Ticking Time - Andrei

Part 2 - Time Jumping

988 AD

“Mamaaa-” I hear a wailing child call out amidst the flames and turmoil of the village I currently stand in. Her cry is piercing despite the cacophony of screams surrounding me.

The village appears to be medieval in style, thatched roofs and log walls make up many of the structures around me. The scene is jarring on my senses compared to the library. It’s always like this at first. The sudden throw back, the temperature shift, the time zone. I feel a slight headache.

Flames lick the houses and barns, people scramble. I hear the clashing of swords and other metal weaponry. This is a skirmish of sorts perhaps. I needed a place to observe, before I got myself killed.

I dodge between buildings, watching the peasants in long mono coloured dresses and basic patterns dashing to and fro, some with children in their arms, others with their possessions. Their hair was braided and bound around their head and some wear head coverings that completely hide their hair. Men wear loose tunics and trousers, many wear no shoes.

I hear screams in some ancient Slavic tongue. I’m not a linguist. Soon the the time jump will correct that and I’ll understand them just fine, and they will understand me as If I am able to speak their own language nearly fluently. There was the minor problem of certain words or phrases not existing in their time or tongue, causing some odd misunderstandings. It was strange that, something I didn’t control, at least not yet.

I dash into a house not caught on fire and look around. There was a mother and her 3 children huddling by a cooking fire, whimpering, fear filled their eyes. I look at them reassuringly, holding up my hands. I’m sure my outfit looks strange to them, cuffed sleeves, a button up overcoat, a cowboy hat, leather belt with various buckles and pouches on it and 17th century boots from France. My style has become quite historically eclectic with my travels.

“I’m sorry, I’m not here to hurt you.” I say to them, hoping the language gimmick has kicked in.” The mother visibly sighs and I smile. They seem to relax, slightly.

“We have no food. No money. Please, take anything you want.” She pleads.

I look at her with concern. “I’m not here to plunder. Can you tell me what year it is?”

She looks at me with bewildered eyes. That’s right, no one ever asks that question in real life. No one has ever time jumped before. It's not a common thing. After a few hesitant heartbeats she answers. “It’s 6496.”

I nod, taking a moment to do the mental math. Pre-Russia had its own calendar and the dates followed a 14 month year. I know were in November of the current year. So, subtracting 5508 from the date she gives me, that would put me around 988 in the Julian calendar used in my time. 10th century. That would put me in the middle of Vladimir the First's reign. About the time he converted the entire state of Kiev Rus to Christianity.

“Thank you. Also, could you tell me what your village is called? Or your people?”

Again with the eyes, jeez! “This lake is called Ilmen, we are Karelians.”

I thank her again. That puts me North West of Novgorod. Many of these people are of Finnish or Viking ancestry. The fractured tribes of Kiev Rus are in the face of their unification. It will be many centuries before they are truly unified, but history always starts somewhere.

I look around the room for something to defend myself with, I refuse to fight in history until I’ve learned of the alliances and become part of a force. Otherwise I’d be a shit disturber, causing huge ripples in time. Rarely have I been cast into a time or place where a major historical event occurred, unless of course the event was completely false to begin with and all the textbooks were wrong, as with Christopher Columbus. That was quite the bloodbath in history. Still, getting wounded in the first hour of a time jump is not ideal, as medical aid is usually scarce and sketchy.

She points to an iron rod resting against the wall near to the cook fire. Perfect! I take the poker with thanks and stand by the door, looking out at the chaos. The screams have died down, a few buildings have succumbed to the flames and collapsed.

I shout to the woman over my shoulder, “Who's attacking?” She only shakes her head.

I look out at the skirmish to see anything to identify the assaulters. They all wear similar clothing, making it difficult to tell them apart. This is a tribe skirmish. What were the other tribes again? I list them off in my head, counting them off on my hand; there were the Chuds, the Slavs, the Cummins, the Turk, the Swedes, the Gutes, the Normans and the Angels. It could be any of them, such a divided people, not unlike to countries of my own time. Just maybe more blood.

A man with some leather vest that have burn marks all over it comes rushing at me with an ax. I take a stance, rehearsed from when I learned to fence in the 17th century on the Musketeer squad of King Louis. He yells as he brings his ax against my iron rod. He looks puzzled as I push his attack back with nothing but the rod. His eyes cast earnestly to the women and children inside.

“Are they yours?” I ask him.

He looks at me in shock when I speak, like he didn’t expect me to. Or perhaps he didn’t think he’d understand me, then nods.

“Drop your ax. I’m not going to hurt them, or you.” He hesitates, as expected from a man in the fury of battle. I repeat it to assure him I mean what I say.

“Where are you from? What side are you on?” He asks me, pushing into the house to ensure his family's safety.

“Well,” that's always a tough questions to answer.

“Your clothing is strange, you must be a traveller.”

“You could say that.” The clothing is always hard to explain. A thought comes to me then, maybe this man knows who he’s fighting. I want to get a hold on the situation, even the texts could not explain in detail. “So who’s attacking anyway? Is it the Gutes?”

He stands up straight by the fire and looks hard at me, “Gutes? They are Goutai of Skandia. They are devilish and practice dark arts. Do not trust a thing they say.” He looks at me sternly, gripping his ax. “How do I know you are not a Goutai?”

I look back at him, I’ve met his type before in the middle ages, in India and in France. They all doubt their trust at first. I need the right answer. I look at him standing over his wife and children and I know just what to say. “Ask you wife. I got here before you did. I am not Goutai.” I don’t offer my heritage, I’m not entirely sure if Romania is a country yet, and I can hardly say Canadian. The continent hasn’t even been heard of this side of the ocean.

He looks hard at me, then nods, relaxing his ax arm. I exhale in relief. “My name is Andrei Hanganu.” he mouths my name, trying to remember the pronunciation.

“I am called Rurik, this is my wife, Kali.” I repeat the names and nod.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, despite the circumstances.”

“You speak strange Andrei Hanganu.”

“Please, Just Andrei is fine, heck even Andi will do.”

“Andrei, lad, where are you from?” Rurik looks to be maybe in his late 30’s, thick beard and muscled arms. He could be a farmer or a skilled worker in this town. Probably the Smithy with the thick leather apron. He looks a little older than he probably is thanks to the elements. His wife looks to be in her mid twenties.

“Ah, that’s complicated. I travel a lot,” I say, avoiding a pinpointed location that may not exist yet. “That’s why I talk weird, I know a few languages.” The man looks at me funny like he can’t believe his ears.

“You travel in these times? How? I do not see a horse or wagon around.”

“Yeaa, I like to walk.” He looks even more incredulous at me, if that is even possible. I realize I really gotta work on my back story before I time jump next time.

#Fantasy #Magic