THOUGH NOT FROM ASSISI

"I wish they had more than one night," Joimus sighed as Maximus drove them home from Alistair and Ahnna's wedding in Coffs Harbor that afternoon.

"I cannot be helped," Maximus replied, his lips a bit tight. "Marce's funeral is tomorrow."

"I know...still I wish." She looked out the window at the passing trees for a while. "In the morning I want to make up an arrangement for the top of Marce's coffin. I want there to be a...a...padding of flowers
on it before Ahnna has to see it."

Maximus smiled to himself. Sometimes his wife used flowers very much as he had used his sword, as a weapon against the vagaries that life brought one's way. "What about the Greenery?" he asked. "Now that Ahnna does not wish to work there so soon after the attack. You cannot run it all alone, not even you."

"Ahnna mentioned a young woman who has the flat across the hall from her, well, from where she used to live. She thinks she might be interested. I suppose I'll give her a call this afternoon. If that doesn't work out, I'll try an ad in the paper."

"What do you know about this person?"

"Not all that much. Ahnna likes her, which is a recommendation in itself."

"And her name...?"

"Claire. Claire Francis." Joimus grinned broadly. "Though not from Assisi."

A MOVABLE TREE 


Claire opened the door to the Greenhouse, sending the delightful sound of a windchime singing through the interior space. Joimus came out of her office, smiling at the new arrival. "I rigged that up," she explained, "since I'm here alone right now. You must be Claire." The young woman matched Ahnna's description quite well.

"Yes, I've come about the job you mentioned."

"Come," Joimus said, "let me show you around, see what you think of the place."

It was bigger than Claire had expected and with a much more diverse array of plants. As the two women walked, Joimus asked Claire questions and she explained about her grandmother and how she was currently working at a small florist shop. Joimus took an instant liking to the young woman and guided her back out front and around to an outdoor section where there were young trees and larger shrubs for sale.

Claire could see the top of a tree bobbing along several rows over. Joimus caught where she was gazing and laughed, "Oh, that will be Cort. He's helping me with some heavy lifting today. Come on and I'll introduce you."

Cort's sleeves were rolled up nearly to his elbows and he had on jeans, boots, and a pair of thick leather gloves. The root ball of the tree he was moving was heavier than he thought and he paused, bending his knees a moment to let the burlap rest atop his thighs so he could shift his grip. It was thusly that Claire first saw him.

"Cort!" Joimus called, and he jerked his head around, trying to locate where her voice was coming from. She stepped out from behind a row of birch trees, followed closely by a young woman. As the woman moved out from the shade of the trees, sudden sunshine caught her hair, making it glow with brilliant light. His breath hissed in, his grip slipped, and the burlapped root ball slid down his legs, leaving him standing there, his face buried in young eucalyptus leaves.

Slightly mortified, he closed his eyes, then pushed aside some of the branches and peered out. She was smiling at him, not really laughing, but with a definite merry twinkle in her eyes. The heavy root ball was perched on the front of his boots and he pulled them out, one by one, taking a step back, still behind the tree.
 

Joimus put a hand quickly to her mouth to cover a chuckle. "Um, Cort," she said, clearing her throat, "I'd like you to meet Claire Francis. Claire is thinking about coming to work at the Greenery."

Cort stayed behind the tree a moment more, rubbing his gloved hand across his chin, forgetting about the dirt on the gloves and quite successfully transferring a fair amount of it onto his lower face. He sighed, unaware of what he'd just done, blew out a long
breath and stepped out into the hard-packed dirt aisle. "Mornin', Joimus." He dipped his head a bit. "Mornin', Miss."

Again both women tried to cover their amusement. He was simply, utterly adorable as he stood there, looking so discomfited. And then, to make matters worse, the root ball rocked and tipped, sending the seven-foot tree into his left side. Grabbing for it, he tripped, his boot getting entangled in a flapping bit of loose binding twine, and he and the tree fell together backwards on the path. He lay there, unmoving, waiting for the earth to open and swallow him, but the women thought that meant he'd been hurt and they both ran forward. Joimus gripped the trunk of the tree, pulling it off him and propping it against some others to one side, while Claire knelt in the dirt beside Cort.

"Are you all right?" He had his eyes closed and she put a hand lightly on his right shoulder.

He sighed again, briefly squeezing his eyes even more tightly shut before opening them. She was leaning over him, the sun directly behind her head creating a halo effect. He blinked, something new and almost sharp, piercing through his body. Claire saw the quick expression pass over his face. "You ARE hurt!" she exclaimed.

"No," he said quickly, his voice cracking a bit, "no, miss, I'm...fine." He sat up and she leaned back. Taking off his gloves, he slapped them against the tight denim over his thigh.

Joimus looked down at him. "You're sure you're all right?"

"Very sure," he said, giving his head a toss to flip his hair out of his face. With what was actually a very graceful motion, he got to his feet, then extended a hand to help Claire up. Pressing his lips tightly together, then licking the bottom one, he gathered what was left of his dignity. "Glad to meet you, Miss," he said. "Sorry about the tree."

Claire thought it the most remarkable first meeting she'd ever had with anyone. "Claire," she repeated, smiling again.

"Claire," he said, his deep voice doing marvelous things to the single syllable.

"Cort lives in the house with us," Joimus explained. "For the time being," she added. "He's been helping me with the Greenery lately and also works with my husband's horses and cattle."

Cort's green eyes flicked over to Joimus then back to Claire. "You're thinkin' of workin' here, too?"

"I am working here," Claire nodded. "That is, Mrs. Meridius, if you're agreeable."

"Quite agreeable," Joimus smiled. "I can really use your help."

"I...I can start Monday, if that's all right."

"Monday's fine. Would you like to look around some more, get acquainted with the place?" A car pulling into the parking lot caught her attention. "Cort, will you show Claire around? I see I've got customers."  Without waiting for an answer, she hurried down the path back toward the greenhouse.

NOT AT ALL AUSTRALIAN

"Have you been here long?" Claire asked Cort. They'd paused by a split rail fence and were leaning their arms on it, looking out across the fields.

"As long as I can remember," he replied, tipping his chin up a bit as he said the words.

"That long? I was given to understand the Meridiuses were fairly new to the valley. Were you born here then?"

"They are fairly new," he said. "I don't know about the rest?"

"You don't...? What do you mean?"

He turned to face her. "I don't know. Plain and simple as that. I don't know."

"You don't know if you were born here? Is that what you're saying?"

His eyes shifted toward the side. "I find this mighty awkward, Miss Claire."

"Please don't," she hurried to say. "I didn't mean to pry into your affairs, truly I didn't."

"I don't take it as pryin', Miss Claire. 'Specially not from you."

"Is...is there some problem, then?"

"With me, Miss Claire. Only with me."

No one had ever called her Miss Claire before and the way he went about it in that quiet, respectful way of his, touched something in her. "I'm sorry, Cort. It's not my business."

He looked back at her with open, frank eyes. "I wish it was."

"What do you mean?"

"I guess I mean I wish I knew whose business it was."

"I don't understand."

"Makes two of us," he said, smiling wryly.

"Please, Cort...."

"I'm sorry. I'm not used to it is all. Or maybe I am. That's somethin' else I don't know."

"What do you know, Cort?"

"I know this place is in Australia and that it's owned by good, decent folks. That's it."

"That's all you know?"

"Pretty much the sum of the thing, yes."

"But...."

"Sorry, Miss Claire. I know you just met me and I shouldn't be goin' on about this. Not right. Just not right and you have my apologies."

"Cort, I have no idea what you're apologizing for. I certainly don't feel like you owe me one. Not at all. You live here and this is my very first visit. You haven't done a thing except take time out from your work to show me around. I just wish...."

"What, Miss Claire?"

She smiled. "I wish I knew what you were talking about."

"Doesn't really make all that much never mind," he shrugged. "I'm here. Not much more to the thing than that."

"Do you like it here?" She found she didn't want to end their conversation, didn't want to go back to her car and leave, so she asked the first thing that popped into her mind.

"I like it fine, especially the horses. I think I must know a thing or two about horses."

"You think...? Cort, don't you know?"

"No, Miss Claire, I don't actually know. Just seems to come kind of natural, what they like, how to handle them. And East, he's the guy lives in the barn, tends to the groomin' and the shoein', he fills me in on what the General likes done with his horses."

"The General?"

"Yes, Mr. Meridius. He's a general...or was. Guess he still is pretty much. Guess once you are, you always are. Cavalry, over in Europe. Couldn't ask for a finer man to take you under his wing."

East came out of the barn and signaled when he saw Cort. "Well, Miss Claire, nice to meet you but it looks like I've got to be goin' now. I sincerely hope to see you again." He gave her a shy smile and loped off down the lane.

"Cort." She repeated his name softly as he neared the barn. "An unusual name for an unusual man."  Definitely not like the local boys she'd known in the area. And his accent was not at all Australian.

Joimus' customers were just loading the last of five small shrubs in the trunk of their car when Claire arrived back at the front of the greenhouse. "Cort give you a better idea of the outside portions of the nursery?" she asked.

