Title: THE WATER IS WIDE
Author: Laura Vosika
Publisher: Gabriel’s Horn Press
Pages: 451
Genre: Time Travel/Historical Fiction
After his failure to escape back to his own time, Shawn is sent with
Niall on the Bruce’s business. They criss-cross Scotland and northern
England, working for the Bruce and James Douglas, as they seek ways to
get Shawn home to Amy and his own time.
Returning from the Bruce’s business, to Glenmirril, Shawn finally meets the mysterious Christina. Despite his vow to finally be faithful to Amy, his feelings for Christina grow.
In modern Scotland, having already told Angus she’s pregnant, Amy must now tell him Shawn is alive and well—in medieval Scotland. Together, they seek a way to bring him back across time.
They are pursued by Simon Beaumont, esteemed knight in the service of King Edward, has also passed between times. Having learned that Amy’s son will kill him—he seeks to kill the infant James first.
The book concludes with MacDougall’s attack on Glenmirril, Amy and Angus’s race to be there and Shawn’s attempt to reach the mysterious tower through the battling armies.
Amazon
Returning from the Bruce’s business, to Glenmirril, Shawn finally meets the mysterious Christina. Despite his vow to finally be faithful to Amy, his feelings for Christina grow.
In modern Scotland, having already told Angus she’s pregnant, Amy must now tell him Shawn is alive and well—in medieval Scotland. Together, they seek a way to bring him back across time.
They are pursued by Simon Beaumont, esteemed knight in the service of King Edward, has also passed between times. Having learned that Amy’s son will kill him—he seeks to kill the infant James first.
The book concludes with MacDougall’s attack on Glenmirril, Amy and Angus’s race to be there and Shawn’s attempt to reach the mysterious tower through the battling armies.
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As the
shadows lengthened, Shawn cleared his throat. “Any thoughts on where to spend
the night? Is there a Holiday Inn around here?”
“There’s no
inn of any sort.”
“Yeah, and
that’s a problem,” Shawn said, “because last time I slept in the great
outdoors, a wolf climbed into bed with me, and it didn’t really end well for
either of us.” He rubbed his thigh, where a long scar would forever remind him
of the night.
“You did
well.” Niall cocked a grin at him. “It almost makes me glad to have you at my
side, despite your infernal complaining.” The sky over the leafy canopy grew
grayer as they climbed another hill.
“I haven’t
complained for half an hour, and considering I’m stuck with you, that’s pretty
impressive.” An owl hooted, low and mournful. “I’m pretty sure that knocks a couple
months off any Purgatory time I’d racked up.” The river crackled, cold water
splashing against thin ice on the edges, beside them.
“Any
time?” Niall chortled, a candle against the darkening wood. “You’ll be
fortunate to get as high as Purgatory, and if you do, you’ve racked up so much
time there, they’ll have to kick the rest of them straight into Heaven to make
room for all the Purgatory you need!”
“I don’t
think it works like....” Shawn stopped at the top of the hill, staring at the
sight before them. “Holy ruins, Batman. What is that?”
Niall and
his pony halted by his side. The animal tossed its head, and nuzzled Niall’s
arm. Before them stretched a wide expanse of broken stone walls, stone
buildings with mouths and eyes gaping wide in the twilight, on either side of a
long road. One vast length of wall held numerous niches. Thirty yards away,
crumbling walls enclosed rows of short, stout, stone posts. Beyond it, a
stairway led down into a dark maw. Bushes sprang from cracks. Trees grew in and
among the abandoned structures. Shadows stretched everywhere, as the sun sank,
sending fiery orange and pink rays down the center road, lighting the mist that
swirled along it.
“That,”
said Niall with a smile, “is our inn. God provides.” He touched his heels to his
pony, starting down the gentle slope.
Shawn
coughed loudly. “Uh, yeah, He sure does. The question is what has He
provided? What is this place?”
“A Roman
fort.” Niall led his pony down the center path, the remains rising on either
side. A bird called somewhere in the trees.
“The Roamin’
in.” Shawn used English for the last two words. “God has a sense of humor.”
Niall
smiled, pointing to the stairs leading down. “There. ’Tis indoors.”
“It’s a
pun,” Shawn clarified. “It’s a whole lot funnier if you see it spelled out.”
“No doubt,”
Niall agreed. “Shall we gather firewood? Keep any more wolves from climbing in
bed with you?”
“Yes,
let’s. And what keeps away the ghosts of the Roman legionnaires? Or their
victims?”
“One sight
of your face ought to scare any spirits back to the underworld.”
“If that
doesn’t work,” said Shawn, “your pathetic attempts at music will.”
“Perhaps
you could brag of your exploits with women.” Niall grinned. “Even Hades is
better than having to listen to that.”
Shawn
laughed. “You’re jealous.”
They picked
their way over the darkening path strewn with stones. In the trees above, an
owl hooted.
“What
happens tomorrow?” Shawn nodded at the limping pony.
Niall’s
mouth was taut. “We hope he’s better. If not, we let him rest, and spend the
time learning to play the lute. We’ve shelter, walls and a roof, which is more
than we expected.”
They
stopped before their intended room. Shawn sighed. It would do no good to stay
in the open, but the stone structure, with its empty eyes and stone stairs
descending into darkness, was hardly welcoming.
“We’ll need
wood,” Niall said. They tethered the ponies to a tree springing up near the
ruin, left the lute beside them, and set out to gather branches.
