging through the tall grass on the outskirts of the property, until we reach the dirt road that will take us into town.

  I turn and watch the small farmhouse, where we’ve spent the past six months of our lives, get smaller and smaller behind us. Although I know it’s only my imagination, through the clip clop of Blackthorn’s hooves on the ground, the rumble of the wheels beneath us, and the hiss of the wind whizzing past my ears, I swear I hear it whispering goodbye.

  9

  STORMS

  Throughout the hour-long drive, I steal quick glances at Zen from the corner of my eye, taking note of his slouched posture, sagging cheeks, and general air of fatigue. I ask him repeatedly how he’s feeling and every time he answers, quite snappishly, that he’s fine.

  But he certainly doesn’t look fine. Every few minutes he has to cough and he’s been consistently wiping perspiration from his brow even though the weather is actually quite cool today.

  I glance up at the gray sky and wonder when it will start raining. I hope it’s not while we’re out. I’m certainly no expert in illnesses but I have a feeling being outside in the rain isn’t the best thing for someone who looks as awful as Zen does.

  When we arrive in the city, Zen steers the cart into the marketplace and pulls Blackthorn to a halt. I sit paralyzed in my seat. Trying to take in the chaotic scene that is playing out in front of me.

  I’m starting to feel like I left my stomach back on the farm.

  Zen seems oblivious to my reaction. He’s too busy marveling. Mumbling something about how it looks exactly like it does in the movies. I don’t even know what a movie is so I don’t share his admiration. All I feel is sick. And a burning desire to turn around and sprint as fast as my genetically enhanced legs can carry me back down the road that brought us here. At top speed, I could probably be back on the farm in less than ten minutes.

  I’m not sure what I expected to see. The only other towns or cities I’ve been to are Wells Creek and Los Angeles. But this city is nothing like either of those. Instead of stores and buildings, there are hundreds of little stalls set up along the perimeter of the square. Each one selling something different. Like meat, cloth, vegetables, bread, grain, and live animals in wooden cages. People are milling about, calling out orders, and haggling over prices. One woman walks past us pulling a rope attached to a goat, while another passes in the other direction holding a dead chicken by its feet. I assume it was recently alive due to the fact that it still has its feathers and its eyes are wide open, revealing the same terrified look I saw on the faces of the bodies floating in the ocean with me after the plane crash.

  There are no markings on the ground or signs on poles to direct traffic. But somehow the varieties of different-sized wheeled contraptions pulled by horses and oxen manage to weave effortlessly around one another, as though they can read the oncoming drivers’ thoughts.

  Zen hops down from the cart, taking a moment to steady himself before starting to unload the produce from the back, stacking the crates of apples and pears. I can tell he’s struggling and I quickly jump down and walk around to help him.

  As I work, I can’t help but wince at the foul smell in the air. It’s much worse than the odor in the Pattinsons’ barn when the pig sty is due to be cleaned. I scrunch up my nose, lean in close to Zen, and whisper, “What is that?”

  Zen nods, letting me know he smells it, too. “No indoor plumbing. People toss their waste into the street.”

  The thought makes me want to retch but I somehow manage to avoid it.

  “I think we’ll get used to it,” Zen says hopefully. “Everyone here seems to have.”

  After the last crate has been unloaded, Zen points to a small gap between two of the stalls on the other side of the road. “I think we should set up there.” He turns to me and winks. “If we sell all this stuff fast enough, maybe we can even go exploring for a little while.”

  I nod, acting like the idea excites me as much as it seems to excite him, even though just standing here in the middle of all this commotion is setting my entire body on edge.

  “We should really see Shakespeare performed at the Globe,” he says, then leans in conspiratorially and whispers, “before it burns down in four years.”

  “It burns down?”

  He nods. “Unfortunately. A cannon sets fire to the roof during a production of Henry VIII. They rebuild it a year later, though.”

  “You seem to know a lot about Shakespeare,” I point out.