"Yes, he was a good guide," Claire smiled. "Does he help out at the Greenery often?"

"Quite a lot. It's been good to have his help the last several days."

"He hasn't been here long then?"

"Just a few days, Claire, that's all."

"Hmmm? I asked him about that and he said he didn't know how long he'd been here. Said it was for as long as he could remember."

"That's true, Claire, it is for as long as he can remember."

At her puzzled look, Joimus added, "He has amnesia, Claire. Maximus found him in one of our fields a few days ago. He doesn't remember a thing."

Claire shot a quick look toward the barn, her mouth forming a silent Oh! "So that's what he meant. I didn't understand." She looked back at Joimus. "But his name. He knows his name."

"Not really," Joimus sighed. "He had a little Bible in his pocket with Reverend Cortland Wells written inside. We don't know for sure, but we believe that's who he is."

"A pastor?"

"Yes. It actually has come to seem more likely than not."

Claire turned away, staring intently at the place just outside the distant barn where Cort was talking with another man. "Oh, my goodness," she breathed.

Maximus explained the purposes of the varying chambers and as he did, his eyes lit up in anticipation. He really wanted this, more than he'd realized before actually drawing the plans for it. He'd always loved the opportunities, rare as they were in his adult military life, to spend time at the baths. And with this, he and Joimus could share the experience.

"It sounds like I have found the perfect man for the job," Maximus replied. "Come, Jeff, walk with me and let me show you the location I have chosen for the thermae." He turned to Joimus. "Would you wish to come along?"

"Here," Maximus was saying, pointing to the area closest to where they stood, "will be the main entrance. I will need
an apodyterium," he smiled, "changing room to you, on the left. Beyond that will be the frigidarium with the tepidarium

Jeff was getting so interested in the project, he had forgotten to be nervous in front of Maximus, and was eager to learn all he could from the General.

Maximus was pleased. "Yes, Jeff, it was usually after exercising that the oil would be scraped off with a strigil. I
think I shall probably have to arrange for some of those to be specially made. I doubt there is much demand for them in this time." He smiled.  "We shall forego the Roman latrine, I think, in favor of a modern bathroom." At Jeff's somewhat puzzled look, he explained. "A Roman latrine had a shallow channel of water running in front of the row of seats. Rather than toilet paper, we used sponges attached to sticks. I have, alas, gotten rather fond of...flushing."

For some reason, Jeff found himself blushing at the thought of a traditional Roman latrine. He wasn't sure why, after all, he played footy and was used to showering with other men, and of course in the changing room you all pissed in a line. It was the thought of doing what was usually done in a cubicle that had brought his colour up.

"I'm glad to hear that, General. I guess Mrs Meridius will be pleased as well, not that she'll be using the facilities. Weren't the baths a male only area?

"Oh, she will indeed use the facilities!" Maximus grinned. "We can have separate male and female bathrooms, but the baths themselves will accommodate...everyone. In fact, you yourself must assuredly try them. After all your work to bring this into being for me, you should definitely experience them first hand."

"That's very kind, General. I guess the quicker I get started, the quicker we can all accept your offer," Jeff replied, taking out his pad and writing copious notes.

"Let me know when you think you can get started, Jeff. I have already made many contacts with various contractors in the area as I have done so much construction since my arrival." He smiled wryly, knowing Joimus would shake her head at having to deal yet again with the sound of bulldozers vibrating the glass of her greenhouse. But she would love the thermae when it was done...and he would love having her join him in it. At that thought, his smile ceased any
indication of wryness.

"No worries, General. I’ll work on the figures as soon as I get back. They should be ready in a couple of days. If you accept my quote, I can start at your convenience," Jeff replied, smiling as he shook Maximus’ hand.

 

A HUGE MOUND OF TECHNOLOGY

Ahnna sat numbly beside Alistair's bed in the IC unit, turning the wedding ring on his left hand around and around. He had promised her...promised her...that he would always be there, would never leave her, and yet a rather blunt doctor had told her not to get her hopes up too much about her husband surviving the night. The one simply did not fit, could not fit, with the other.

The ride to Coffs in the front of the ambulance had been a nightmare beyond all nightmares. She couldn’t see him! He lay there in the back of the ambulance and she couldn’t see him, couldn’t touch him, couldn’t know how he was doing. She’d watched, absolutely horrified, while the medics intubated him. It wasn’t right that such a thing was having to be done to him. It wasn’t RIGHT! Then they’d bundled him into the back of the ambulance and before she knew anything, they were racing down the road toward the coast, lights flashing, sirens screaming through the countryside. They were in a hurry. They were in a hurry because he might die right there in the ambulance. She buried her face in her hands, the sirens spiraling down through her being, each cycle of their sound repeating, "Hurry, hurry, hurry, he’s dying, hurry, hurry, hurry."

Then when they arrived at the hospital, they’d rushed him away from her, not letting her follow. Didn’t anybody know she needed to be with him, had to be with him? It had seemed days before Joimus and Maximus arrived and Joimus had simply folded her in her arms and let her cry. Then, finally, they had let her go back to the ICU.

They had taken him from her again twice already for 90-minute sessions in the hospital’s brand new hyperbaric oxygen chamber. She had been able to look in through a small window, watching as they slid him inside a seven foot long acrylic tube. Seeing him in that she could not shake the image of Snow White in her glass coffin. It was just way too similar. If only she could go in there, open it as the prince had done, lean down and kiss him awake. He lay so still, so pale, that she had to turn away. The chamber was too coffin-like to bear.

The doctor had explained they liked to do three sessions in the first 24 hours, especially with the significant exposure to carbon monoxide Alistair had. The chamber was the most efficient way medicine had of reducing the amount of carbon monoxide in his blood and he had added, "It may reduce the risk of cognitive problems, like lasting damage to memory, attention, and concentration."

That was when it had first dawned on her that he could have brain damage. It was his lungs she’d been worried about, but his continued loss of consciousness was of great concern to the doctors.

Slowly she raised her eyes, not even able to count how many wires and tubes went from various formidable-looking machinery to his body. The worst of all, though, was the large tube that was taped to his mouth. She wanted to see his lips, but the tape obscured them. She wanted him to open his eyes, but he was unconscious. She wanted...him, but he seemed buried under this huge mound of technology, separated from her by it more thoroughly than merely by his unconsciousness.

Her tongue ran across her lower lip. She could still taste the soot from where she'd pressed her mouth to his so briefly there just outside the mill. She wanted the sweet warmth of his breath, but all there was was soot and the repetitive sound of the ventilator that was breathing for him, breathing for him because he couldn't breathe for himself. She closed her eyes, his recent singing of Amazing Grace at Marce's funeral so utterly clear. And now he couldn't even breathe.

Horrid words came, replacing the lovely lyrics; words, phrases, whose meanings she wasn't at all sure of but only that they had something to do with why Alistair lay there so profoundly still. Tissue hypoxia, shift in the oxyhemoglobin saturation dissociation curve, decreased myocardial contractility, chemical asphyxiant, high lactate acidosis. Horrid, ugly words, words that wanted to take him from her, leave her bereft beyond all endurance.

She lifted his hand to her mouth, kissing his ring. "You promised," she whispered, leaning closer to his ear. "Alistair, you promised me. Please, darling, please don't go, don't leave me. Oh, Alistair, please don't go...don't go." She began to cry silently, rocking back and forth in the chair, kissing his ring and rocking. The pain inside her grew and grew until she had to let go of his hand and wrap her arms around her own middle to stop herself from splitting apart.

Willis Todd had been called and, quickly arranging an all-night prayer vigil at his church there in Coffs, hurried to the hospital. He paused in the doorway of Alistair's room, his heart breaking at the sight of the couple he'd married so very recently. Ahnna appeared on the verge of collapse. "Darling girl," he said, coming up behind her and putting his hands on her shoulders.

She jumped, startled by his touch, then when she realized who it was, turned her face into him as he put his arms around her shoulders. "Oh, Ahnna, I came as soon as I heard."  He looked over the top of her head at Alistair. The doctor had told him how he was just barely clinging to life. Ahnna was trembling in his arms, her nerves strained beyond breaking. "You need to rest," he murmured. "You can't help him, Ahnna, if you're falling apart yourself."

"I...I can't leave him alone," she gasped. "He can't be here...alone."

"Let me get you someplace where you can rest a moment, maybe have something to eat, and I'll come and sit with him."

"But I...."

"Please, Ahnna. If you keep on like this, you'll end up in the hospital yourself."

Very reluctantly she stood, and with his arm around her, let him lead her to a small, private ICU waiting area. Maximus and Joimus were there now and just as Reverend Todd got Ahnna to the doorway, her knees started to buckle. Maximus was beside them in an instant, scooping her up into his arms. "I'm so...tired," she murmured, her head against his shoulder.

No one was in the room but them, and he lay her on the couch, putting a pillow under her head. "I'm not sure how much more she can take," Todd whispered to Joimus, shaking his head. "She is almost completely undone."  He sighed heavily. "I told her I'd sit with Alistair while she rests. I'll...I'll...let you know...should anything...happen."

