“Where is it?” she whispered. She grabbed a fold of skin at the back of her hand and pinched, hard. Nothing changed. She wasn’t dreaming. Where is Mossock?
A woman—not Sheila—emerged from a doorway adjacent to the hall. Jess gaped some more. She wore long tunic-over-tunic garment in a grayish blue color, and its fit showed the lines of early pregnancy. Her hair was hidden, wrapped in a dun cloth. Unlike the oaf with the barrow, she wore scuffed soft leather shoes. Lifting her skirts, the woman picked her way between the hens and through the ruts to approach Jess.
“God, help. This can’t be happening,” she whimpered under her breath
She hated whimperers.
The woman stopped several feet short of Jess, inclined her head with lifted brows, and said something quick and questioning in an unfamiliar language. Jess made a two-handed gesture she hoped communicated, I don’t understand you.
The woman frowned more deeply and repeated her question in French.
Middle-French.
Jess gulped a breath that didn’t have enough air in it. Her brain would not produce words, so she answered as best she could. “Je suis perdu.” I’m lost. She hoped her approximation would do, for she could not think or remember, or feel anything but terror.
The woman clucked her tongue. “You poor thing. And such clothing! How did you come to be lost?” Though Jess understood the archaic language, she couldn’t produce an answer. The woman scanned her up and down and appeared to reach a decision. “Come inside,” she said in a tone of command. “Mossock has ever offered its welcome to those in need. You must take wine, refresh yourself, and tell me what has befallen you.”
Apparently thinking her tongue-tied, shocked or stupid, she led Jess by the wrist as if reluctant to touch “such clothing.” Jess followed, mute, fighting rising nausea.
This isn’t Mossock. Well, it must be—the great hall looks the same. But so different. This is Mossock, but not the house I saw last night.
Indeed, the hall had changed. Where last night it had stood empty, populated only by dust-motes and sorrow, today the hall bustled with people. In the enormous corbelled hearth, a merry fire snapped and sent high flames up the chimney. Along one wall, plainly dressed men set up a long trestle-table. With impatient gestures, a middle-aged woman urged them to haste. Across the end of the room near the fireplace, a second, shorter table had already been set up and covered with white cloths. To this table the woman tugged her. “Maude! Bring sweet wine.”
The older woman left off harrying the men and hurried to obey. Jess sank down upon a long bench. Lord, help me. These people wear medieval clothing. They’re setting up a great hall for a morning meal, and they’re going to bring me wine, not coffee. This lady who greeted me isn’t Sheila. She isn’t anyone I know. She belongs here, and this is her time, not mine.
Oh, Lord, I’m going to faint.
Jessica closed her eyes and got ready. But that easy way out didn’t happen. Muttering under her breath in sharp disapproval, the woman Maude brought a goblet of white metal with carving on the bowl. Jess sipped, more to gain time than because she wanted anything with alcohol in it. The wine, however, tasted light and sweet, and it refreshed her. The younger woman, sitting at her side and watchfully waiting, apparently saw she was doing better.
“First,” she said kindly, “your name, s’il vous plait.”
“Jessica.” Her voice had no tone, so she tried again. “Jessica Lindstrom.”
The woman tried it. With the soft French J her name sounded foreign and somehow comforting. “Unusual. How did you become lost?”
“I wish I knew.”
That caused another frown. Jess tried again. “You’re very kind. I thank you for the wine, but I should go and try to find my—” She choked. My what? My people? My own century? How on earth do I find that, when I can’t guess how I got here?
The woman apparently saw her distress. With a kind pat on the hand, she began to speak in the low, soothing tones one uses to a frightened child. “You must not worry. You will bide here, in safety. When Geoffrey returns, he will send to ask after your husband and family.”
“Geoffrey?”
“My husband,” the woman explained patiently. “Geoffrey de Tallac. Surely you have heard of him. Forgive me—I did not give you my name. I am Alys de Tallac. We hold Mossock and many other honors. My husband is vassal to Lord Michael Veryan, who is highly respected at court.”
Jess grabbed for her goblet and drank, more deeply this time. The wine-buzz permeated into the shock flooding her mind. At court. Whose court? Not
Alys let out a chirp of laughter. “Not unless my hair has turned color in the night.” From under her workaday headdress she pulled a thick dark braid and held it out for inspection, then tucked it back away. “Not yet, it would seem.”
“Forgive me. I mis-spoke. It seems I heard a tale…”
Alys’s eyes widened in what could only be delight. “This night, while we and the maids sew, Lady Jessica de Lindstrom, you will tell us this tale.”
Jess gulped. “I know but part of a tale, not the whole. I do not know the ending.”
“Even better. We will tell it in the manner of a round-tale, and make one.” Alys clapped her hands. “Now, come above. We must have you properly dressed.”
Upstairs in a busy solar, Jess endured the open-mouthed stares of Alys’s maids. Alys reprimanded them in stern tones, telling them they must serve her guest, Lady Jessica, as they would their mistress. Though Alys pulled gown, undergarment, and soft leather shoes out of her own wardrobe trunk, Jess insisted on a private chamber to replace her own “strange clothing” with Alys’s. The last thing she wanted were questions about her zipper, Reeboks or bra. In these superstitious times, it might be one short step from stranger to witch.
