“A mill,” Mina surmised. The thing had long been derelict; weeds grew in the rubble and grass had seeded itself on the upper courses of stone and the ledges of what had been windowsills. But someone still used the pond, for she saw a rope tied to an iron ring in the wall overlooking the water, and on the end of the rope a wooden bucket.
She stood for a moment wondering where she was, and when. So far as she could tell, she could be anywhere at nearly any time; the things she saw around her certainly had an antique air about them, but little more than that. The surrounding landscape gave almost no clue to her whereabouts; it was nowhere she had ever been, but it could have been in any number of countries. Still, something about the construction, rude as it was, seemed European rather than, say, South American. Definitely not Asian.
What to do now?
She raised her eyes to the sky. The light had taken on the golden sheen of late afternoon, and the already faint warmth in the air was fading. The shadows of the canyon walls were lengthening and deepening towards evening. She did not care to be caught wandering around in the dark, so she turned and hurried back the way she had come.
Upon reaching the spot where she had entered the valley, Mina pulled the ley lamp from her smock and, holding it as before, started walking quickly up the long ramplike trail angled towards the top of the canyon walls. After a half-dozen steps, the bronze-cased instrument began to glow with its eerie indigo light… a few more steps and she heard the faint chirping sound. She kept walking. The path rose between two rock stacks, which stood as pillars on either hand. Wilhelmina passed through this crude gateway and into a shadow. For an instant, all was darkness and an absence of air. Her breath caught in her throat, and she stumbled forward and into the little beech wood with its narrow fox run of a trail.
She stood blinking as her eyes adjusted to the light. The air was soft and warm, and sunlight streamed through the leaves in shafts, which dappled the grove around her.
She was home.
Halfway back to the city, it occurred to her to wonder if she had returned to the same time she had left. Was it still the seventeenth century? Was Rudolf still on the throne? Was the bakery still there? Would Etzel be waiting for her?
Her heart sank, and for a good few minutes she entertained a wild variety of frightening thoughts about all the things that could have gone wrong; she kicked herself for how stupid she had been. What, after all, did she really know about this ley line business?
But then she heard church bells. The sound rang out, filling the streets and echoing across the river and beyond. The familiar sound called her back to her senses, and somehow she knew that all was well. She quickened her steps as she passed through the city gates and hastened to the old town square. When she saw the good green-and-white facade of the Grand Imperial Kaffeehaus, she smiled.
Etzel was there in his flour-dusted apron, just as she had left him. He looked up as she came in, his round face beaming as she bustled into the shop. Although there were several patrons lingering over their afternoon coffees, she went up and gave the big baker a fat kiss on his smooth cheek. “Mina!” he exclaimed, cupping a floury hand to her face. “I thought you were going for a walk.”
“I did.”
He regarded her askance. “But you only left a moment ago.”
Mina shrugged. “I changed my mind. I would rather be here with you.”
“But you are with me all the time,” he pointed out.
“I know.” She kissed him again and went upstairs to her room. There, with the door closed, she removed the ley lamp from her pocket and crossed to the large chest where she kept her clothes and the few valuable things she owned. She unlocked the chest and wrapped the brass instrument in a stocking.
I wonder, she thought as she tucked the bundle under her spare nightdress at the bottom of the chest, what else can it do.
CHAPTER 12
It would be a happier world where each child enjoyed the love and care of two devoted parents to supply a firm foundation on which to build a solid and productive adult life. But, sadly, that is not our world. And it is not the world into which Archibald Burley was born. Little Archie’s story is darker, more desperate, and yet drearily familiar. How not? We have heard it all before: a story old as time and repeated daily the world over; we can recite it by heart. For the plight of unwed mothers is too, too predictable, and Gemma Burley’s descent from prim and respectable Kensington to noisome, crowded Bethnal Green is almost too banal to report in detail. Still, that is the task before us if we are to understand all that flowed from that initial rejection of her and her son by the boy’s father, and all that was to come after…
“Archie!” moaned Gemma, her voice ragged and low. “Archie, come here, my darling, I need you.”
The boy crept to the doorway, slender shoulders hunching, already dreading the request he knew was coming.
“I’m out of medicine. You must run and get me some more.” She held out her hand. “Here is some money.”
“Aw, Mum,” he whined. “Do I have to?”
“Look at me, Archie!”
He raised his eyes to her ravaged face. Hair filthy and matted, her dress soiled, missing buttons, she no longer looked like the woman he knew.
“I’m sick and I need my medicine,” she insisted, strength coming to her voice. “Now. You come here and take this money.”
Moving slowly to the side of her bed, he regarded his mother. Her face haggard, dark circles under her dull eyes, her forehead pale, there was sweat on her upper lip and her flesh looked waxy. He had seen her this way before, and knew with a sinking heart that there would be no supper for him tonight. He held out his hand for the few coins she gave him.
“Now, you be a good boy and run along.”
Head down, the slender body turned and, feet dragging, the lad started away.
“Don’t dawdle, Archie. Promise me.”
“I won’t.”
“There’s a good boy. Off with you now, and hurry back. We’ll have bread and cheese for your tea. The sooner you come back, the sooner you can have your bread and cheese-we’ll toast it too. You like that, don’t you, Archie? You like your bread and cheese toasted, I know you do. That’s what we’ll have as soon as you get back. You run along now.” She sank back, exhausted. “There’s a good boy.”
Outside, Archie flitted down the cinder path behind the house he and his mother shared with other itinerant lodgers, his fist closed tight on the three coins she had given him-two farthings and a sixpence piece. Tucking the coins into his pocket, he darted down the alley, dodging puddles of standing water and fresh slops emptied from kitchen buckets and chamber pots. At the end of the alley, he picked up his speed-he’d have to hurry now to still have time enough once he’d got the medicine to make it back to the greengrocer and buy or steal another apple or two to sell on the bridge before the bakery closed. Then again, if luck smiled on him, there would be day-old bread out back and he could get that for free. And besides, stale bread was better for toasting anyway.
Once on the street, Archie ran to the nearest chemist and, knowing better than to go in, hurried ’round to the back. He pounded on the door until it rattled.
“Keep yer shirt on, mate,” growled a voice from the other side. A chain was unlatched and a bearded face pressed itself into the space between doorpost and door. “Oh,” said the man with undisguised disappointment. “It’s you. What is it this time? No, let me guess-you want more laudanum.”
“Please, sir, it’s for me mum. She’s terrible sick.”
“You got money?”
The boy held up the silver sixpence.
“Wait here,” said the chemist.
The door closed. Archie stood in the backyard, shifting from one foot to the other, aware that the sun was lowering, the daylight soon fading. It would be late before he could reach the bridge with an apple or two to sell. In a moment, the door opened once more. “Let me have it,” said the man, shoving out his hand.