Joimus asked a nurse for a blanket and a glass of water. "Here, darling," she said, "drink a little of this."

Ahnna took a few sips then lay her head back on the pillow, large tears tracking down her face. Joimus covered her with the blanket, kneeling beside her, stroking her hair. "Rest now, all right. Just rest."

Ahnna reached a hand up, covering one of Joimus'. "He can't die. He simply can't...die." Then she closed her eyes.

Joimus looked up at Maximus, her eyes bleak. They both knew all too well that Alistair could die.

Just when they thought she’d dropped off to sleep, her eyes flew open and she sat up, pushing back the blanket. "I can’t stay here," she said firmly. "I can’t be away from him."

Getting up, she hurried out of the waiting room and down the hall toward Alistair’s room.

Maximus opened his mouth to call after her, but Joimus put her hand on his arm. "I’d do the same," she said softly, "if that were you. Nothing would keep me from your side. Nothing." Turning, she moved into his arms, needing to feel their strong warmth surrounding her.

 

BATTLE IN THE ER

Robert sat on a tree stump, the oxygen mask on his face, as the woman who’d attended to him stepped briefly away. She'd told him to wait, to just sit there and breathe deeply, that they would be taking him shortly to the hospital in Coffs. He had no intention of going to any hospital anywhere. His airways and lungs still hurt like crazy and he couldn't seem to get his mind to concentrate for very long, but one thing he knew...he was not going in any ambulance.

Sucking in a last few lungsful of the oxygen, he pulled off the mask and quietly disappeared around the back of the mill, making for the nearest section of woods. Damn, but he was wobbly! He rather made his way from tree to tree, hanging on to them, to low-hanging branches for support. After about half a mile of this, he was exhausted, his vision blurring. He was going somewhere. Where was that? He shook his head, trying to clear it, only succeeding in making himself go into a paroxysm of dry heaves that tied his stomach in knots and sent him, gasping and wheezing, to his knees.

He stayed there several moments, trying to gather enough strength to stand, trying to remember just where it was he'd been and where he was going. Blind instinct drew him on toward home. He fell over and over now, his ability to keep to his feet failing him. Finally he stumbled out of the woods into the front yard of Rose Cottage, not even really knowing where he was. Again he went to his knees, leaning forward, his hands on the ground, his head hanging low.

Julie came out her front door to water the potted pale pink geraniums and saw him just as he fell. Quickly setting the watering can on a bench, she ran to him, kneeling beside him, her hand on his back. "Robert? What's happened? Are you hurt?"

His arms folded suddenly and he fell forward, his left shoulder hitting the ground, and rolled over onto his back, gasping like a landed fish. He smelled of smoke and soot and there was black smeared on his face and hands. "Robert?" He was frightening her now with his efforts to breathe.

"Have you been in a fire?" she asked. "Robert...a fire?"

Had he been in a fire? He wasn't sure. The Saracens had come, burning tents in the night. He'd pulled a man out. Was it the crossbowman from Wessex? "Man," he gasped. "Inside. Had to get man out. Had to...."

"You got a man out of a fire? Is that it, Robert?"

"Man," he nodded. "Yes, fire."

"You need medical attention, Robert. You do!"

He shook his head 'no'.

"I could take you into the Glen. They may have something there that could help."

"N...no!" he whispered. "No Glen."

"But...Robert!"

"No!" He shook his head adamantly, making his nausea worse.

"What about Coffs, then? Will you let me take you into Coffs? You can't just lie here on my lawn, for Pete's sake, Robert!"

"I...I..." The dry heaves took him again and he doubled up.

"That does it, Mister!" Julie said firmly, running into her house to get her purse and keys.
She pulled the car up as close as she could to where he lay, driving heedlessly across her lawn, crushing several foxgloves. Opening the passenger door, she managed to get him to push himself enough to haul him up onto the seat. He didn't seem quite sure what she was doing and so she had him before he could even protest. He leaned his temple against the side window and she roared off toward Coffs.

Speed limits be damned, she drove as fast as she could and still keep control of the car.
"Wh...where?" he asked once.

"You just breathe, Robert. Let me worry about where."

He kept his eyes closed most of the way, his hands lying limply at his sides, his head wobbling back and forth against the window as she took the curves. Pulling up at the emergency entrance, she got out and dashed up to a policeman standing by the glass doors. "I've got a man in the car who's having trouble breathing. He was in some sort of fire. Get me some help!!"

She ran back and opened Robert's door. He nearly fell out onto the pavement. Julie held him in his seat with her arms until a gurney burst through the ER doors and was pushed hurriedly toward them by a couple of attendants. People were grabbing at him. He didn't like it and swung an arm, striking one of the men across his chin with the back of his hand. Where was his bow? He fumbled, but couldn't seem to find it. The Saracens grabbed him, forcing him onto his back. He was so tired, too tired to fight. They had him this time. He lay quietly a moment while they wheeled him into the ER. They paused briefly in an entrance area and one of the men reached into Robert's pocket, pulling out his wallet. "Here, you'd better keep this with you, Ma'am. The hospital prefers a relative hold onto personal items if at all possible."

"But...," she started to protest, "I'm not...."

A woman seated at a desk behind an open sliding glass window, spoke up. "Ma'am, we're going to need his insurance information. Can you step over here a moment, please?"

"But...," she protested again.

"Patient's name?"

"R...Robert," she stammered, then realized she had no idea what his last name was. Good Lord, how could she have never found that out? "Just...just a moment. I'll give you his insurance card." With shaking fingers she opened his wallet. The card was right on top. She stared at it blankly. Robert Loxley it said. "Loxley? How could...?"

"What was that, Ma'am? I couldn't quite hear what you said."

"Loxley," she repeated, clearing her throat. "Robert Loxley."

"May I please see his card, Mrs. Loxley?"

"But...I...," she stopped. There was a sign on the wall behind the woman's desk stating that only relatives of patients could be with them in the ER. "H...here," she said, handing the card to the woman.

"Address?"

"Um, I, um...." She looked in his wallet, finding his driver's license. Robert Loxley. It said the same thing as his insurance card. Of course it would say the same thing!
Robert had been wheeled behind the first curtained off area to the left. Suddenly a loud bellow roared its way out of it and one of the attendants came stumbling backwards through the blue curtain, almost falling before he managed to right himself.

"Robert?" She stepped quickly around the corner, peering into the cubicle. Robert was on his feet, glaring furiously at the remaining man, his body tensed, slightly crouched. The man who'd been pushed through the curtain headed back in, accompanied by a burly male nurse.

Good God, how many Saracens were there? They just kept coming! His head was pounding and the nausea was rising again up his throat. He blinked repeatedly, trying to clear his vision, trying to make some sense of what was going on.

"Listen, Mister," the male nurse was saying. "We've got to get you on oxygen for your own good. Do you understand me? You need oxygen." In one hand he had a syringe with a sedative the doctor had quickly ordered.

Robert had his left arm up as though he were holding a shield. The Saracens were trying to back him into a corner. He swayed on his feet, knowing he couldn't hold out much longer, and his left hip hit a metal table, toppling it over, sending instruments clattering to the floor. Two of the men made a grab for Robert, but he twisted his torso, and one fell against the wall, the other into the side of the gurney and then to his knees.

A deep male voice spoke up from just behind Julie. "What is going on here?" It was Maximus, who had come to the hospital, bringing Joimus with him.

"Richard?" Robert gasped as Maximus stepped around Julie to get a better view.

"Damn it!" the man on his knees gritted, grabbing Robert's legs. Robert overbalanced and fell, not exactly what the man had intended.

Oh, God, the king was here! Robert saw the arrow heading for Richard and as he fell, forced his body forward, twisting desperately so that the barbed end embedded itself in his side and not in his king's. He fell hard, still fighting, not certain Richard was all right. The male nurse was practically atop Robert now and Robert grappled with him, trying to keep his blade from his throat.

Maximus took in the scene, recognizing it for the battle it was. "HOLD!" he shouted, coming further into the room. Every movement stopped. He looked down at Robert, who was still gripping the nurse's arms. "It is done," he said. "The day is won."

Robert released his grip, propping himself on one elbow, staring up at Maximus in wonder. "You are safe, my liege?" he panted. "Unharmed?"

"I am unharmed," Maximus replied. "Rest now, soldier."

The nurse took advantage of Robert's preoccupation and quickly injected the sedative. Robert still had an arm extended toward Maximus and kept it there a moment, his eyes locked intently with those of the man he perceived to be his king. Then he began to blink and the focus went out of his gaze. Julie hissed in a sharp breath as she watched him. His arm dropped limply and Robert lay back on the floor, his eyes closing. The three hospital personnel all let out a collective sigh of relief then moved to get Robert hefted up on the gurney again.

"Careful there!" Maximus said sharply as one man let Robert's head brush against the gurney frame. They plopped him atop the mattress and before they had even straightened his limbs, the nurse clamped on an oxygen mask.

Julie's eyes were wide, unbelieving, at what she'd just witnessed. When the man with the commanding manner and voice stepped back into the main waiting area, she followed. "How...how...did you know what to do, what would stop him?"

