Page 185 of Feathers in the Wind
‘What war?’ Nat looked at him.
‘Your war. We call it the English Civil War, and yes, indeed, it is the subject of much academic interest, just as you probably read about the Wars of the Roses.’
Nat frowned. ‘So you can tell me what became of the struggle?’
‘I can, but are you sure you want to hear it?’
‘Perhaps not right now,’ Nat conceded. He set down his beer and said with a wry, humorless smile, ‘It has been enough for me to know that I am dead, and indeed to know the exact date and circumstances of my death.’
I cleared my throat. I had been in the position of passing bad news to patients but even I couldn’t tell them exactly how, and when, they would die. Unless one was a prisoner on death row, how does anyone know when they will die? I don’t think I would want to have that information and could only imagine what thoughts were going through Nat Preston’s mind.
It was the fourth of June. If his time and ours ran parallel, he had eight days to live. Nathaniel tapped his fingers on the table and looked up at Alan. ‘So you think that I will return?’
Alan frowned. ‘Unless there is another Nathaniel Preston in a parallel universe, then you must go back.’
I shook my head in disbelief and stood up. All my life I had followed only logic and scientific proof. When I tried to make sense of what I was hearing, the thoughts whirled and jostled in my head.
‘I can’t get my mind around this. Time for another beer.’
I fetched us all another round and when I set the glasses on the table, Alan leaned forward. ‘We are agreed that yesterday was the same day of the month, only the year is different?’ Nat nodded and Alan continued, ‘So it seems to me, unless the fabric of time is going to be completely disrupted, you have to return.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
Alan cleared his throat. ‘We know Nat was present at the Battle of Chesham and his sword is in that display case. Therefore he must return.’
Nat’s mouth tightened and the unspoken words lay on the table between us; he had to return to die.
‘But how is he going to return?’ I asked.
Alan turned to me. ‘Jess, what did you feel yesterday?’
‘Feel? Nothing. Nat came over my wall and trampled my dahlias. That’s it. There wasn’t any weird shimmering or strange music.’
‘No, that’s not what I meant, but it is probable for those few seconds you were probably there as well.’
‘In the seventeenth century? With a Walkman?’ I spluttered on my beer.
Alan shrugged. ‘I’m a historian, not a physicist.’
‘I’m going back to my death,’ Nat said.
Alan cleared his throat. ‘You may not have a choice. Just as you didn’t choose to fall over a wall into the twentieth century, time may take you back when you least expect it.’
Nat drained his glass and set it down with a thump. ‘Then life, whatever form it takes, is for the living. I want to know everything about this time.’
* * *
At the endof a long day, we returned to my little cottage. Alan excused himself to return to his flat in Northampton and his papers, leaving me alone with Colonel Nathaniel Preston.
We had driven around the area, and explored every nook and cranny that he would have known from boyhood--no church or inn or ancient monument in the neighborhood had been neglected. To my surprise, now he had accepted the fact he was in 1995, he seemed to take in every new sight and sound with enthusiasm. In his position, I probably would have crawled under the bedclothes and stayed there, but he had a curiosity that astonished me.
One more modern invention awaited him and I was a bit wary it might lead to sensory overload. The television. When the picture flicked into life, he visibly started but once over the initial shock, crouched in front of the screen, touching the newsreader’s image.
‘How...’ He looked up at me, frowning.
I smiled. He looked so endearing, like a puzzled child, but a day of providing detailed explanations on every facet of twentieth-century life had left me exhausted.
‘I have no idea,’ I conceded. ‘How about I cook us some dinner? If you want to change channels...um, get a different story, then you press this button.’ I handed him the remote and, like all males of my acquaintance, he proceeded to channel surf. That kept him busy while I rustled up an omelet and soup for dinner.
