The car backed up, slowly, turned as she turned the wheel, then started up the dirt track. As they approached a crossroads, other cars tore by, very fast, in both directions. Lucy took her foot from a lever on the floor and pressed another pad. The car stopped. She pulled a lever by the wheel with her left hand and a rhythmic sound began. He craned to see what she was doing. A little green light blinked, pointing left. She looked both ways, waited for some other cars to whiz by, and then pressed the lever on the floor. The car went onto the slicker, black road. She pressed down harder and the car sped up. He was ready. He braced himself with his good hand on the seat and pushed his feet against the floor. Marshes and reed beds flew past.
He steadied his breathing. Not so bad. How many leagues could you go in one day with a cart such as this? No horses to feed. No need to worry about their stamina. Was there?
“Does the cart grow weary?”
“Weary?” She glanced from the road to him. Her mouth tried not to smile.
He nodded. “Weary.” He liked it when she tried not to smile. Someday, maybe she would not try. She would just smile many times in a day.
“No. But you must give it gasoline. Like food. It goes until it has no more gas.”
They came to a very large village, though its halls were not as high as the ones the first night. She pulled the cart in among many others standing in rows in front of a huge building that looked like a squat castle stretching away into the distance. At several points huge stacked towers stretched even farther into the air. Carts roamed the aisles, pulling in and out. It was a maze of confusion. Did everyone in this time have such wonderful carts?
“Since I don’t want to become familiar, let’s try Macy’s this time.” She unbuckled her own thick strap and got out of the car. He pressed the metal buckle as she did, and the strap snapped back into a little, hard house at his shoulder. He unfolded himself from the car. People were walking in and out of doors made entirely of glass into total darkness within a huge tower of the castle. The young women wore breeches and tight, revealing tops like Lucy or tiny skirts that left their legs bare, the older women were clad in baggy breeches and voluminous smocks. The men shoes that laced and tight breeches and shirts in bright colors. Many were blue. This must be a rich time to have enough woad to dye so much cloth blue.
As he and Lucy approached, the doors opened by magic. He followed Lucy, who was striding toward the open maw of darkness. He straightened his shoulders and tried to breathe. This was an everyday thing for her. She was not frightened of this magic or the darkness. Quests demanded courage of a man. Was he not the first of his king’s warriors?
Galen tried not to limp as he followed her into the darkness. It wasn’t dark. He froze. The interior of this castle was lighted without lamps, like the place in which he had first wakened, but not so brightly. Small round moons in the ceiling glowed. The floor was hard and smooth, with earth-colored tiles much finer even than the tiles the people made in the lands around the southern sea. People were everywhere, walking briskly, or strolling to look at more goods than he had ever seen. Shelves and tables stretched away into the distance. A stairway moved upward of its own accord, taking riders with it. He swallowed.
“Move it, buddy. You’re blocking traffic,” an old man said, pushing by him.
He swallowed again. He could do this. He took Lucy’s arm. That felt better.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Okay” was the word she used to indicate that all was well. He’d heard her use the word to reassure herself. “Let’s find you some clothes and shoes.”
He took a breath and let her guide him. She seemed to know her way.
Lucy headed down to the men’s department. Galen was holding her arm, and she didn’t shake him off in spite of the nagging trill that sent down her spine. The look on his face was half wonder, half fear, and she couldn’t help but admire the way he faced such a foreign situation. He was a brave man. She wouldn’t deny him the solace of contact with a friend.
A friend. That’s what she’d be to him, for as long as it took to get him back to a time he understood. Now if she could just get rid of the nagging trill. Well, the first thing was not to kiss him again. They’d more than convinced the other marina dwellers they were besotted with each other. Mission accomplished. So no more kissing.
She stopped at a rack of jeans. “Here we go.”
“These are like the cloth of your brec, Lucy.”
“Yes. Jeans. Men wear them, too.” She flipped through the rack.
“I look like other men. Good for hiding.”
“Not if you talk about hiding so loudly,” she whispered, frowning.
He examined the jeans. “The cloth is for ceorls, yet it is dyed with woad.”
“Ceorls?”
He repeated in Latin.
“Peasants? Oh. Because it’s rough. But it wears many years.” Woad was what they used to get blue color back then—some kind of a rock they ground up or something. She held a pair up to his backside and blew out a breath. She knew nothing about men’s jean sizes.
“Can I help you?” A young man with slicked-back black hair, a red satin acetate shirt, and pointy-toed black boots approached. Lucy sighed in relief. Here was someone who could help. Good ole San Francisco.
“My friend doesn’t speak English very well. He needs a new wardrobe. Can you help us figure out sizes?”
The kid’s eyes slid over to Galen. Up. Down. Lingering on the important aspects. “Gladly, mademoiselle,” he said. No one said that anymore. His nose wrinkled at Galen’s smelly boots, sweats, and plaid flannel shirt that wouldn’t button. “Obviously time for a makeover.”
The kid’s name tag said: Brendon. “I leave him totally in your hands.” Oops.
Brendon’s eyes slid over to her for one shocked moment. Then he sighed. He must know Galen was never going to be in his hands. On the other hand, he got a chance to dress Galen. “Mais oui, mademoiselle.” His head swiveled as he scanned his stock. “He has a rugged look, which we will accentuate with traditional five-oh-ones. Buttons or zipper?”
“Zipper.” Better keep the buttons to a minimum. Though Jake’s shirt was a little small, Galen hadn’t tried buttoning a single one.
Brendon scanned Galen once again. “I think . . .” He tapped his chin with one finger. “Thirty-four/thirty-fours.” He picked a pair of jeans from the rack. “I’ll pick out some shirts.”
“No hemeth like this.” Galen pointed to the red acetate shirt that shimmered on Brendon.
“No, no, no.” Brendon rolled his eyes. “You couldn’t carry this off in a million years.” He gave Lucy the jeans and indicated the dressing rooms. “But never fear, I shall provide.”
“Can you find him a jacket, too? We need something waterproof.”
Brendon grinned. “I’m on the job.”
Galen was stiff and glowering as she took his hand and drew him to the dressing room. “Don’t look like that,” she said. “He’s sweet.”
“I do not wish to eat him.” Galen’s brow grew even darker.
“ ‘Sweet’ sometimes can mean ‘kind.’ ‘Good.’ ” She drew him into the big dressing room and closed the curtain. “ ‘Vulnerable.’ Like the Latin word.”
She watched Galen’s face take on a rueful cast. “We have such ones as he in my time.”
“Then you know he needs protection, not hate.” She’d bet anything “hate” was the same in his time as in hers.
Galen’s lips pressed together in a grim line and he nodded.
“He will help us.” She handed Galen the jeans.
He kicked off his smelly boots, peeled his shirt off, and pushed down his sweats. Lucy tossed his boots out under the curtain. When she turned back, Galen stood in his boxers, unbuttoning the jeans, but he was nonplussed by the zipper.
“Here,” she said, pulling it down.