Maximus smiled. "Experience." He looked from the closed-again curtain to the woman. "Who is he?"

"He just saved someone from a fire," she said, not giving his name.

It was Maximus' turn to widen his eyes. "Alistair," he murmured. He turned, looking for his wife. "Joimus," he began, "we have found the man who...."

But Joimus was staring at the woman beside Maximus. Could it be? She'd read all seven, seen the jacket photos many times. "Miss St. John?" she asked. "Julianna St. John?"

 

 

A KNIGHT’S TALE

Julie looked at the blonde woman who was obviously with the imposing man she'd been talking to. Her own head was whirling. She hadn't had time to process Robert's last name nor what had just happened in the cubicle and now she'd been recognized. She sighed. Did that really matter right now? Did anything matter but what was going on with Robert?

"Yes," she nodded distractedly, too worried about Robert to avoid a certain rudeness, "but that's neither here nor there." She looked back at Maximus, opening her mouth to ask him who he was, why Robert would have taken him for....

"General Meridius!"

Maximus turned, frowning at a reporter from a Coffs newspaper. "Not now, please. I have a friend here in grave danger. Please, not now." The way he said it was not a request and the expression in his eyes made the man back off across the room.

"General Meridius?" Julie repeated. "Are you a...?"

"He is," Joimus smiled, "but that, too, is neither here nor there at the moment. I'm sorry I...."

"Her husband," Maximus spoke up, his eyes going again to the curtains, "I believe he was the man who pulled Alistair from the mill."

"Is...is this mill near the Glen?" Julie asked, never having seen it.

"Not far at all," Joimus supplied.

"Then, yes, it is most likely Robert. He, I, um...we...live near there, too."

"You do?" Joimus was surprised. "I thought I knew every...."

"Oh, um, we've not been there long." She looked back at Maximus. "I was just coming out the door a while ago when he collapsed in the front yard. Said he'd pulled a man from a fire. He's...he's not doing all that well, I'm afraid. Do you know anything about what happened?"

"Only that a man went into the mill and carried Reverend Harris out. The medics were giving him oxygen but he disappeared while they were getting Alistair into the ambulance."

"Reverend Harris?"

"Yes, he is the Glen's pastor and lives with his new wife in the mill."

Julie was on information overload. "Why," Maximus continued, "would he leave like he did when he still needed medical attention?"

She herself was not sure of that. She hadn't even known Robert's last name until a moment ago. Oh, God...Loxley. How in heaven's name could his last name be Loxley?  "He...he's a very...private...man," she offered lamely.

A nurse came up to Julie. "You can go be with your husband now," she said. "He's asleep, but you can sit with him if you like. They'll be taking him for tests shortly."

"Tests?"

"Chest x-ray, that sort of thing."

As she approached the curtain, another nurse was just leaving, several vials of blood in her hands. "You can go on in. I've finished."

The head of the gurney had been elevated to help with his breathing and Robert lay there quietly, his eyes closed, breathing oxygen. Several monitors beeped, rather irritating her jangled nerves, and she stood by the railing on his right side a while, looking down at
him. They'd gotten him in one of those horrid hospital gowns. She always hated those things, but on him, it was just terribly...wrong. A thin white blanket was pulled halfway up his chest, his arms lying at his sides, an IV hooked up to his left arm. "Oh...Robert," she sighed, brushing a lock of hair off his face.

Pulling her hand back, she let it rest high on his bare right arm, her attention then attracted by the feel of the scar that crossed it diagonally. She ran her fingertip down its length, a good nine inches or so. How could he have gotten such a thing? And what had been going through his mind when he'd tried to fight off the three men earlier?

What no one knew was that during the battle for Jaffa, Robert had been surrounded by Saracens. Richard himself had been caught in the sudden onslaught, had been unseated from Fauvel and was struggling to gain his footing just to Robert's right. A Saracen archer, finding position on a broken wall, let fly his arrow at the king. Robert, struggling with a knife-wielding Saracen, had seen the archer release his arrow, had thrown himself in front of Richard, taking the shaft in his right side. Mounted Templars had ridden up just as Robert collapsed into Richard's arms. The Saracens left alive fled back into the hills, and Richard, still kneeling, supported the form of the man who'd just saved his life.

It was that moment that had changed everything for Robert. Richard himself had carried him to his own tent, sending for his own surgeon. Robert remembered no more than the carrying, the arrival in the tent, for the surgeon's pulling out of the barbed arrowhead had
sent him spiraling down into darkness. When he came back to himself, it was night and for a long moment he lay there, his side still screaming in pain, trying to remember where he was and why. Turning his head on the small cot where he lay, he looked across the
interior space of the large tent, his eyes coming to rest on a man seated at a small table, studying what appeared to be maps, his head backlit by a torch. Who...? But there could only be one man with such a burnished glory of red-gold hair.

He tried to raise himself on one elbow to see better, but the beginning of the effort sent hot pain searing through his side and he lay back with a low moan. Richard heard and got up, walking to stand near the cot. "I am here," the king said, "because of what you did today. I shall not forget it."

And he didn't. During their time of rebuilding the wall, which Richard himself participated in with his own hands, carrying heavy stones, the king would come back to his tent, hot and tired, and when he was clean would sit and talk with Robert. A close friendship developed between the two men, and in Robert, Richard found a man with whom he could share his inmost thoughts. It was, thus, that Robert had eventually come to know what that moment on the hill as Richard had seen Jerusalem meant to the king.

As their friendship grew and the battles with the Saracen continued, Richard discovered Robert knew how to fight with a sword as well as his longbow. Eventually Richard had knighted Robert somewhere halfway between Jerusalem and Jaffa.

"Time to take him to x-ray," a male technician said, pulling open the curtain.

Julie wandered back out to the main waiting area. Ah, the couple from the Glen were still there. "How is the reverend?" Julie asked.

Maximus looked up at her, his jaw grimly set. "Not well. Not well at all," he sighed. "They fear he may not last the night."

 

A DEFINITE UNDERSTANDING

When Robert was done with all his tests, the doctor decided to admit him at least for overnight, explaining to Julie that he wanted to keep him on oxygen longer and also to be able to check his blood oxygen levels. "Your husband was completely disoriented by
the toxic levels of the smoke he inhaled and has quite a lot of tissue irritation, though he seems to have escaped thermal damage. I did a bronchoscopy and I think he's going to be all right. It's just a good thing he wasn't inside the building longer than he was."

"And the man he saved?"

The doctor wasn't sure 'saved' was the right word. "Well, the man he pulled out is not quite so fortunate, I'm afraid."

"Is Robert awake?"

"No," the doctor replied, a bit of a strange expression crossing his face.

"Not because of the smoke?"

"No, not that."

"But the nurse explained it was just a light sedative he gave him earlier."

"It was. Obviously too light." Again the odd expression.

"What are you saying, doctor?"

"He began to wake up during the x-ray. Seemed to think he was being attacked or something, almost choked the tech. Kept hollering something in some language I couldn't understand. Sounded like some form of old English a bit, though. Never heard the like. Anyway, when I got there, the tech was starting to turn blue so I had to give him something a lot stronger than he'd been given previously. He'll probably sleep through the night now. I hope," he added.

"Do...do you think he'll be all right, then, when he wakes up again?"

"His mind?" She nodded. "Yes, he probably should. A lot of hours of concentrated oxygen will make a big difference. His airways will be irritated for a while, though. No strenuous exercise, nothing like that. He'll need a lot of rest and it would be best if he had someone with him." He looked at Julie. "Do you have to work or will you be able to stay home with your husband?"

"I...I work from home," she stammered, trying not to look guilty at her repeated sin of omission in not stating she was not Robert's wife.

"Good!" he said. "I can probably release him a bit earlier since he'll have someone with him. We'll just wait and see how his levels are doing tomorrow and make our decision then."

"May I go to his room now?" she asked.

"Certainly," the doctor nodded, giving her directions to the floor to which Robert had been moved.

She stood in the doorway of his room, looking at him, then pulled a small chair close to the bed. Resting her forearms on the bedrail, she leaned her chin on her hands. "Oh, Robert, I hope you'll forgive me for not disabusing them for what they're thinking here. But I just couldn't have you left all alone, you know. There doesn't seem to be anybody else in all of Australia who even knows you're on the continent."

His chest rose and fell regularly, but it seemed to her there was some indefinable 'flatness' to him that came with a deep level of sedation. She wasn't sure just why that was, but she'd noticed it before with other people. Something about their presence was either deflated a bit or perhaps just sunk somehow into the mattress. Robert was such a vital man that it bothered her to see that in him and she suddenly needed to touch him, to feel his warm aliveness beneath her fingers.

She let her palm slide down the full length of his right arm then curve under his hand. Lifting his hand, she explored his fingers, one by one, it having dawned fully on her that she could freely do so. Her mind began to write as her fingertips made their way very slowly over his knuckles then turned his hand, tracing the lines of his palm. Turning it again, she studied the patterns of the veins in the back of his hand. He had several smaller scars there as though his right hand had been forward in some scene of danger.