“Your hair,” Alys said. “Where is your veil?”
Jess poked at her curling light-brown do. What once had seemed a stylish layered cut, falling just below her shoulders, now seemed garishly out of place. “I must have lost it.”
Forgive me, Lord. Help me. I’m way out of my depth here. I’m a historian, but I have no clue what to say or do. Just help me fit in as best I can, ‘til I can find a way to get home. Her eyes filled.
Seeing, Alys offered a quick and bracing hug. “Do not weep. You are frightened, naturally. You miss your people, but for sure your husband will soon come for you.” She put a finger under Jess’s chin. Miserable, Jess raised her eyes. “Such odd coloring, and yet so fair. I am sure he misses you sore, and will make all haste to find you.”
Do I tell her I’m single? At my age? Girls married young in these times, and I’ll be an anomaly. “I have no husband.”
Alys winced in consternation. “Ah. The mortality. I understand, and I will speak of it no more.”
The mortality? I came to a year sometime after 1349? No, Lord, that’s not my period of study. Jess cast her eyes down, hoping silence would let her hostess draw her own conclusions. Alys chattered of domestic issues, praising the rich curling mass of Jess’s hair, as she sat her down and began to braid. Jess’s hair, never obedient, was no match for a determined medieval matron, however, and Alys soon had it tamed and hidden under a starched white coif. “There. You must feel much better.”
If I must, I must. “Thank you.” Jess scanned Alys’s solar for a mirror, and found none. The off-white chemise itched, and fit too big in the chest and too long in the hem. The shorter overtunic, cut away at the sides to show the chemise, was a dark mossy green in color. Apparently an everyday garment, it lacked ornamentation and was twin to the one Alys wore. She gave a shrug. If Alys was pleased, she must look normal. Whatever a twenty-first century historian was to make of that…
Unbidden, anticipation bubbled under the fear. However this happened, I’m here. I didn’t ask for this, Lord, despite what Sheila thinks. I’m scared spitless, but if You want me in this century for some reason of Your own—let’s accomplish it, together, as fast as we can.
* * *
Good scene showing her shock and fear. I like the descriptions and the way a clue is given as to the approximate time period. It’s nice to be acquainted with someone who knows what a trestle table is. :o) I like the bit of humor where Jessica gets ready to faint.
The only thing I’ll pick on is, even though she’s in shock, a couple of the thoughts feel repetitive—this isn’t Mossock, and that’s not Sheila. I realize she’s repeating things to herself in disbelief, but it still stood out to me. I also think it would be a nice touch, as long as she mentions
2 comments:
Very good job of showing Jess' shock. I really enjoyed this, because it's hard to imagine how I'd feel if I were thrown into such a situation.
I love some of your descriptions - "Jess gulped a breath that didn’t have enough air in it." Good job of showing and not telling. :) Keep it up!
Paragraph 15: Jack M. Bickham says, “Don’t write about wimps.” At this point, it seems like Jess is on the verge of fainting every time someone looks at her funny. Perhaps that is who she is as a character, but I am starting to grow tired of it.
Paragraphs 9 & 28: Jess seems to have learned to speak rather quickly. I really see no reason to make an issue of the language differences here. This is fantasy and if the reader can accept that a person can step through a magic portal then he can accept that Jess will be able to communicate with the people of the day. Whatever power is able to bring her here is able to give her the ability to speak. Perhaps it stuck a Babel fish in her ear, or maybe she learned to speak the language in college, but the reader really doesn’t care, unless you make an issue of it without explaining her ability to learn the language so quickly.
Paragraph 30: I feel a little cheated here. To this point, Jess really hasn’t had to explain anything. She shows up in the garden wearing strange clothes, is taken in by the Lady of the house, treated like a Lady and is given cloths to wear, but side from saying “I wish I knew,” she hasn’t had to say anything about why she is there or to explain her strange appearance. She is facing a problem and the problem disappears behind a closed door. Putting her in a situation where she has to explain these things can give the story flavor. Does she have a cell phone with her? Now things could really get interesting. Maybe her cell phone is still getting a signal. You might have to explain this by suggesting that the portal stayed open and the signal could pass through, but it could be interesting to see Jess try to explain getting a call from Mom, asking how her trip is going or something even more ordinary.
Paragraph 39: I’m glad to see that she does want to be here. It could be a very long book if she didn’t. What is missing from the paragraph is a reason for me, the reader, to face this unusual world with anticipation. In fact, this looks like a good place for me to stop reading. Everything seems to be working out nicely and she’s willing to let the Lord have his way. Instead of bringing everything to a nice tidy resolution, tell us about a problem that is coming up. It could be as simple as moving the end of the chapter a few paragraphs one way or the other. You could end chapter one with “Do I tell her I’m single? At my age? Girls married young in these times, and I’ll be an anomaly,” from paragraph 35. Then at the beginning of chapter two the first sentence should be “I have no husband.” This causes the reader to wonder, what is she going to say? How will Alys react? Rather than putting a bookmark in the book and putting it down, the reader will turn the page and say, “just a little bit more.”
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