  Zen picks up one of the crates. He seems to exert an obvious amount of effort but he still manages a crooked grin as he says, “I researched him for you. After you read ‘Sonnet 116,’ you had to know everything there was to know about him.”

  Despite my frayed nerves, this makes me smile. “Then we definitely should go see one of his plays when we’re finished.”

  He nods and nudges his chin toward the cart. “It doesn’t look like we can park here. Why don’t you walk Blackthorn to that hitching post over there and then help me carry everything.”

  I notice how he struggles to balance the crate in his arms, the unnaturally thick layer of sweat that appears on his upper lip, and the way his face seems to be losing color by the second. I nibble nervously on the tip of my finger. “Actually,” I say, trying to keep my voice light and helpful, “maybe you should tie up the horse and I’ll start moving the crates over.”

  Zen lets out a stutter of a laugh that quickly turns into a violent cough, causing him to nearly drop the box. “Sera,” he says sternly, “you have to get over your fear of that horse someday.”

  “I didn’t mean—” I start to argue, but Zen has already swung the crate up onto his shoulder and turned away. He waits for a lull in the traffic of horse-drawn carts and riders before crossing the street.

  Why does he have to be so stubborn? He’s worse than the horse.

  With a sigh, I trudge around the front of the cart and stomp up to Blackthorn. He jerks in response to my brusque approach and pins his ears back close against his head in his default sign of aggression. But this time I’m not tolerating it. Maybe it’s Zen’s foul mood rubbing off on me or my own lingering disquiet from my dream this morning, but I’m done putting up with this horse’s attitude. I snatch the reins and give them a yank. Blackthorn whinnies his complaint.

  “Listen,” I say firmly, looking him directly in his big black ball of an eye, “enough is enough. Either you learn to like me or I punch you in the face. So what’s it gonna be?”

  I sincerely doubt the horse understood the words that were coming out of my mouth, but he seemed to comprehend the meaning just fine because suddenly it’s like he’s an entirely different animal.

  He lets out a small snort, his ears perk back up, and his head bows slightly, as though he’s submitting to me. I’m actually fairly surprised that my approach worked and I let out a snort of my own.

  Maybe Mr. Pattinson was right. Maybe I simply needed to stop being afraid of him first.

  I pull the reins over his head and give them a gentle tug. Obediently he picks up his feet and follows me without complaint or resistance.

  “There,” I say to him as we reach the hitching post. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Isn’t it so much better now that we’ve dealt with our issues and can behave like civilized beings?”

  He doesn’t respond but I take his silence as acquiescence.

  I loop the leather rein around the wooden post and pull the end through. “Now if we can—”

/>   A scream that turns my blood to stone rips through the air, causing both me and Blackthorn to startle.

  My head whips in the direction of the sound and in an instant all my surroundings vanish. The putrid odor of the city is lifted onto an invisible breeze. The pandemonium of the bustling marketplace drips and fades into unrecognizable shapes and colors. Like someone threw a cup of water on a fresh painting. The boisterous racket of people and rumbling carts just kind of slips away into a faint hush. Like the sound of the world submerged in water.

  Then all I hear is the screech of wooden wheels scraping against the coarse dirt, the wail of a terrified horse as it’s jerked into an unnatural twist, and the rough, angry bellow of a driver as he tries unsuccessfully to steer the massive, unwieldy wagon around the young man lying unconscious in the middle of the road.

  A spiral of red apples fans out around his beautiful face, the empty, inverted crate lying a few feet away. His damp dark hair is matted to his forehead and his skin is as pale and gray as the sky. I have no time to think before the wagon starts to overturn. I watch the heavy, rounded roof topple and plunge right toward Zen’s head as the first drop of rain lands on the tip of my nose.

  10

  TORN

  I must be flying. If my feet touch the ground I don’t feel it. The only thing I feel is the cool air whirring past my face, knocking off my bonnet, tangling recklessly through my hair. And then …

  Gravity.