A nurse popped in to check his monitors. "He's resting nicely, Mrs. Loxley. Just what the doctor wanted."

Loxley. There it was again. Robert Loxley. There was no way she could write of late 12th century England and not be familiar with the name of Loxley. "It can't be your actual name, your real name, Robert...can it?" she whispered. It was just too...strange. He worked with wood, lived in a forest, guarded his identity...and that identity was... Loxley?? No, that was strange, stranger than anything she'd ever thought of in her wildest authorial imaginings.

"Stop it, Julianna," she berated herself. "Next you'll be dressing him in green, for Pete's sake!" Her mouth dropped open at the thought. Robert did seem to like to wear a lot of green, now didn't he? "No," she shook her head. "No."

She studied his quiet face. Perhaps the man just had some sort of intellectual, historically-based fascination with the time period? After all, he knew more stories of the Third Crusade than anyone she'd ever met. That must be it. He was a 12th century scholar gone a bit over the top. She breathed a sigh of relief, having come to that conclusion.

Maximus knocked lightly and opened the door part way. "How is your husband?" he asked. "He has my gratitude for what he did for my friend today."

"Sleeping," she said. "They had to give him more sedation, I'm afraid."

"Did something happen?" He came more into the room, studying the man on the bed.

"In x-ray. Seems like he tried to choke the tech."

"He and modern hospital technology do not seem to get along," Maximus smiled.

She turned so she could see Maximus' face better. "The smoke, they say, affected his mental state. I'm not sure why, though, it's made him feel like he's being...attacked."

"Memories of battle can remain most vivid long after the fact."

"Battle? You really think he thought he was in the midst of some...battle?"

"So it would appear, yes."

"And you knew that?"

"I did."

"But...but you are a general, right? It would make some sense if you were in his position, but him...."

"You know, then, that he has not been in battle?"

"I...I...."  No, she did not know that. She suddenly remembered his desk. "He...he has a sword on his desk...at home he has a sword."

"Would you describe it for me?"

She did and he nodded. "Ah!" he murmured. "That makes sense."

"Makes sense? WHAT makes sense?"

"The timing."

"Timing?"

"Of why he called me Richard."

She felt dizzy. Robert had called the general Richard. "But...but he couldn't possibly have thought...."

"Could he not?"

Her mind was turning flip flops, sliding hither and yon and back again, but the man standing in front of her seemed utterly composed, as though none of this were any big deal. Indeed, he was looking at Robert with a definite fond understanding in his eyes.

"I heard you refer to your husband once as Robert," he said, turning his gaze to Julie again. "May I ask for the rest?"

"Loxley," she croaked. "His name is Robert Loxley."

A smile widened Maximus' lips. "Ah," he murmured again. "I see."

"What do...?" she began, but he turned on his heel, heading for the door.

"I must go. I do not wish to be away from news of Alistair for long."

She ran to the door, watching after him as he strode to the stairs, thinking that she'd never seen a man walk with such a total yet natural air of authority.  He turned the corner and she looked back at Robert. "What do you see, General. What in God's name do you SEE?"

REALIZATIONS OF TIME

Julie spent the night in Robert's room. There was a recliner there that was made to fold down nearly flat so someone could sleep in it and since everyone believed she was his wife, there had been no problem with her staying. She woke early, quite starved, realizing she hadn't eaten since early the day before, and so went out in search of the cafeteria.

Robert's mind was slowly swimming toward the shore of awareness. He had no idea, though, of where he was or why he was there. His eyes still closed, he lay there listening to the annoying beep of something just to his left. Moving his left hand, he discovered it had some sort of thing clamped over one finger. Using his thumb and another finger, he pushed it off. Now, where was he? His side didn't hurt from the arrow. What did hurt was his chest and throat when he breathed. That's when he became aware of the thing over his mouth and nose. That, too, ended up lying on the bed beside the finger thing. What had people been doing to him that he was not aware of? He tried to think, lying there, lids shut, trying to figure all this out.

The cot in Richard's tent. He had to be there. The last he remembered was Richard carrying him there. He'd tried to protest that it wasn't fitting for the king to be carrying him, but Richard had simply scooped him up in his long arms and walked off the battlefield. He well recalled the pain of the deeply embedded arrow and the increase of that with the jostling involved in being carried. Richard had had to make his way over crumbled walls, fallen bodies, around dead horses. He remembered the doctor pressing his palm against his ribs while he pulled the arrow's shaft with his other hand. Then pain so excruciating that a bottomless pit of it opened up beneath him, swallowing him whole.

How much time had passed since then? He seemed to have lost all track of it. But Richard was all right. He knew that much. He'd seen him, spoken with him...hadn't he? Something wasn't right. Richard had looked different, sounded different...but yet. What? It had to have been Richard. No one else had such a commanding presence, spoke with such authority. He'd been fighting off the Saracen whose curving blade was seeking his throat. Yes, that much was sure. Then he'd fallen, the arrow piercing his side, and Richard had said it was time to stop fighting. That must be when the king had carried him here. Something about it all just didn't make sense, though.

He moved his hand high on his chest. No wound had been given him there. Why did it hurt so?  Then he began to cough and that made it hurt more. His throat felt raw. He must have gotten ill while he was recovering from his wound. When the coughing stopped, he lay quietly again, listening to the sounds around him.

Julie arrived back in the room at the same time as a nurse. "Good morning, Mrs. Loxley," the nurse greeted. "Did you sleep all right in the chair?"

Mrs. Loxley? Robert stiffened, more confused than ever. Marian? Was Marian here somehow in Jaffa? No, that couldn't be right.

"Well enough," a female voice replied. "I do hope Robert gets discharged today, though."

Robert peeked out under his lashes, seeing a woman with long golden hair standing just inside a door. She looked familiar but was certainly not Marian. He hadn't thought Marian was in Jaffa anyway.

"Just let me check your husband's vitals, Mrs. Loxley, then I'll be on my way. He should be waking up any time now."

The nurse turned toward the bed and gasped. "Oh! He's taken off his oxygen mask."  Quickly she leaned across him, retrieved it, and was about to clamp it on him again when his eyes opened and a hand gripped her arm.

"Mr. Loxley!" she exclaimed, startled. "Please, just let me get this back in place."

"Why?" he asked, frowning at her.

"You need the oxygen, Mr. Loxley, after the fire and all."

"Fire? What fire?"

"Oh, Robert, don't you remember the fire at the mill? You saved the Glen's pastor." Julie was getting concerned again.

He did remember a fire. The Saracen had set some of the army's tents aflame in the night. Peter from Wessex had been trapped in one. "There was no priest in the tent," he growled.

"Not a tent, Robert, the mill...the mill at the Glen."

"The Glen?" He'd heard that term before. "Where is this place?"

"It's where we live, Robert, the Glen."

"Not that. THIS place! Where is this place?"

"The hospital? You mean the hospital? It's in Coffs Harbor, Robert. I drove you here yesterday after you collapsed on the lawn."

"Coffs? Australia? This is Australia?"

"Of course it's Australia, Robert. Where did you think you were?"

"I...I saw...Richard," he almost moaned, leaning his head back, closing his eyes again. Oh, God...Australia. Of course he was in Australia. It had been his choice to come here. But he had seen Richard. He knew he had!

"Richard? Oh, yes, Robert! Yesterday in the ER you called General Meridius by that name."

He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut. "Can you both just leave me alone?"

"But Robert...."

He turned his head away from them. Julie and the nurse exchanged looks. "His oxygen...," the nurse murmured.

"Check with his doctor, ok?" Julie suggested. "He doesn't seem to like the mask."

She went up right beside the bed, laying a hand lightly on his right shoulder. "I'll be just down the hall in the waiting room. I'll...." She didn't know what else to say.

When they had gone, he lay flat again, his left hand encountering the two objects that lay beside him on the cover. He swatted them off onto the floor. It was 2009. Richard had been dead since 1199. How could he so easily find 800 years ago more real, more present than now?

Ah, yes, the mill. He'd paused at the edge of the woods, enjoying its simple Englishness. Then there had been a woman opening the door, and black smoke. That was why his throat hurt, that breathing was still somewhat of an effort. He'd gone into the smoke. After that, everything rather blurred together. Julie. Julie said she'd driven him to Coffs. That he did not remember at all. There were fleeting images, sounds. Why had he thought Richard had been there? "I must have wanted it so," he said aloud.

"And what is it you wanted so, Robert of Loxley," a deep male voice asked from the doorway.

"Who...?" Robert looked toward the source of the words, startled by the 'of' put between Robert and Loxley.

"General Maximus Decimus Meridius," the man said, stepping into the room. Maximus deliberately used the title. He and Joimus had spent the night at a hotel near the hospital and had come back this morning. Joimus was still in the ICU talking with Ahnna.

"General?" Julie had mentioned a general had been in the ER, that he had thought the general had been Richard. "We...we have met?"

Maximus inclined his head. "In a small cubicle yesterday."

"You were there?"

"I was nearby in the waiting room. You pulled my friend from the fire and my wife and I were awaiting news of his condition. I heard sounds of, shall we say, battle and that attracted my attention."