The sky was
now deep blue, the ruins cloaked in shadow. A wolf howled in the distance. The
air grew chillier as they worked, till a night among ghosts looked inviting,
even homey, as long as it was warm. They piled the kindling on the lowest step
outside their chosen abode, where it would warm the room, but send its smoke up
into the sky. Niall scraped flint, and soon, they had flickering light by which
to eat their hard bread and berries. Shawn settled back, content with his
stomach less than empty, and pulled out the lute. He adjusted a couple tuning
pegs, tried a few chords, and began one of the songs he’d played on guitar.
Niall relaxed against another wall, watching his fingers, humming along. “Let
me try,” he said at last. Shawn handed it over, giving instruction as Niall
leaned over the strings, working his fingers into unfamiliar positions for
chords, and picking out melodies.
Outside, a
pony whickered. Niall and Shawn froze, looking to the doorway, where they could
see only black night beyond the glowing fire. Niall laid the lute down gently.
“We've been careless,” he said softly. They reached for their knives.
“I’m kind
of hoping it’s only a ghost,” Shawn whispered back. The familiar tingle of
adrenaline began, a tremoring of the nerves in his arms. His muscles tightened.
“Do we wait for whoever it is to come in?”
Niall shook
his head. “And wait for a whole army to come in on us? If I’m to die tonight,
’twill be fighting for my life.” He rose, back against the wall, and inched
around till he stood pressed by the doorway, where the fire crackled. On the
other side, Shawn did the same, his heart pounding hard. Niall pointed to his
chest, then to Shawn, and held up fingers in a silent count: One. Two. Three.
He sprang
over the small flames, into the night. Shawn leapt behind him, knife ready,
heart beating triple time, nerves screaming! The fire threw shadows across the
pony, who balked against his tether. Shawn saw nothing. But he heard the crack
of a twig just beyond the light. He and Niall lunged. The single crack grew
into a panicked flurry of rustling leaves, cracking twigs, branches snapping
back in their faces as they gave chase. Shawn ducked and swerved, saw Niall
ahead, veered, and suddenly, there was a pile of arms, legs. He dropped his
knife.
“Get down!”
Niall roared. Shawn threw himself to the ground, hands over his head.
All became
silent for a heartbeat...two.
Then the
forest erupted with sound!
“I didn’t
mean you!” Niall said indignantly.
“I’ve done
naught, Milord! Don’t kill me!”
Then Niall
was laughing, great gusty roars of merriment. “Shawn, get up! You’re hiding
from a boy!”
“Don’t kill
me! I can help you! I can help your hobin, Milord!”
Shawn
inched his hand from over his eyes to see the dark shape of Niall sitting
astride a boy who managed to flounder, fight, and cower, all at once, while
protesting. He climbed irritably to his feet. “You said get down!”
“I meant
him.”
“You staged
this because your lute-playing sucks!” Shawn threw back into the night. “You
needed a distraction.”
“Thank
goodness at least you can play a lute, because the way you fight, a mouse would
have gotten the better of us!”
The boy
looked back and forth between them. He stopped struggling. “Milord?”
Shawn
realized both their faces were showing. He recoiled into shadow. Niall climbed
to his feet, his knife at the ready. “Get up.”
“He’s just
a boy,” Shawn sighed. “Put your knife away.”
“Aren’t we
sending boys to war?” Niall asked. “What makes you think a boy can’t kill?”
Shawn had
no answer. He could think only of the boys to whom he’d taught trombone, so
many years ago in the future—boys in sports jerseys, with trimmed hair,
worrying about who to ask to prom. This boy stood before them in tatters. He
wrapped his arms around his skinny body. His hair hung past his shoulders. Clarence.
His father’s killer, as he’d last seen him, flashed through Shawn’s mind. Yes,
boys could kill. He didn’t want to believe this one would. He just didn’t want
any more ugliness in his world.
“What’s
your name?” Niall demanded.
“I have
none,” the boy said.
“No name?
How can you have no name?”
The boy
shrugged. “My parents died long ago, my mother in childbirth, and my father in
battle. A farrier found me and took me in. He didn’t know my name.”
“Surely he
called you something?”
“Red.” The
boy’s shivering increased.
“Niall,”
Shawn said.
Niall
pressed the boy, ignoring Shawn. “And why are you not with him now?”
“He
was....” Red’s teeth clacked together. He clenched them tight, rubbing his
hands up and down his arms, and tried again. “He was killed when the soldiers
came through. I ran into the forest and hid. They were afraid to follow me into
the ruins.”
“Niall,
he’s cold.”
Niall’s
knife remained pointed at the boy. “Which soldiers?”
“They were
English, Milord. Meaning no offense, Milord.” His teeth clattered again. “If
you’re English.”
“Niall!”
Shawn stepped forward, his anger growing. “He’s just a kid! He’s about
to....”
Before he
finished, the boy collapsed. Shawn was under him, catching his sagging body
before it hit the ground.
Laura Vosika is a writer, poet, and musician. Her time travel series, The Blue Bells Chronicles,
set in modern and medieval Scotland, has garnered praise and
comparisons to writers as diverse as Diana Gabaldon and Dostoevsky. Her
poetry has been published in The Moccasin and The Martin Lake Journal 2017.
She has been featured in newspapers, on radio, and TV, has spoken for regional book events, and hosted the radio program Books and Brews. She currently teaches writing at Minneapolis Community and Technical College.
As a musician, Laura
has performed as on trombone, flute, and harp, in orchestras, and big
bands. She lives in Brooklyn park with 5 of her 9 children, 3 cats, and
an Irish Wolfhound.
Her latest book is the time travel/historical fiction, The Water is Wide.
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