  Fighting against me as my hands cut through the closing sliver of space between the top of the descending wagon and Zen’s skull. Gravity pushing back. Hard and relentless. Thrusting the massive cart toward the earth with the force of a thousand men.

  It wants to win. It wants to crush him. To take him from me forever. To leave me stranded in this foreign time alone.

  But I won’t let it.

  I fight back. Bending my knees for leverage. The wood digs into my hands, splintering off and piercing my skin. I let out a shallow grunt as I lift with all my strength, planting my feet firmly against the ground, straightening my legs, and with one final effort, I stand, shoving the wagon away.

  It turns upright again but is spinning far too fast to stop there. It keeps rotating, breaking free from the slender poles that attach it to the horse that is now lying on its side, breathing heavily. The wood snaps easily and the wagon continues revolving, roof over wheels, round and round until it finally crashes into a row of merchant stalls and sputters to a halt, teetering precariously on one of its diagonal edges.

  A woman screams again. I presume it’s the same one but I don’t look up to verify. I look only at Zen, bending down, waiting for him to open his eyes. Waiting for the confirmation that he’s okay.

  Did I get there fast enough?

  Is he unconscious?

  Is he dead?

  The last thought kicks me squarely in the stomach and what little wind I have left after my efforts is gone. Crushed upon impact.

  I reach out and touch his face. Gently stroking his cheek. His dark thick eyelashes flutter twice and then his eyes drag open. I exhale loudly and collapse onto him, crying softly into the dirt-soiled collar of his shirt.

  “Shhh,” he soothes, moving with difficulty as he attempts to caress my hair.

  “I thought … I thought you were…” I can’t finish the sentence. Mild tears give way to thundering sobs that choke the last word and hold it captive in my throat.

  Gone.

  One second later and he would have been.

  “It’s okay,” Zen says to me, struggling to prop himself up on his elbows. His features contort in torment with every inch he attempts to move. Finally, he gives up and falls onto his back again.

  I bury my face in the crook of his neck. It’s scalding hot. So hot I have to pull away. Panicked, I glance down at him. It looks like he dunked his head in a bucket of water.

  I dab at my wet cheeks with the heel of my hand. “What’s happening to you?” I ask.

  “Nothing.” He attempts to reassure me. “I’m fi—” But he never finishes the sentence. He breaks into violent coughs that cause his entire body to shudder. I watch helplessly, wincing every time another powerful convulsion rips through him.

  “You keep saying that, but you’re clearly not fine!” I shout, no longer able to hold in my exasperation.

  He clears his throat and presses his fingertips against his temple, cringing. “Okay, maybe I’m a little sick,” he finally admits. “But I’ll be fine. I’m a quick healer. Always have been.”

  I hear people yelling far in the distance but I ignore it, choosing instead to focus on Zen. I reach out and brush his damp hair away from his forehead, trying not to flinch as his skin scorches my fingertips.

  One look at his pale face and sunken eyes and I can’t handle it. I collapse into him again, wrapping my arms around him and pulling him tightly to me. He lets out a soft chuckle and continues to stroke my head. But I can tell that it’s a difficult task because his hand barely grazes my hair. Like a faint breeze, hardly even strong enough to rustle the leaves of a tree.

  The sound of yelling is suddenly louder. Closer. And I feel Zen’s body stiffen beneath me. “Sera,” he says cautiously. His hand falls from my head and taps me feebly on the back.

  But I don’t move. I don’t want to go anywhere. The carts and horses and people can just go around us.

  “Sera,” he says again. This time there’s a severity in his tone that sends a chill through me. I jerk up. “What’s wrong?”

  His eyes are dark and wild. Focused on something in the distance. Something behind me. The voices. I spin my head around and see a mass of people congregating. Speaking in frantic, fearful tones. Pointing in my direction. Sharp, angry fingers extended. Jabbing.

  “She’s right over there!” one of them says.