"Battle?"

"Yes, you were being attacked."

"In the ER?"

"Battles may take place, I find, in the most unusual locations." Maximus smiled.

"Saracens," Robert whispered.

"Indeed."

"There were three of them, all coming at me. I...I...saw Richard...you? I saw you?"

Maximus inclined his head again. "It had to be stopped. There was danger of injury."

"To me?"

"More likely to the three Saracen," Maximus replied with a small laugh.

Robert stared up at the imposing man. "Your...your name is...Roman?"

"Quite so."

"But...but...."

"And yours is Saxon, true?"

Robert nodded, his mind racing beyond his ability to keep up with it, to separate into any reasonableness the thoughts flashing through it almost painfully. "You...you are a Roman general?"

"I was. Now I am a farmer. I raise wheat and horses in the Glen."

"You live in the Glen?"

"Not far from the mill where you saved my friend. Your wife says you also live near there?"

"My wife?" He'd almost forgotten! The nurse had referred to Julie as Mrs. Loxley. He pressed his hands to his face. Was there more he did not recall? Something as big as having a wife?

"Are you all right, Robert?"

"I...I think I'm still confused. There seems to be a lot I don't have straight yet."

"It will come. I have spoken with the doctors about the smoke. It seems to have been particularly toxic."

Robert stared again at Maximus. "How can you be a Roman General?"

"Not easily, I assure you. It took many years, much experience."

"I meant...."

"I know what you meant, Robert. I am a Roman General in the same way you are a Saxon."

"No one, not ever...."

"It is a difficult concept, I know," Maximus smiled. "But you are not alone."

Julie had come back down the hall, had been standing just outside the door after she'd seen Maximus enter. She'd meant to announce herself, but when the two men had begun talking, she found herself glued to where she stood, her hand braced against the wall, a slow trembling beginning deep inside her, growing by the minute.
 

Robert was...a Saxon?

Turning, she leaned her back against the wall, her knees feeling weak, closing her eyes as she continued listening to them.

"Mrs. Loxley?" It was the nurse, returning with a canula for Robert instead of the mask. "Are you faint? Come back into the room and sit down." She took Julie's arm, pulling her through the doorway.

"Mr. Loxley, I'm afraid your wife is feeling faint."

Robert and Maximus both looked quickly at the two women. Julie croaked, "Saxon," and keeled over, neatly caught by Maximus before she hit the floor.

 

WHO I REALLY AM

Maximus and Joimus spent two days in Coffs then returned home, planning on driving back the following evening to check on Ahnna and Alistair. Several of the Glen residents had been out to the mill, getting the inspection and repairs underway. Maximus had put his plans for the thermae on hold, arranging instead for Jeff to redo much of the plumbing in the old structure. An electrician had also been hired to tend to the wiring. The General wanted not just the office addition, but the entire mill rewired before Alistair and Ahnna might return.

This morning Maximus and Cort were planning on repainting the interior of the office while Joimus and Claire restored the garden just outside where Alistair and Robert had fallen and where the firefighters had had to walk and drag their hoses.

This was the first time Claire had seen the mill and as she stepped out of Joimus' stationwagon, she was immediately taken by its rustic charm. "It looks like it's out of another place and time," she commented to Cort, who was unloading a large can of paint nearby.

"It does, doesn't it," he agreed, nodding, Merry weaving between his legs, almost sending him sprawling. "I'm glad we can help fix it up. Alistair has been very kind to me. He's a good man."  Cort had been truly concerned about him, more than he'd expressed to anyone.

There had been a heavy rain the day before and the soil was still damp with it as Joimus and Claire set about pulling out ruined plants, piling them off to the side. Joimus remembered exactly what had been growing where in the mill gardens and wanted to recreate them as near to that as possible. She and Claire had developed a quiet camaraderie at the Greenery and worked well together.  Plant after plant was unpotted and set into the ground as the two women worked steadily at their task.

Cort had had to put Merry back on her cable to keep her out of the paint. It was a warm morning and he stripped off his shirt as he climbed up the stepstool, stretching to paint the upper part of the new wall Jack and Bridgid had built. The door to the office had been left open to aid in ventilation and from time to time as she worked in the garden just beside it, Claire would look up and catch sight of him, pausing to watch his movement, the ripple of muscles in his shoulders as he painted. It could be very
distracting and she'd find herself holding the rootball of some plant and not getting it into the ground at all.

The painting was done just at lunchtime and Cort came to the door, still shirtless, and with splotches and dabs of paint here and there about his torso and arms. Claire, pressing the soil around a newly-planted phlox,  stopped and stared at him. He wiped his forehead with the back of an arm, succeeding in smearing a small swath of paint across it. Her lips twitched in amusement. "Are you going on the warpath?" she asked, unconsciously wiping her own cheek with a muddy-gloved hand.

Joimus sat back on her heels, chuckling. She'd been aware of Claire's glances into the office all morning. "You two are becoming a matched set with your smears. I suggest you go down to the bridge and study your reflections in the pond water." She was a smart woman. She knew what she was doing.

"Would you like that?" Cort asked Claire, smiling fetchingly.

"I do believe I would," Claire replied, slipping off her gloves. When she tried to stand, she found her left leg had gone to sleep from being in a rather cramped position too long and she tottered precariously. In a smooth, graceful motion Cort was off the little porch and had hold of her elbow before anybody realized he'd moved.

Maximus came out and set on the stoop, rubbing his leg, watching as Cort and Claire went down the path to the little arched bridge. "They seem to get along," he commented, smiling then at his wife, who was coming up to him.

"Your leg hurt, darling?" she asked, sitting beside him, curving her arm through his.

"Just a little. Too much standing for too long. Nothing of concern, though."

"Everything about you is of concern to me. You know that."  She nuzzled against his shoulder.

"I do know that." He kissed the top of her head.

Cort paused at the edge of the pond. "What are those?" he asked.

"Iris," Claire replied. "Are you not familiar with them?"

"I'm not sure. I don't think they grow where...."

"Where?"

 

"Wherever." He shrugged. "I don't think they grow there." He turned, looking at the whole panorama of the extensive mill gardens. "I don't think much of any of this grows there."

"You don't remember flowers?"

"I don't seem to remember...green. It all strikes me as very different. But I like it," he hastened to add. "And I like that you know how to make this sort of thing happen."

He had, indeed, the last few days spent more time at the greenhouse and its environs than out in the barn or the fields. There was always something he could offer to help with, something heavy that needed lifting or moved. And he found this delicately beautiful young woman the loveliest flower he'd ever seen.

They walked up to the top of the arch and stood, looking down into the pond whose smooth surface did reflect their faces. They both burst into laughter at the same time, seeing their smears. He turned, leaning his hip against the railing, looking at her. It was noon and the sunlight beat straight down atop her pale blonde hair so brightly he had to hood his eyes a bit. "Tell me about Claire," he said softly.

"What would you like to know about Claire, Mr. Wells?"

"Anything. Anything at all."

 

"I haven't been many places, had many adventures, I'm afraid. I basically grew up with the flowers in my grandmother's garden. I like simple things, beautiful things, like tulips and poetry."  She kept her eyes down toward the pond, realizing again just how uncool she was.

Cort, however, who had no concept of the modern term of coolness, thought she was exquisite and something deep in him knew he'd never encountered anything as rare or beautiful as she was. He was quiet, studying her down-turned face, appreciating its loveliness. His quiet made her lift her eyes, needing to see his expression after what she'd said. She caught him off guard, caught the fullness of his thoughts plainly writ on his features. No man had ever looked at her like that before, with a respectful yet very open regard. Her lips parted in surprise and he turned quickly away. "I...I'm sorry," he murmured.

His hands were on the railing and she lay her palm on the nearest. "Sorry for what, Cort?"

"I...I was staring. I shouldn't...."

He made her feel beautiful, something she'd struggled with for the last couple of years during her illness. "Thank you," she said quietly.

He lifted his eyes again, not understanding.

"For the way you make me feel about myself."

He was very, very aware of her hand atop his, of how entirely he was drawn to her. But then his mind flooded with the fact of his circumstances and he gently slipped it out from under hers, stuffing it into a pocket in his jeans.

She stiffened, afraid she shouldn't have said what she just had. "I...I was too...," she began.

"It's not you, Claire. I find myself wanting to know you, to be closer to you but...then." His eyes locked onto hers. "Then I realize I have no right to do anything of the sort, not when I don't even know who I am, what I might be, whatever I've done. I have no right to anything, not in this place."

"Oh, Cort!" she responded, quick tears stinging her eyes. "You are here. You! And the you who's here has every right to be happy, to make a place for himself."

He shook his head. "It's not that easy, Claire, not for me. There's something I have no name for weighing me down, something that wakes me in the night, shaking with the darkness of it. Until I know what that is, I can't settle into anything new. I may not like who I really am. You may not like who I really am."

"I'm not worried about that, Cort, truly I'm not. I'm pretty sure I see who you really are."

"There's something there, though, Claire, something big, something that changed everything, and I don't know what that thing is. I don't...know."  He put both hands on the railing and leaned his forehead down on them.