  “I saw it with my own eyes!” Another chimes in. “She lifted up the wagon as though it were made of feathers.”

  “And did you see her move?” a woman asks the growing crowd. “Like wind. Like lightning!”

  I look back at Zen with panicked eyes. He’s calm but alert. I open my mouth to speak but he holds one finger to his lips. He nudges his chin purposefully in the direction of my chest.

  “We need to get out of here,” he whispers, holding my gaze intently, speaking to me with his eyes as well as his tongue.

  I glance down at the tip of my kerchief, confused. The chaotic sounds behind me turn my attention back to the swarm of people. It’s almost tripled in size. Scattered murmurings have turned into a roar of outrage. Three muscular men shove their way to the front of the group. Their angry eyes home in on me. They yell one rallying word to the crowd and start stalking toward us. Everyone follows, spreading out until they’ve covered the width of the road. An impenetrable wall of rage.

  At last I get it.

  He doesn’t just want to get out of here. He wants to get out of here. Out of this town. Out of this time. Our sojourn in 1609 is over. I’ve done exactly what I wasn’t supposed to do. Cause a scene. Draw attention to myself.

  And judging by the size of that mob, it’s a lot of attention.

  He motions toward my chest again and now I understand. He’s gesturing to my locket. I need to get it out. Get it open. Activate the gene. Otherwise, I’m not going anywhere.

  “It’s the devil’s work! I’m sure of it!” comes an enraged voice behind me. They’re getting closer.

  I claw desperately at my clothing, scraping against my knotted kerchief and tight bodice. But my shaking hands slip and fumble. And there are just too many layers. Too much fabric.

  I look anxiously back to see the mob storming toward us, shouting curse words, bellowing nonsense about Satan.

  “Sera,” Zen prompts in a warning tone.

  “I can’t!” I cry. “I can’t get to it.”

  “Rip through,” he commands me. “You’re strong enough.”

  I do as I’m told, grabbing a fistful of material and yanking as hard as I can. The fabric
tears with a popping sound. I dig down the front of my corset, under my shift, grappling for the chain.

  I pull until the smooth, black charm is out. Zen reaches for it. Wraps his fingers around it. Slides his nail into the narrow slit that unites the two sides of the heart.

  I reach out, push up his sleeve, and grasp his arm, holding on tight. We have to be touching. Skin-to-skin contact. Otherwise, we’ll be separated.

  I close my eyes to focus on another time. Another place. Anywhere but here. I feel my body lift from the ground. Floating upward. Tugged into the air.

  It’s working! I think with desperate relief.

  We’re safe!

  But then I feel Zen’s arm being ripped from my hand. The sweat causes our skin to stick together momentarily and then I don’t feel him at all. There’s a hard yank on the back of my neck as the chain of my necklace snaps, leaving behind a strip of searing heat at the base of my skull.

  I open my eyes to find that I’m being carried by the three men who led the pack of angry townsfolk. One has his hands under my armpits, the other two have hold of my legs. We are moving swiftly away from Zen and the scene of the crashed wagon. I kick and flail, lifting my head long enough to see Zen finally manage to flick open the locket.

  I squeeze my eyes shut tight and imagine myself next to him. If I can transesse back to his side, just a few feet away, I can grab on to him and we can leave. Together.

  But I don’t move. I stay firmly locked in the strong hold of the three men. Which means it’s not working. My gene has not yet activated.

  But the locket is open!

  I saw him open it.

  There can be only one explanation: I’m too far away. Whatever technology Rio put into that locket must only work within a short distance. Or perhaps it has to be touching me. Which would explain why Rio placed it inside my locket. Something that would always be close by, resting next to my heart.

  Zen must have figured out the same thing. At the same time. Because I watch him leap shakily to his feet and run toward me. But his knees give out after a few steps and he plummets to the ground. He rolls onto his side, gasping for air, shaking, attacked by another onslaught of ragged coughs.