 

She took a step closer, resting her hand on his shoulder, instantly aware of the feel of his sun-warmed flesh. "You will, Cort, when it's time. You will.  She felt his back lift as he took a deep breath.

Alistair had said something very similar to him at the Wade's wedding reception...that he would remember when he could bear to remember. Why couldn't he bear to remember the thing? WHAT couldn't he bear to remember? 

A THOUSAND THOUSAND TIMES, AND MORE

April 7th. Joimus smiled, looking at the calendar. It was the 4th anniversary of her and Maximus' wedding. She thought back over all they had been through in the three years before that, the places they had been, the things they had suffered. And since. Yes, it had not been easy since, either. Yet there was always the one thing that mattered. She loved him with her entire heart and being, as he did her.

He came up behind her while she was still lost in thought, sliding his arms around her waist, resting his chin atop her head. "Where were you?" he asked softly.

She settled her body back against his, enjoying as always the feel of his strength. "I was going through the years."

"The years?"

"Um hmmm. The years of you and me."

"Will you marry me?"

She laughed lightly, turning in his arms. "A thousand thousand times, and more." Pressing her face into his chest, she listened to his heart. "Since Alistair," she said quietly, "since all that Ahnna has been through this past week, I...."

With the side of his forefinger he tipped her chin so he could see her eyes. "I cherish you all the more," she continued. "All the more."

"I understand," he replied, his eyes roaming her face. "To come so very near to losing the beloved...."

Her arms went around his back, holding on. "You are everything to me, everything."

"And I am here and well and you are in the circle of my arms."

"Happy Anniversary, my love," she whispered, lifting her lips for his kiss.

His reply was to scoop her in his arms and carry her up to their bedroom, carefully closing the door behind them with his boot. Cort was out riding the fencelines. They were quite alone in the house. He lay her on their bed and stood a moment, looking down at her. It was late in the afternoon and she had just bathed after her day at the Greenery, was wearing a filmy white dressing gown, having intended on putting on something else shortly. The curve of her breasts, hips, thighs were clearly outlined as she lay quietly, her eyes on his face.

After seven years she still could not get enough of the way he looked at her and when he knelt and curved a hand over her thigh, she loved the look of his strong, tanned fingers against the white of her gown. He was completely, utterly male and all her femininity rose up her core as she beheld him. His hand moved, sliding up the hem of her gown, and she gasped at his touch. He smiled, resting his cheek on her stomach, looking himself as his hand moved up her leg, something in him still in wonder that he had the rights he did, smiling more as her thighs parted to welcome him. Lifting his head, he used his left hand to push the light material still further up, revealing her torso which he began to cover with his kisses, then tracing little paths across it with the tip of his tongue. Easily, the loose gown slipped entirely off and she lay revealed to him, his wife, his beloved. Still kneeling beside the bed, he loved her, his hands and mouth moving over every part of her as she arched and moaned beneath his sure touch.

Then she lay there, watching, as he stood and let his own clothes fall to the carpet. Soon he was beside her on the bed and they loved again as two will who know well the depths of passion and of sorrow, of joy and of pain, of togetherness and separation, of the nearness of loss and the unutterable happiness of being joined. They rested there a long while in that peace where words were too lacking to utter, where they had become unnecessary in the presence of such oneness.

After a time, he led her by the hand to their private bathroom and as he leaned against the inside of the large tub, she sat between his legs and he soaped her breasts and kissed her neck and loved her again.

They dressed together, just in comfortable slacks and shirts, then padded barefoot down to the kitchen where she had a dinner all prepared in the refrigerator that just needed sliding into the oven to warm. She lit candles, lots of candles, wanting only their light this evening. He poured wine, sitting at the table, watching her move about the kitchen, the candlelight reflecting on the curve of his glass and in his eyes.

Joimus lifted a package off a side table, setting it in front of him with a smile. "For me?" he asked and she nodded silently. The box was wrapped in metallic copper-colored paper and tied with a wide chocolate brown ribbon. He slid the ribbon off the edges without untying it and opened the package, lifting out an entirely unusual sculpture.

 

As he held it in his hands, turning it slowly, she explained that it was a mixture of bronze, crystal, and amethyst. "It was just so...different. I wanted something equine for you and this just caught my eye with its uniqueness." She smiled at him. "Unique...as you are unique."

"It looks like it is rising out of something, being formed somehow from the elements of the earth," he commented.

"That, too, made me think of you, of the way you rub the soil between your palms, as though you are creating the answer to your request from the substance of your reality."

"Thank you, my darling," he said, rising and setting the sculpture in the center of the table. He kissed her then went to a tall cabinet and brought back two packages wrapped in creamy yellow with white ribbons.

She sat down to open them, picking up the smaller package first. Inside lay an exquisite powder jar. "Limoges," she recognized instantly, for she was a collector of antique hand-painted china.

 

 

"!894," he said. "Not very old, really, but when I saw the yellow roses, I knew it must be yours."  He pushed the second, larger box closer to her. "Now this."

Inside was a plate, also Limoges, and older than the powder jar. "I cannot resist light yellow roses," he grinned, "not when they speak to me of you."

 

Setting the plate down, she came around behind his chair, sliding her arms about his neck. "Will you marry me, Maximus Decimus Meridius?"

"A thousand thousand times, and more," he whispered, pulling her around and down onto his lap.

A THOUSAND MAY FALL AT YOUR SIDE

As soon as Alistair got to the front of the platform, he knew this wasn't going to work, but there he was and now he had to make the best of it. Always he stood on one side so there was nothing between him and the people he was speaking to, but he moved over to the pulpit like a ship to its dock and held on, knowing he needed the support. Just showering and getting his suit on this morning had taken more energy than he'd expected.

Ahnna, on the front pew, watched anxiously as Alistair stood behind the pulpit. He never used the pulpit, didn't like being behind it, but today on his first attempt to do a Sunday service, he not only stood behind it, but gripped its top edges with both hands. That worried her. She could see his chest rising and falling in a concentrated effort to breathe evenly without his oxygen  pack.

"Good morning," he said, managing a smile. "I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I am to be back here with all of you again. I have missed your faces, all of them, and I am so thankful that...."  He began to cough. He was wearing a lapel microphone but still the strain of trying to project his voice brought on enough irritation that the coughs began to rise up from his core. "Ex...excuse me," he murmured, turning away for a long moment, trying to bring it under control. He had a glass of water on the pulpit shelf and took a sip. "...thankful that today I can once again...*cough*  *cough*...once again speak to you of the things dear to my heart."

He did like being back there, but kept shaking his head slightly from time to time, feeling like he needed to clear it. And the coughing hurt. It simply...hurt. He could feel himself starting to tremble with fatigue.

For ten minutes he spoke, coughing once in a while, but Ahnna was aware she was growing tenser with each passing minute. She was watching his hands as they gripped the pulpit. He was increasing the pressure of that so much that his knuckles were becoming white with it. His face, too, was paling and she knew the effort it was taking for him to remain standing there. Turning her head briefly, she noted many of the faces in the church were beginning to look concerned.

"And so it is," he continued then stopped, spreading his right hand over his chest, lowering his eyes. "And so...." He made a rather gasping sound. "I...I'm sorry," he murmured. "I...I thought I...could...."  His legs were shaking and suddenly didn't want to support him any longer and he began almost sliding down the back of the small pulpit, landing on his knees.

Instantly both Maximus and Cort were on the platform. Alistair would have toppled over onto his left side had they not gotten to him in time to gently lay him down. He was coughing and gasping and saying, "I'm sorry...," over and over.

"Nothing to be sorry about," Maximus soothed. "It is simply too soon."

Cort sprinted to the little office where Alistair's portable oxygen was and by the time Ahnna had gotten it fastened in place, Alistair's eyes were half open and he seemed on the verge of passing out. Maximus and Cort carried him through the door behind the altar. There were only two small chairs in his little office and no place to lay him down but on the floor in the short hallway. Maximus took off his suitcoat, folded it and put it under Alistair's head. Ahnna crouched beside him, smoothing his hair back, whispering to him.

Maximus looked at Cort, "There is a church full of people out there who came for a Sunday morning service, Cort. It looks like you are going to be the one to give it to them."

"Me? But...but...."

"You, Cort," Maximus repeated. "You can do it. I know you can."

"I...I...don't...I...."

"Try, Cort. For Alistair. Please...try."

Cort sucked in a long breath, his heart beating faster, and looked down at Alistair.
For Alistair, Maximus had said. He couldn't do this for himself, but perhaps he could
do it for Alistair. Turning, he opened the door to the sanctuary. Half the people were
on their feet, talking in little groups, casting looks toward the doorway where he stood.
Taking another long breath, he stepped through and walked out to the pulpit, needing the
slight bit of shielding it offered. "Be seated, folks," he said, "please. Alistair's going to be fine. Was just a bit too early in the game for him to be out here doin'...this." He lay a palm atop the pulpit. "So you get me. As most of you are aware, I don't even know that this is what I do so I'm askin' you to bear with me."

His eyes found Claire, who had moved up to the front to where Ahnna usually sat. She was looking at him, smiling encouragement with her whole face. A closed Bible lay just to the right of his hand and he let it open where it willed, grasping for some sense of direction, some guidance as to what to do. It was the 91st Psalm. "Psalms," he said aloud, closed his eyes briefly, then surprised himself entirely by adding, "Of the 283 times the New Testament quotes from the Old, 116 are from Psalms." He blinked. "They were made to be sung, you know, sort of the national hymn book of Israel."
 

He said that and then the world around him exploded with a flash of light and through his
eyes he could see the stars, clear and bright in their millions like they were in the desert
night. He was sitting on a horse and was singing the 23rd Psalm as he looked up at the vast, sparkling panoply.
 

What...?

Shaking his head, he looked desperately down at the Bible and began to read. "He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, 'He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust."

Another flash came, almost staggering him and he was seeing a small stuccoed room, candlelight yellowing its whitewash, and right in front of him instead of the pulpit and the open Bible, he saw his own clasped hands, a string of beads draping over his fingers.

Blinking several times he continued to read, skipping several verses as he'd lost his place.
"You will not fear the terror by night, nor the arrow that flies by day...." He blinked. "A
thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will...."

Again the flash blotted out what actually lay before him, replaced by gunfire, the sound of breaking windows, of children screaming, running. His head hurt terribly from where a gun butt had impacted his left temple and his view was from ground level where he lay in deep dust, his hands lashed behind him so tightly his shoulders were pulled almost out of joint. A boot kicked his ribs several times, doubling him up so that his face went into the dust, filling his mouth as he gasped in pain. He choked, coughing, and the boot kicked him again, sending him rolling back onto his side.

"You ain't gonna die in no dust, preacher," a voice laughed. "Someone waitin' fer you has got hisself a better way for you to die than that."

More laughter came, more gunshots, and then he heard the crackling sound of fire. Straining, he craned his neck. The orphanage, it was ablaze. The children! My God, some of the children were still inside! He tried to call out, but his throat was too caked with dust and a mere croak was all the sound he could make. The roof caught, tall spires of flame shooting up into the pure blueness of the sky. Then it began to collapse just as he caught sight of Maria and little Pedro at a broken window. "No!" he croaked. "Oh, God...nooo!"

Elena, the old nun who helped him teach the children, came running across the courtyard toward the door. Someone shot her in the back just as she reached it and she fell into the building, the roof coming down atop her, atop the children. He moaned, tears streaking down the dust on his face. More laughter roared in his ears and then the little mission church caught fire, too. He watched, helpless, as the stained glass window, brought from Philadelphia and the only decorative thing the simple little church had boasted, he watched as it burst outward from the flaming interior.

A lasso curled through the heated air, settling around the wooden cross that graced the peak over the doorway, and accompanied by whoops and shouts, it toppled into the dust.
 

Young Michael, an older teenaged boy who assisted him, saw him lying there and sprinted toward him. Again he opened his mouth, trying to shout to him to stay back, but he couldn't shout and Michael kept coming, coming to within a few feet of him and another shot rang out dropping the boy. Michael lay there, his face close to Cort's, his eyes wide open, startled, dead.

"C'mon, preacher," one of the two men said, "you got yerself an appointment to keep."

He turned his head, glaring up at the man. "Well, lookie that," the other man laughed. "We done got ourselfs a preacher knows how to hate." He laughed and Cort felt a rifle butt slam against the back of his head and the world disappeared into merciful darkness.

Then there had been the field, the field and the white puffy seedheads. He looked desperately at Claire, who was staring at him, her eyes wide, almost round. He felt ill and pushed himself back from the pulpit, sending it crashing over off the platform, the water glass shattering wetly on the floor. Then he ran. Blindly he ran, tripping, almost falling, down the aisle, out the front doors. Half way across the lawn he went to his knees, vomiting and vomiting, as people began to come out of the church behind him, not quite able to believe they'd lost two pastors in one Sunday.

OUT OF THE DARK CORNER

Maximus had been standing just inside the hall doorway, watching Cort, and when he knocked over the pulpit and ran out the far entrance, Maximus made his way past Alistair and Ahnna and through the side door of the church. Joimus, seeing her husband's head pass quickly by the large window to her right, hurried up to where Alistair lay.

"What's happening?" Ahnna asked, still crouched beside Alistair.

"Something's up with Cort. I'm not sure what. Maximus went to check." She looked down at Alistair. "How is he doing?"

"It was too much. I tried to tell him yesterday, but he was determined to have a service today."

Alistair lay, his eyes closed, breathing the oxygen. He made a little sound down in his throat, something that sounded like 'sorry.'

"He keeps saying he's sorry," Ahnna sighed. "It's all right, my darling. Like Maximus said, there is nothing for you to be sorry about. You tried. It just hasn't been that long since you left the hospital."

He said something else that sounded vaguely like 'sit up.'

"You want to sit up?" Ahnna asked and he nodded his head.

Joimus and Ahnna helped him lean his back against the wall. "Cort?"

"I don't know," Joimus answered, shaking her head. "He was reading from the 91st Psalm and suddenly looked ill."

Maximus reached Cort just as Claire did and they knelt, one on either side of him. He had his elbows on the ground, his fingers clenched tightly around his forehead as though it might explode. When Maximus lay his hand gently on his back, Cort straightened, his eyes full of tears. He looked blindly from Claire to Maximus. "Dead," he gasped. "They killed them, the children, the nun, Michael."

"Oh…Cort!" Claire murmured, not knowing what to do for him.

"Fire," he continued. "Burned it...with the children inside...burned it." He began shaking his head back and forth. "Oh, God...oh, God...oh, my God."

He shouldered he way to his feet, scrubbing his hands across his face, his eyes desperate, filled only with the image of Michael's staring dead eyes. "No," he gasped. "No...." and before either of them knew what he was doing, he began to run, cutting across the lawn, disappearing into the thick line of trees just beyond.

"What...what happened?" Claire cried.

Maximus stood, looking at where Cort had disappeared. "He remembered."

"He remembered...that? That's what happened to him?"

Maximus nodded and began to walk slowly in the direction of the trees. "Hurry!" she urged. "Find him!"

"I will follow," he said, "but not closely. He needs time."

"Don't let him get hurt!" she cried.

"He is as hurt as it may be possible for him to be," the General said softly, crossing the grass. He paused, looked back at her. "Please, Claire, tell my wife what I am doing."  Then he, too, disappeared among the trees.

Claire went around to the side entrance, trying to avoid the clumps of people by the main door. She made her way to the little hallway and as soon as Alistair saw her, he asked again, "Cort?"

"Maximus says he has regained his memory. He...he spoke of...of children being killed...of something being burned. Then he ran into the woods. Maximus is following him, Joimus. He wanted me to tell you that."

Alistair closed his eyes. He'd figured that whatever Cort was suppressing was terrible and his lips began to move in a silent prayer for him.

Cort stumbled, not caring where he was going, only wanting to leave Michael's eyes behind him. But he couldn't. They had come out of that dark corner and spread themselves in the light of his day and he could never not see them again. He crossed the road, crossed a small stream, aware of neither, fell once, fell twice, unaware of that as well. A burning roof was crashing down. That he was aware of. And screams. And pain and the laughter as the cross toppled. Finally he fell at the edge of a little meadow, fell hard on his face then rolled to his back, lying there his fists pounding on the sides of his head. "No," he repeated over and over and over. "No...no...no."

That was how Maximus found him. Coming quietly up beside him, the General sat in the grass, waiting. After a few minutes he said, his voice low and even, "You are not alone."

Cort stopped his pounding, but kept his fists pressed to his head, not able yet to respond. "You can't...possibly...understand," he muttered after a while.

Maximus smiled to himself. "I know it does not serve to take away your pain, my friend, but I can."

Cort dropped his hands, opening his eyes. "I'm not from here," he almost moaned. "I'm not from anywhere near here."  His brain was being flooded now with his very alienness to this time and place.

"Nor am I," Maximus said calmly.

Cort turned his head to look at the General, whose eyes revealed, in truth, an understanding that baffled Cort. Then Maximus repeated, "You are not alone, my friend."  He'd said that very thing recently to Robert.

"You...you lost your memory?"

"No, but I lost my time and my place. I lost," he tipped his head, looking up at the sky, "not less than everything." His gaze returned to Cort. "As you have." And then, without self pity, he told Cort about the dark smoke of his burning villa on the horizon, of finding the hanging, blackened bodies of his wife and his son, of being sold into slavery.

Cort listened quietly, taken for a moment out of himself until he realized that somehow his pain had merged in a strange commonality with that of the man who was speaking and the words 'you are not alone' took on value and meaning. Then he told Maximus of the mission and the children and the fires and all the senseless killing.

Maximus extended his hand and Cort took it, gripping it hard. "Out of all the world," Cort said, "I found myself on your land...you found me on your land. There has to be some...reason."

Maximus smiled. "There is always some reason, my friend. We may not know it, may never understand it, but the reason is always there."

Maximus enters the Race

Maximus Decimus Meridius would like to announce his candidacy for the
position of City Councilman.